Free Fame by Tilly Bagshawe Page A

bed.
    The phone rang.
    ‘Rasmirez,’ he answered crossly. Who the fuck could be calling him at this time of night?
    ‘Wow, man, you sound like shit.’
    Dorian grinned. ‘Thanks, Emil. I feel like it.’
    Emil Santander, Dorian’s long-time friend and real-estate agent, sounded as upbeat and ebullient as ever. Emil and Dorian had been at film school together many moons ago, but their directorial careers had taken wildly different trajectories. Undaunted by his failure to become the new James Cameron, Emil had quit the business ten years ago, studied for his real-estate licence, and not looked back since, making a good, if unspectacular living selling the homes of his more successful classmates. He was just that kind of guy: upbeat, optimistic, uncomplicated. A dust-yourself-off-and-start-again-er. Dorian envied him.
    ‘It’s late, man,’ Dorian yawned. ‘I’m wiped out. Is this important or can I call you in the morning?’
    ‘It’s important,’ said Emil. ‘ And , it’s good news.’
    ‘I could use some of that,’ said Dorian, wryly.
    ‘I got you a great offer!’
    ‘Oh.’ Dorian exhaled. This was unexpected. When he first left for Romania a year ago, he’d asked Emil to ‘keep his ear out’ for a potential buyer for the Holmby Hills house. But having heard nothing back, he’d forgotten all about that conversation. If Chrissie had the slightest suspicion he was even thinking of selling the place, she’d have sliced his balls off with a rusty penknife. As much as she had always bitched and moaned about LA, she adored their house, and had spent a not-so-small fortune renovating and decorating it to her exact specifications. But the reality was, if Dorian could achieve a good enough price for it, he would have to sell. At the rate the Schloss was eating money, not to mention his production debts, there was no way they could afford to run such a huge house in absentia .
    ‘Jeez,’ grumbled Emil. ‘Don’t overwhelm me with enthusiasm, will you?’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Dorian. ‘I’m just … how great, exactly?’
    Part of him hoped the offer would be low enough to reject. Then he wouldn’t have to broach the subject of a sale with Chrissie, who was already spoiling for the next fight. But another, more rational part prayed it would be high enough to cover his debt on Viorel Hudson’s salary.
    ‘Pretty great actually,’ said Emil, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. ‘About eight and half million bucks’ worth of great.’
    Dorian quickly did the math. Eight five, minus four million mortgage, minus the lien he’d raised two years ago when Sixteen Days was going under, minus the excess on Hudson’s fee … he would break even, with a few hundred grand left over for a modest apartment in Santa Monica, somewhere to crash when he was working. Good news indeed.
    ‘That’s awesome, Emil. Thank you.’
    ‘You’re welcome. Now just to be clear, is that “Thank you, I accept the offer”? Because I’m bringing the paperwork round first thing tomorrow morning for you to sign. The buyers want to meet you.’
    Dorian’s heart sank. ‘Tomorrow? Oh, jeez man, I’m flat out tomorrow. Can we do it later in the week?’
    ‘Hell oo ?’ said Emil. ‘Are you hearing me here, D? I just got you eight point five for a house that you and I both know is worth six on a good day. These guys are big fans of your work and they wanna meet you. Tomorrow.’
    Dorian groaned. ‘OK.’
    ‘They’d also like to move in by the end of the week. I told them that shouldn’t be a problem.’
     
     
    Fifteen minutes later, too tired to shower, Dorian lay back on his bed fully clothed. Feeling sleep start to creep over him, he quickly grabbed the phone and punched out his Romanian home number. He wouldn’t tell Chrissie about the house sale tonight. He couldn’t face the fireworks. He just wanted to hear her voice and to say good night. To tell her he loved her. And Saskia, of course.
    The phone rang and rang