Remember My Name. Havana Adams

York and on Sunset in LA. He’d had Royal Gala Premieres at Leicester Square in London. He’d broken box office records and had joined the elite rank of actors – Brad, Tom, George, Bruce – who were known only by their first names and who could command millions just to advertise beer and cigars in Japan. He’d become that rare breed of actor, one who could open a film. And yet doubts niggled at Alex as he lounged on the terrace, back in his multi-million dollar Hollywood Hills home. Since he got back to LA, things had gone from shit to worse. His assistant Shay, who’d been threatening to quit, had finally gone and walked out on him while he was in Mexico, and now Avital seemed to be sidestepping him. He’d resolved to call his manager Johnny, when he remembered that he’d fired Johnny and hadn’t yet got round to replacing him. Alex moved towards the golf clubs that he’d dragged out of the guest bedroom that morning. He tee’d up a shot, setting a distant tree in his sights when his phone began ringing.

      “Yes,” he barked curtly.

      “Alex, darling, why so brusque?” Avital’s New York drawl grated down the line and Alex was reminded of the sound of a cement mixer.

      “Avital, darling, I’m not feeling the love,” he replied tersely.

      “Oh Alex, you know I love all my children equally.” Alex gritted his teeth. He didn’t like the sound of that. The fact was, when he’d been her biggest client, Avi had lavished attention on him, but since a recent batch of new signings poached from a rival agency, he had sensed that he didn’t have Avital’s undivided attention the way he used to. Alex sighed deeply. He loved LA, had grown to love it, but days like today, he hated the bullshit and the fakery.

      “Cut the bullshit. What’s going on?” There was a moment’s silence on the line and then the sound of a deep breath being taken. Alex allowed himself to imagine that he was just being another paranoid actor, that Avital would reassure him and they’d get back to business.

      “Darling, the thing is, the studio are having doubts.” His blood ran cold.

      “Doubts about what?” He barked the words out, any attempt at calm forgotten.

      “It’s been a bad year for the business, sequels aren’t doing what they used to, the big guns aren’t firing at the box office and some two-bit schmuck from Wichita makes a horror movie with his ma and pa’s camera and takes home $100 million.”

      “What does that mean for me?” Alex asked fighting to master the cauldron of rage and anxiety that was building in him.

      “The thing is everybody’s being cautious. They love you at Centurion, but studios have been hit hard by this recession, no one can afford to take a risk and miss, not if they want to keep their job.” Alex gritted his teeth wishing Avital would get to the point. “Look, your last film under-performed, but who knew so many kids would want to see a 3D dog find his way home? Everyone knows that wasn’t your fault. I’ve got some great scripts and offers on the table.”

      Losing patience Alex barked out the burning, unspoken question. “Avi, what about Defender, that’s my movie, I brought it to the studio, I got Milo on board to produce, I talked with Cole…” In Avi’s deep indrawn breath Alex knew he had his answer.

      “They’ve decided to go with Max Maguire.” Avital said the words quietly without inflexion. “Alex, Alex…” But Avital was talking to thin air because almost without thought, Alex had flung the phone high and far into the air so that two streets away it clattered onto the sidewalk a mangled broken mess.

      Three hours later, when a session on the treadmill and a round with the punch bag in his home gym had failed to diminish his fury, Alex drifted round the house, still at a loss about what to do with himself. Wandering through a kitchen that he’d rarely ever been into, Alex spotted a wine rack. He grabbed a bottle barely glancing at the label and worked the top open, after spending several minutes figuring out how to work the fancy corkscrew. He was tempted to hit a bar, but if news of Max Maguire signing on to do Defender had broken, Alex had no desire to be seen drowning his sorrows publicly. In LA there were always eyes watching. As he tipped the contents of the bottle into his mouth, he flicked on the television but as he caught a glimpse of Isabella on the arm of Max Maguire, apparently Hollywood’s latest ‘It’ couple, he snorted a sound of contempt. Christ, that bitch worked fast. Tossing the remote aside, Alex prowled about the house. He’d bought it two years ago but what with being on location and the extensive remodelling, he’d spent less than a month in the place and now he paced like a caged tiger, a stranger in his own home. In the home office, Alex powered up the Mac computer that he’d seen Shay working on, but which he himself had never actually used. He stared blankly at the massive screen as it prompted him for a password. Christ, how was he supposed to function? Fine he thought, he’d have to get Shay back.

      All of his life, Alex had been good at coming up with plans, but his problem always came in the execution. He’d backed his black Porsche out of the garage barely aware of scraping the bodywork against the wrought-iron gates as he exited his driveway. He meandered around and around the winding hill roads for several minutes before the GPS finally kicked in and he found himself on Sunset, driving in what he hoped was the general direction of Shay’s apartment. With the top of the Porsche down, Alex allowed the cool night air to whip through his hair, the coolness awakening his senses, which had been dulled by his solitary drinking session. As he hovered at a traffic light, a girl in the adjacent car shot him an appraising look and then he saw her double and then triple take as she registered the face in the car next to her. Alex watched the look in her eyes, the lowering window, the offer that would be there lurking and even as she opened her mouth to speak, he’d roared off as the lights changed to green. Flicking the radio on, Alex rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other hand running absentmindedly through his hair. LA was supposed to be easy, he thought. His eyes drifted to the groups of people walking down the sidewalk, queuing to get into the hottest clubs – Viper Room, Shadow Lounge, Galore… Everybody jostling for their fifteen minutes of fame. And suddenly he was assailed by a crippling fear – his fifteen minutes had lasted ten good years but were they now over? He’d always assumed somehow that the gravy train would continue forever, that he’d bow out on a high somehow. He’d never liked those slow death scenes in books that went on for pages, chapters even. He was a put-a-dog-out-of-its-misery kind of guy. But what he hadn’t counted on was this fear that now gnawed at him. He was Alex Golden, movie star, modeliser, screen god. He’d forgotten how to be anything else…

      The shrill sharp sound of a horn startled him out of his maudlin train of thought and Alex immediately steered the car back into his own lane but moments later, in his rear-view mirror, he caught the flickering blue and white of a squad car and then the siren pulling him over.

      Alex steered the Porsche off the road. Shit, he thought as he glanced down at the empty bottle on the floor by the passenger seat. What had he been thinking? He took a deep breath and prayed that he wasn’t over the limit, the bottle was still half full. Leaning his head back against the headrest, Alex closed his eyes as he waited for the officer to reach his car.

      “Licence and registration.” The voice was low and feminine, sexy, and Alex’s eyes flew open to come face to face with a stunning cop. She was leaning down to peer at him through the window and from the look in her eyes, Alex knew that she had recognised him. “Licence and registration.” She repeated her demand with a knowing smile playing on her face.

      “Right, I’m not entirely sure where… I mean I’ve not driven this car in a while…” Alex trailed off and shot her one of those boyish smiles that played so well with test audiences.

      “Sir, do you realise you’ve been weaving across lanes?”

      “I’m very sorry, I’ve been away and the jet lag.” He watched as her eyes darted to the empty bottle. “Seriously.”

      “Look, I’m sure you’re just tired. So perhaps you just drive on to where you’re going, carefully.” Alex could scarcely believe his luck.

      “Thank you, officer,” he said mustering up some sincerity. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Now she leaned back and Alex’s eyes lingered on the snugness of