Page 77 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“He needs to be mobbed by his fans, Charlie,” Brad says seriously. “It strokes his ego. He refuses to work without this routine, so fake it if you have to.”
I pause my assault on the laundry basket. I can’t tell if Brad’s joking or not.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Hang on, let me get this straight,” I say, a note of incredulity creeping into my voice. “He wants me to walk him all the way from Soho to the South Bank fighting off his rabid fans with my bare hands?” I can just imagine Jake’s reaction to such a request.
“Don’t be stupid. You only need to walk him as far as Shaftesbury, and he’ll have his own security. I’ll tell the car to meet you there.”
Brad’s tone sends another shiver up and down my spine. “Fine,” I say hastily. “Message me the details and I’ll leave straightaway.”
An hour later, I’m standing outside the front door of an exclusive, brick-fronted, members-only media club in the heart of Soho. It has a very select clientele. I know because Lucy told me so. The persistent pack of paparazzi lurking outside is further proof.
I’m buzzed into the building straightaway. Ryan Ramirez is waiting for me in a foyer that’s gushing pretention like a purple monsoon. He’s splayed out on a crushed velvet chaise longue, flanked by two bodyguards wearing identical black bomber jackets and dark sunglasses. My heart sinks when I see him. He looks like an asshole, and his first words to me confirm it. “Where the fuck have you been?” he yells, spittle flying in all directions. “The paparazzi better still be waiting for me out there.”
Photoshop—it’s the scourge of internet stalking. Ramirez doesn’t look anything like the press images I found of him on the way here. Up close, he looks more like a bad-tempered hobbit in Armani jeans.
“Brad only just called,” I explain patiently. “Are you ready to leave?”
“I’ve been ready for the last freaking hour. Get behind me and stay the hell out of shot!”
The narrow sidewalk explodes with enthusiasm as soon as we step outside. There are hundreds of bodies straining to paw at their idol, and I’m being accosted from all sides by the stench of stale sweat and excitement.
The questions come from all angles.
“Right this way, Ramirez!”
“Can you tell us about the movie you’re shooting?”
“Any messages for your fans?”
We’re facing a firing squad of outstretched iPhones and camera lenses. It’s no wonder Jake can’t stand this. Not Ramirez. He’s loving every minute. The expression on his face is near orgasmic.
His bodyguards push and fight our way to the corner of the street where the car is waiting for us. After signing one final autograph, Ramirez heaves himself into the backseat as one bodyguard follows after him and the other jumps into the front passenger seat. The doors slam shut and I’m left stranded on the pavement as the car roars off down the road, scattering the paparazzi like ten pins.
By the time I reach the South Bank I’m shaking with anger. I need to find Brad. I want fireworks. I want heads rolling. I want evil glares and sharp words between him and Ramirez before filming starts.
The production has transformed a nearby car park into a white city of Winnebagos and generators. Brad’s over by the craft services table, bawling out some pretty floor runner about his breakfast order.
“Are you stupid or just incompetent?” I hear him yelling at her. “I asked for the vegan breakfast, not this!”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson! It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right, it won’t. Get the fuck out of here. You’re fired!”
Not fully processing the scene, I march straight up to him and start running my own mouth off. “What a jerk Ramirez is! You’re never going to believe—”
“Keep your voice down!” he snarls, switching his anger to me.
The tearful runner shoots me an incredulous look as I take a step back in shock. Brad’s whole demeanor has switched from light and playful to cold and flat. He’s morphed from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde overnight.
“And I thought I toldyouto get lost.” He dismisses the girl with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. With a jolt, I recognize it as the same gesture he gave the crewmember in the café yesterday.
“Brad—”
“I don’t wanna hear it, Charlie. Thatjerkhappens to be the only thing keeping my movie going. I can’t justify the finances if Ramirez walks, and Jake’s itching to see me fall flat on my ass. If Ramirez leaves, we’re finished, so whatever he wants, he gets. Understood?”
Over his shoulder, the fired runner has collapsed sobbing into the arms of a nearby makeup designer.Holy shit.Jake was moody and difficult, but he was never cruel like this. If he fired someone, they usually deserved it.
