Читать книгу Remember My Name - Havana Adams - Страница 10

PROLOGUE

On the night, aged 26, that he was catapulted from obscurity, from jobbing theatre actor and TV bit-part player to Oscar winner, Alex Golden looked out at the great and good of Hollywood. He stared beyond the flashing lights and cameras at the legends of the silver screen, he imagined the millions, perhaps billions watching the telecast of the ceremony, and the words of his grandfather came to mind.

“Son,” he’d once counselled Alex, “the thing about peaking too soon, is the certain knowledge that the only place to go is down.”

Alex shrugged off the pessimistic thought and loped towards the podium in a long, easy stride, oozing the confidence and charisma that would go on to make him a household name.

“Thank you,” he said in that husky voice that would make him the favourite of women, gays and schoolgirls the world over.

Later, it wouldn’t be the words that he’d uttered on that stage that ensured that everybody remembered his name, instead it would be those piercing blue eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, the English accent that added gravitas, the easy smile that showed that he didn’t take himself too seriously. In short, Alex Golden’s acceptance speech – witty, assured, relaxed – announced him as Hollywood’s newest star.

“We are back live in fifteen seconds. Camera One – ready. Presenters – Best Adapted Screenplay to the stage. Live in ten, nine, eight…” As the award show’s director barked out instructions, Alex walked backstage in a daze as a whirlwind of activity spun around him. Immediately, he spotted a woman in a striking crimson dress watching him from across the chaos of the green room. His palm was warm against the surprisingly heavy gold statuette and though outwardly composed, inside he was in a state of shock, drinking in the sight of Streep and Nicholson as they swept by him onto the stage to present the next award. Alex’s eyes were once again drawn to the woman who was watching him. In the sea of famous faces and celebrities, producers, PRs and hangers-on, somehow this woman, in her red dress, held his attention.

She pushed forward, coming to stand in front of him, her right hand already held out. Close up, Alex saw that she was older than he’d initially thought. Yet for a woman who must be in her forties, the body was still killer. His eyes ate her up, skimming from the large breasts, which oozed over the top of the corseted red dress, to the slim waist and then the flare of generous hips. His gaze moved back up to her eyes and with a start Alex saw that the woman’s eyes were narrowed, with a hint of knowing amusement. This wasn’t the usual response that he got from women. He switched the gold statuette to his left hand and gave her a firm handshake. He was sure that he didn’t know this woman, but in the three weeks of meetings, junkets and publicity since he had landed in LA, he’d learned that people did this here, that sometimes for no reason at all, they’d stop to talk to you, that somehow everybody, just everybody, was in the business and wanted to know about his “little English movie”.

Before he could say anything, the woman spoke, her hand still grasping his in a surprisingly firm grip. Her words were brisk and precise, almost like orders being barked out, in the kind of no-nonsense New York drawl that brooked no disagreement.

“My name is Avital Silver. And I’m going to make you a superstar.”