feeling better? Here’s the paracetamol you asked me to get. And your single-shot decaf latte with cashew milk.’
‘You are such a honey.’ The leading lady lay on the white leather couch, a hand at her brow, and gave a brave me smile. Lola had seen her working on that particular grimace in her large gilt bathroom mirror more than once. ‘Tell me, sweetie, what’s the gossip from the set? Are they panicking yet? I’ll bet that old maid of a director is sweating. Tell them I’ll be out soon. I just need to get my strength back.’
‘Maybe you should eat something solid, rather than just juicing?’
‘You’re joking, right? I have to get into this teeny costume every day for the next few weeks.’ Cameron mopped at her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘And get hold of that doctor...what’s his name? Kim? Get him on the phone. Tell him I need to see him again.’
‘Oh?’ Maybe Cameron really was sick, instead of acting or just plain attention-seeking? Before taking this job, Lola had seemingly been the only person in the whole world who had had trouble trying to work out the difference between her boss’s award-winning talent and her award-winning time-wasting. She’d stopped short of calling her a diva, but that didn’t stop the glossies naming her as one. Having got to know her a little more, Lola was reframing Cameron as a hard-working actress with high standards, who wasn’t afraid of asking for what she wanted. She could learn something from that. Although the diva did sometimes take centre stage. ‘Of course. Yes. I’ll get him right away.’
First, she cracked the seal on a fresh bottle of mineral water and poured it into a glass tumbler.
‘Lola, what are you waiting for? Phone him.’
‘I’m getting you a drink so you can take your tablets. Let’s get them into your system and starting to work.’ It was going to be a very long day, and Lola would be very glad when she fell into bed later with a good book to whisk her away from the reality of her life. Which hadn’t turned out exactly how she’d hoped. No studio had optioned her script, no director had even read it so far. More than once she’d thought about returning home to London...but she needed to give herself a fair chance here, not risk the humiliation of going home and admitting she’d not just failed, but lied to her family too. And, God knew, even though some days she hated it, she needed to keep this job to pay the exorbitant rent on her shabby apartment. And eat. ‘Would you like me to get the studio nurse? She’s here and available, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—’
‘A nurse? A nurse? Honey, I’m award-winning. I need a doctor. I need that Kim doctor.’ And with that Cameron closed her eyes. Conversation over.
Lola observed her for a few seconds. It didn’t need any kind of medic to see that the actress was in fine health. Her blonde hair shone, she was beautifully pink, breathing normally with a small secretive smile on those camera-ready lips. But Lola was nothing if not dutiful. She pulled out her phone and dialled.
‘Hello!’ She’d been briefed by Cameron to always converse with a smile in her voice. ‘Is this The Hollywood Hills Clinic? Yes? Great! I have Cameron Fontaine here and she needs to see the doctor. Wait, I’ll just ask.’ Lola cradled the phone to her shoulder and whispered, ‘Is it an emergency, Miss Fontaine?’
A perfectly plucked eyebrow rose on a serene, pain-free face. ‘It depends what they mean by emergency. I would like to see a doctor—so, yes, they should act quickly.’
‘But is it a matter of life or death?’
‘I suppose...’ A reluctant pout. A dramatic pause. ‘Not really.’
‘Are you dying, Miss Fontaine?’
‘Oh. No. No. Of course I’m not dying. But don’t tell them that, obviously.’ Cameron sat up elegantly and straightened her space desert warrior costume, putting little strain on the perfectly honed abdominal muscles that had been on the front of every magazine last month as she’d frolicked in the waves in Hawaii—while Lola had been left in LA to supervise a spring clean of Cameron’s Bel Air home, take the dogs for grooming, organise a lunch for fifty for Cameron’s return...yada, yada...
Lola sighed—inwardly, of course—and spoke to the receptionist. ‘Please ask him to come as soon as you can. Thank you...I will, yes.’ Lola passed along the message. ‘The doctor will be here soon. He’s in the middle of a surgery, but will pop over when he’s finished.’
‘Pop over. You’re such a sweetie. Say it again...’ Cameron gave a real smile now. ‘Say it again.’
‘Pop over.’
‘Pop! Oh, my, I do love your English accent. Just heavenly. Teach me?’
‘Yes! Of course!’ Clearly, whatever ailed Miss Fontaine would have to wait. But Lola had no doubt that the pain would resurface at exactly the same time as the doctor.
* * *
‘Excuse me, Dr Lewis, there’s another call for you.’
‘Another one? Not now,’ Jake Lewis barked across the OR at his surgical assistant. ‘I told you, I don’t want to know until I’ve finished here.’
‘But it’s the studio. They won’t—’
‘Not now.’ Jake sucked in the antiseptic air and steadied himself. Refocused on his patient, a nineteen-year-old quarterback with a diagnosis of type-two neurofibromatosis: an incessant ringing in his ears, increasing left-arm numbness and a sudden penchant for falling over. All pointing to a large tumour on his vestibular nerve, which had been confirmed by scans.
With enough luck and Jake’s skill, the boy might well be able to catch and pass a ball after this surgery. He would, hopefully, also be able to hear again—although, he might not. He would also probably never fulfil his lifelong dream of playing at a high level in the NFL. The disease process was slow, but there wasn’t always a great prognosis long term. This kid’s future was on the line and someone wanted Jake to see an actor about, what—an irritating cough?
And, yeah, maybe he was being an assumptive ass, but in his experience there hadn’t ever been a need for a neurosurgeon on a film set during the normal day-to-day scheduling. Emergencies—yes. But this wasn’t an emergency, they’d said so already. The first time they’d called. And the second...
The assistant hesitated, the phone still in his outstretched hand. ‘But...they...you...’
‘Didn’t you tell them last time? If it’s an emergency they need to call 911 and I’ll meet them in the ER, otherwise I will be there as soon as I’ve finished this complex neurofibroma surgery. If they don’t understand what that is, explain, in words of less than two syllables, that I’m a brain surgeon, and ask them to guess what I’m busy with right now.’
When James Rothsberg had head-hunted him for his Hollywood Hills Clinic it had been the biggest boost to Jake’s career, the opportunity to work with the very best California had to offer. And it had promised a decent living with money to spare to pay back his parents every cent and more for the sacrifices they’d made for him. Money, too, to pay for healthcare for his father’s failing health.
That they wouldn’t accept a dime from him was another issue altogether, along with the fact that even though Jake worked in one of the best hospitals in the state, his father refused to set foot through the door. Not that it stopped Jake from trying. Again. And again.
But
