Chapter 5
OLLIE
The doorbell rang just as Ollie was getting out of the shower, so he checked the security camera app on his phone.
Calvin Fraser was standing on the top step, looking as dashing as ever in a pale blue suit and cream polo shirt.
There was no one who could pull off a look like a sixty-something silver fox who dressed every day as if he was about to have lunch with Tom Ford and Anna Wintour.
Ollie pressed the microphone. ‘I’m sorry, we’re not accepting deliveries today. We’re far too important.’
Calvin leaned into the speaker under the camera. ‘Unless Deliveroo come in Armani, you’ve got the wrong man, so hurry up and press the buzzer before this sun gives me wrinkles.’
Ollie let him in, laughing. ‘I’ll be down in five minutes. There’s cold juice in the kitchen.’
‘If it’s green or made with vegetables, I want nothing to do with it,’ Calvin replied with a shudder, before pushing the door open and disappearing from the view of the outside camera.
Ollie grabbed a can of deodorant from the marble vanity unit, gave it a quick spray, then pulled on the white T-shirt that was hanging on the back of the door.
Next, Ralph Lauren boxers, then a pair of black pin-tuck linen trousers.
He ran his fingers through his wet chestnut hair, then let it fall into waves that came down over his eyebrows at the front and reached the nape of his neck at the back.
It looked messily effortless, but it was all thanks to fortnightly cuts from his hairdresser, Georgie, who had been on The Clansman set with him for the last six months, and who made sure that he was always camera ready.
He was on hiatus now for a few weeks, so he could let it grow a bit longer and he could ease off the intense workout regime too.
Maintaining the body of an ancient Highland warrior required a personal trainer, a nutritionist and hours in the kind of high-tech gym that he was fairly sure wasn’t on every street corner in the days of the Jacobite rebellion.
By the time he padded barefoot into the kitchen, Calvin was sitting at the three-metre-long marble breakfast bar holding a bottle of water to his forehead as he said, ‘One of the few days of the year that Glasgow temperatures rise above lukewarm. I’m not genetically built for this kind of heat. It’s the reason I never moved to LA.’
Ollie grabbed a bottle of green juice from the fridge. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re working that suit though. Very 1980s Miami Vice.’
Calvin shook his head, as if mourning a bygone love. ‘Ah, those were the days. When men wore suits instead of tracksuits, and the prerequisites for fighting crime were swanky sunglasses, shoulder pads and a large scoop of hair gel.’
Ollie was still grinning as he pulled out a chair opposite his friend and co-founder of the Academy.
After forty years in the entertainment industry, Calvin had recently retired from his role as head of one of the biggest talent agencies in the UK.
Back in the early days, he’d been Ollie’s mum, Moira’s, agent and manager, so it had only been natural that teenage Ollie had recruited Calvin’s services when he took his first steps towards an acting career.
However, a few years later, when Ollie had moved to the USA to pursue his career over there, Calvin had passed him over to a top American agent, but he’d continued to be Ollie’s first call when he needed professional advice or a friendly face. And that went both ways.
That’s probably why Ollie had been Calvin’s first choice of partner when he’d decided to give back to the industry that he’d spent his career in, by establishing a free performing arts school to nurture the next generation of talent.
They’d found an old derelict church in one of the less salubrious pockets of the city, the very same place of worship that Ollie had gone to with his grandparents when he had grown up in those streets as a child, and they’d set out the terms. It was a non-fee-paying entity that they’d funded from grants, fundraising and Ollie’s generous personal donations, for students who wouldn’t otherwise have the money or resources to access a professional stage school.
Despite it draining his time and his finances, Ollie had never regretted it for a second.
His only ask had been that it be named after Moira, and, as one of her oldest friends, Calvin had been delighted with that idea.
It had worked out perfectly, because after spending thirty years as a singer in pubs, clubs and cruise ships, his mum had agreed to their request that she run the centre, and she’d done an incredible job.
Once upon a time, she’d brought up one kid with big dreams. Now she was doing that for a hundred teenagers with stars in their eyes.
‘Okay, as much as I’m loving seeing your face first thing in the morning, tell me the reason for this unexpected summons to your lordship’s presence,’ Calvin teased, as he twisted the top off the bottle of water and took a slug.
‘Am I here to talk about the email from your management team about the security issue? They copied me in, because they know you vastly underestimate your ability to attract stalkers, creeps and those of a fantastical imagination. The team is nervous about the fact that your location tonight has been so well publicised. You know the risk that brings. They’d normally have a full security detail in place for that… ’
‘Nope, not doing it. I’m not showing up there tonight with a full squad and making it all about me.’
‘Newsflash, pal—’
Ollie put his hand up. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Okay, but come on – they’re right to be cautious because they’re dealing with plenty of potentially scary situations.
There’s been several emails from a bloke who swears he’s your brother.
That TikTok account with the twins who are claiming to be your biological children has gone viral.
The male twin says you have the same Adam’s apple and they’ve asked for a DNA test and a sit-down with Oprah.
And the phantom romances have exploded too.
Apparently, they’ve had an increase in communication from one of your anonymous regulars, who is convinced you’re in a long-term loving and committed relationship with her and they’re worried she’ll show tonight at the Academy. ’
Ollie managed a rueful grimace. All that stuff was an occupational hazard. He never let it get to him, and he wasn’t going to give it any attention now, when he had a far more real and pressing problem to deal with.
‘That’s just another day at the office. As long as there’s a couple of security guys on the door tonight and someone monitoring the guest list, it’ll be fine.’
Ollie took a breath. Exhaled. Paused. The reason Calvin was here was so much more urgent than unfounded claims that he was the father of biological twins.
He reached out for the brown envelope that was now sitting just a few feet along from him on the breakfast bar and pulled it towards him.
He opened it, removed a sheaf of papers, then pushed them towards Calvin.
‘It’s my next contract for The Clansman. I’ve got one more season on my existing deal, and then this one is for five years after that.’
Calvin’s eyebrows raised, fighting against a shedload of Botox, as he cast his gaze on it.
They rose even further as he scanned the first page and then his eyes reached the important part – the offer.
Millions of dollars. The kind of contract that every actor dreams of getting.
Life-changing money. A lottery win. But absolutely in keeping with the fact that Ollie was the lead actor on a global hit.
Calvin let out a low whistle. ‘Jesus, I wish I was still on ten per cent of your income. Is it too late for me to come out of retirement and make a pitch to represent you?’
‘I’m afraid so. And I’m not sure that you’d want to do that when you hear my thoughts.’
Calvin eyed him quizzically as Ollie hesitated. Was he really going to do this? Because once he said it out loud, it became real. It became a thing. And he was pretty sure it was going to piss a whole load of people off – something he spent his life avoiding. But if he didn’t…
‘It’s for five years of my life…’ he began.
Calvin nodded. ‘And the sum reflects that. More than reflects it. Rewards it with a whole load of zeroes.’
‘True. It also states that, in that time, I can’t take on any other TV or film work.’
‘That’s fair and pretty standard,’ Calvin countered and Ollie knew he was right. He went with the next point.
‘I’d be shooting on location for six to nine months of the year. Vancouver. Croatia. Los Angeles. Plus a month or two of press prior to every new season.’
‘Yes. Again, fairly standard.’
It was. And it was the kind of life that teenage Ollie had dreamed of. That twenty-something Ollie had loved. But thirty-something Ollie…?
Say it. He’d spent his whole adult life delivering lines with no issue, and yet this one was sticking in his throat. He made a croaking noise as he tried to clear it.
‘The thing is… I think I’m going to reject it.’
Calvin responded with another exhalation and a slight nod of the head as he sat back in his chair. ‘Ballsy. I assume your management team have already negotiated?’
‘Yes. This was our top-line “ask” and they gave it to us without too much resistance.’
Calvin’s eyebrows were on the rise again. ‘And now you want more. Not entirely cool, but I get why you would try. Although, I’d be careful. Gift horse. Mouth. Bloody great big cheque.’
Ollie shook his head as he jumped in to point out that Calvin had completely the wrong end of the contractual stick. ‘No, I don’t want more. I mean, it’s already ridiculous. And amazing. And more than I could ever have hoped for.’
Calvin’s face shifted to obvious confusion.