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‘So, this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the burning marl. Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is — other people!’

Freddie bent down and snorted the narrow trail of snow-white powder off the black marble table. A finger over his clean nostril and a sharp inhale later, he tossed the audition script with dramatic effect.

"Sartre, man, fuck…!" he shouted, falling onto the couch and wiping his nose with the sleeve of his Gucci cardigan. Fucking Sartre.

Keep it down. I can hear you through my Beats, for Christ’s sake, Victoria demanded, yanking down her headphones. Loud grunge music streamed from them, and Victoria’s attitude was on par with her soundtrack.

I’m sorry, baby girl, Freddie replied in a syrupy voice and loosened the collar of his tailored shirt. "That line is phenomenal. Hell is other people! Fuck-ing phe-no-men-al," he stressed, biting each syllable in his coke-fueled rehearsal