‘Mister Bloom. Please lay back on the sofa and relax.’
That was easier said than done. Martin Bloom hadn’t been hypnotised before. But desperate men make desperate decisions. Bloom had directed one blockbuster film. Yet that was over a decade ago. In the meantime, Christopher Whelan, the hottest director in town, churned out one blockbuster after another. He did this with seemingly the same frequency as Bloom’s bowel movements.
Whelan’s secret? Hypnosis. And if Whelan could be fooled into thinking he was the best thing since Hitchcock then so could Martin Bloom.
Success had its drawbacks. Whelan suffered a heart attack, marriage break-up and a custody battle. He’d worked relentlessly through the lot. Hypnosis had drugged him into being no more than a slave to his profession. Did Martin Bloom want this for himself?
He smiled and let out a contented sigh. Divorce would be a pleasant aftermath of success. He’d cheated on his wife countless times. The kids were spoiled and had developed a sense of entitlement. She was welcome to them.
‘Ready Mister Bloom?’
‘Lets do it,’ he said. Leaning back in the leather chair he added, ‘Make sure I have exactly the same treatment as Christopher Whelan. Exactly the same.’
When the hypnotist snapped his fingers Bloom awoke.
‘Everything OK Mister Bloom?’
‘That’ll be Mister Whelan to you.’