5
The chauffeur's name is Bradley. He takes us up through Beverly Hills, past joggers out early enjoying the sunshine. The roads are caramel-smooth, with wide, spotless pavements and precision-cut grass verges.
Evenly spaced palm trees stand tall against the blue sky. The radio plays low—sports breakfast chatter. I look out of the window as the Mercedes cruises in near silence. Most of the mansions sit behind high stone walls and solid steel gates. Not a cig butt, crisp packet or a strung-out beggar in sight.
Bradley steers us higher into the hills, where the roads wind tighter and steeper and the views grow more and more spectacular over the city. Bradley tells me the higher you are up the hill, the bigger your fame and wealth. And we're climbing pretty damn high.
At one point, we pas
