Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  Silence. They were absolutely and completely in the palm of his perfectly manicured hand.

  He owned that stage, called the shots, and his demeanour gave off a well-practised confidence perfected over twenty years in the business. He was Davie Johnston. America’s favourite presenter. A good guy. Decent. Trustworthy. Dependable. They wanted to believe him. And there he was, giving them what they needed. Reassurance that was almost presidential.

  His future would be decided by public perception. Was this the honesty and integrity of a commander in chief? Oh hey, I’m Davie Johnston. I did not have sex with that woman.

  12.

  ‘She’s Gone’ – Hall & Oates

  Mirren Gore was dead. Dead. The wife of Jack Gore, the devoted mother of the famous Logan Gore and the infamous Chloe Gore was gone.

  All that was left was Mirren McLean. Exhausted. Defeated. Speaking only to the two people on earth she could trust.

  ‘Doll, you’re going to have to say something soon,’ Lou told her. ‘They’re scouring the fricking country for you. Let me put something out, take the heat off.’

  ‘Fine. Whatever you think.’ The voice was so devoid of emotion it could have been the utterances of an automated phone system.

  Lou’s sigh of relief was audible. ‘How’s Logan doing? You told him yet?’

  ‘Nope. Haven’t quite worked out how to share the news that his dad is screwing a girl whose poster was on Logan’s wall last year.’

  ‘Have you called Chloe?’

  ‘No. Last time I tried, she still wasn’t accepting my calls. Will try again later once I’ve picked up a new cell. Leaving my phone in the Maserati wasn’t my best moment of forward-thinking. You can get me on this number until I do. How about that for a role reversal? Logan is complaining because I’m monopolizing his phone.’

  There was a roar in the background: 107,000 screaming girls in the Estadio Azteca, Mexico City. Logan’s world had been the obvious place for her to go. There was no better place to disappear than into the entourage of a boy band that had a security team rivalled by none. Twenty strong, all former members of Shabak, the Israeli Security Agency, these guys were as close to impenetrable as it got. After the Maserati hit the deck, she’d hitched a lift back to civilization and taken a cab to Santa Monica Airport. If only she’d done an Angelina, a Travolta, a Harrison Ford and got her own licence, it would have been so much quicker. No matter. Within the hour, her American Express account was $30,000 lighter, a private jet was on the runway, and she was heading south.

  Might have been an idea to stop for supplies. She pulled her long cardigan around her, a sympathy gift from one of the girls in wardrobe when she arrived. The clothes she’d stood in – grey skinny 7 For All Mankind jeans, a white tank, Prada biker boots – weren’t quite adequate for an unusually cool Mexican night.

  The temperature had dropped to somewhere in the forties. Mildly chilly, yet she was shivering. She hated the cold. Reminded her of home.

  Of her.

  A snapshot of her childhood flickered to light in her mind. Mirren. About twelve. Sitting outside her house on a summer night. Then another. This time the leaves on the trees were brown and red. Another. Now bare branches towered over her. That was the overwhelming memory of her youngest years, shivering in the cold, sweating in the heat, always sitting outside because she couldn’t face what happened on the other side of the walls of her home. The laughter. The screams. The smell of perfume and cigarettes. The words that no child should hear. Mirren knew them all. And she knew that she came way below the buzz of her mother’s long nights of play.

  And then there was the flip side. When he didn’t show up and her mother was alone, drowning in tears of self-pity, pining until the moment that he walked back through the door, took her hand and led her upstairs.

  Over the years dozens of TV interviewers and journalists had asked her what drove her infamous work ethic, what made her so determined to succeed, what the secret was behind her successful marriage. She had stock answers, meaningless platitudes for every question, but the truth was that there was only one explanation.

  She was determined that she’d never end up like her mother.

  Marilyn McLean was the reason that Mirren’s whole life had been built on a craving for security. Certainty. Stability. Change freaked her out. The unknown scared her. And the only thing that took away the fear was success in every area of her life. Career. Money. Marriage.

  She had been in love with two men in her life. The first time had ended so badly she thought that she’d never recover. This time . . . this time . . .

  The phone in her hand vibrated and a familiar image flashed on the screen. One that didn’t belong there. Why would Lex Callaghan’s number be in Logan’s phone?

  Accept.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey, boss. So, anything happening lately?’

  It was impossible not to smile. Lex Callaghan was that rare thing in Hollywood: an actor who didn’t take himself too seriously, who didn’t look at everything from the point of view of what it meant for him. Mirren had always thought that it was because his success had come later. He’d been around Hollywood for a decade, racked up dozens of minor parts, acted in half a dozen pilots that hadn’t been picked up. He had just hit thirty when he walked into the casting office for the first Clansman. For Mirren, it was like watching a character lift off her page and come to life. The collar-length, unruly black hair, the physique of a warrior and the blue eyes were straight out of her descriptive prose, but it was more than that. Every guy who’d auditioned so far looked like he’d stopped off on the way to have his nails buffed. Lex Callaghan looked rough, like he could climb mountains, swim lochs. He had a walk that exuded attitude with every step. But the deal-sealer was the accent. He spoke with a Highland lilt that was so authentic she couldn’t make out a trace of his natural Montana drawl. A childhood spent in the company of an immigrant grandmother who never lost her Perthshire brogue had given him a voice that was flawless. This was her hero, the man who had the courage of his convictions and was willing to die fighting.

  The viewing public felt the same. The four Clansman movies they’d worked on had made him a global star. The fifth was supposed to start in two days and would add another legion of fans to his adoring army.

  ‘Hi. How did you get this number?’ No irritation, just surprise.

  ‘Last year’s wrap party. Logan sorted out tickets for my niece, gave me his number. She will now visit me when I’m old. Didn’t expect you to answer, though – was just going to interrogate him for information.’

  ‘He’d never crack,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘You’re right. So how you doing?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want me to come down? My niece would love it.’

  ‘Thanks but no. I’ll be back soon. Just needed to get my head together, stay out of the spotlight.’

  ‘We can push back the start date.’

  ‘No.’

  It was unthinkable. Even a day of delay would cost the studio hundreds of thousands, but it was more than that. It was what it said. That she’d fallen apart, couldn’t handle it.

  ‘Look, Mirren, I’m here for you. Whatever you need.’

  She needed something, but not from Lex Callaghan. They were friends, end of story. He had lots to offer: he was handsome, talented, had a body that rocked. He also had a wife, Cara, his high-school sweetheart, who had stuck by him through rich and poor, good times and bad, a one-bedroom condo to a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch in Santa Barbara.

  Right now, she needed things he couldn’t give her. Reassurance. Strength. A rewind button. And something to take away the tsunami of dread that was making her block out Davie Johnston’s text. She wasn’t going back there. Not for anything.

  The rising sensation of bile from her stomach made her gag and she struggled to pull it back together.

  ‘Lex, I have to go. I’ll see you
Monday.’

  Hanging up, she pressed her face against a steel support for the lighting rig. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Terror and dread were making her temperature fluctuate from one end of the scale to the other.

  And breathe. Dear God, please breathe. Years of ashtanga yoga kicked in and jump-started her cardiovascular system. The voice in her head, the one that she’d trained over two decades to support her in everything she did, made a valiant attempt to do its job. Break it down, Mirren, break it down. You can deal with this. You can. All of it. You don’t have the answers now, but you’ll figure it out. You just need a bit more time. A bit more space. Lie low. Keep thinking. It’ll come.

  Space. Contemplation. Privacy. Breathe.

  Her internal monologue was interrupted by a chorus of screams and cheers that made the ground under her feet tremble.

  Logan rushed off stage towards her and then two arms were around her, lifting her and swinging her round.

  ‘Mom, come on – I want you to come on stage.’

  ‘Logan, no.’

  ‘C’mon, mom.’

  Where were the Israeli bodyguards when she needed them?

  Her 120 pounds were no match for a 6-foot boy who worked with a personal trainer 6 days a week.

  The spotlights blinded her; the crowd roared; the rest of the band cheered as the lead singer pulled his resistant mother onto the stage.

  ‘Mexico! I want you to meet my mom!’

  As 107,000 camera phones captured the moment, she realized that the plan to hide out until she was ready to deal with all this shit had just hit a large, son-sized complication. It was time to get back to the real world before the real world came to her. And somehow, for Chloe’s sake, for Logan’s sake, and for the sake of her sanity, she knew she had to find the strength inside her to kick its ass.

  13.

  ‘Riders On the Storm’ – The Doors

  His head was in a vice, and the wheel was turning tighter and tighter. Only a few more seconds now and his brain would explode, grey matter would splatter against the walls, and forensics would have to use tweezers to pick skull shrapnel off the carpet. Any second now. Any second.

  ‘Zander, some, like, chick keeps calling, and she says if you don’t speak to her now, she’s going to break the fucking door down. She has, like, a serious attitude problem. Is she, like, your wife or something?’

  Zander opened one eye, took the phone being dangled in front of him by Daisy . . . Donna . . . Deedee . . . fucked if he knew. Shit, he’d taken it too far last night. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s he remembered; the coke he’d rather forget. If the pain in his head was a sign that he was about to die, let it be soon, here in . . .

  He made a quick scan of the room. Yep, definitely his own apartment. How he’d got back here was a mystery to him right now, but at least he wasn’t lying in some fleapit hotel off Sunset with unidentifiable bites trailing across his back.

  That had been the night before last.

  Ignoring his companion’s unanswered question, he put the phone in the vicinity of his ear and grunted.

  Her reply was instant. ‘It’s me.’

  Zander automatically winced. Hollie only spoke two words, but they had all the impact of a double bullet shot to the centre of the forehead. Fierce, unrelenting and unequivocally honest, for the last ten years she’d managed all the sane aspects of his life. Only two people had real meaning in his world: if Wes Lomax was his father figure, Hollie was the sister who would defend him to the world while kicking his butt behind closed doors. It was an unusual dynamic in the land of the sycophants, but he needed that kind of reality – just not today.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? No, don’t answer that. On a messed-up scale of one to ten, give me a figure,’ she said, her tone thick with irritation.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘You are such an asshole. OK, open the door.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos I’m standing outside, you moron, and I’m not wasting these Manolo Blahniks on breaking down the fucking door.’

  He hung up.

  ‘Baby—’

  ‘It’s Dixie. Don’t call me “baby”. I’m, like, a feminist,’ Dixie wailed, while pulling on the crotchless panties that matched her purple lace peephole bra.

  He groaned on the inside.

  ‘Can you open the door. Please. Dixie?’

  With a petulant stomp, Dixie crossed the room and swung the door open, making no effort whatsoever to conceal her partial nudity.

  Hollie barely glanced in her direction, marching straight to the huge circular bed in the centre of the room. He took no credit or blame for the furnishings in the room. He’d bought the apartment in Venice with that first pay cheque and never got round to moving. There was no need to. On the third floor of the pale green timber-clad block, on the corner of Speedway, just over the invisible line that separated the wealth of Santa Monica from the eccentricities of its artisan neighbour.

  The location suited him. On the edge of the sands, he could ride out on his paddle board at dawn, and when he opened the windows at night, he could hear other people laughing, talking, fighting, just being. Somehow, that mattered. When he’d first moved in, he had a chair, a sofa and a bed. When Hollie joined him, she had a try at persuading him to move to a more affluent, secure neighbourhood. When that didn’t work, she helped him buy the apartment next door and then remodelled the two into the kind of penthouse an A-list actor with simple tastes should call home. A vast, open-plan loft with a long glass wall that became opaque and inscrutable at the touch of a button. Dark-stained maple floors, white walls, grey leather sofas. A screen that could motor across the floor to separate the bedroom and living area at the touch of a button. On the walls, the two original artworks by Jack Vettriano were Hollie’s idea too, a nod to his Scottish heritage.

  The soft furnishings were cream, the bedding was 800-thread count, the cutlery and crockery expensive. As long as there was beer in the fridge, sport on the TV and his surfboard was by the door, he barely noticed.

  ‘OK, hero, up.’ She pulled back the Pratesi sheets.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t make me kill you.’

  Hollie turned to Dixie. ‘Nice outfit. Look, honey—’

  ‘Don’t call me “honey”. I’m, like, a feminist,’ Dixie announced for the second time in five minutes. Zander closed his eyes. He couldn’t look. No one should witness blood being spilt at this time in the morning.

  ‘OK, let me try that again, Hillary Clinton. Can you please do something for me?’

  Not bad considering every word was spat out through clenched teeth.

  ‘Can you, right now, take your skinny, half-covered ass and remove it from my sight?’

  ‘But . . .’

  Hollie was one step ahead of her. She pulled ten $100 bills from her wallet.

  ‘For your lingerie fund. Stick with purple – it’s your colour.’

  It was difficult for the self-proclaimed feminist philosopher to work out whether that was a compliment or an insult.

  Hollie pulled out another wad of notes. ‘And here’s another grand for your phone.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s that or I call the cops and say you’re a stalker who broke in here. Your choice.’

  Dixie flushed with rage, then realizing the futility of the situation, grabbed her clothes, pulled a Lycra minidress over her size-zero frame and stomped out carrying her shoes. She left her phone on the table.

  Her parting words were, ‘I’m at Sparkles every night. Drop by.’

  Zander didn’t reply. Just shut his eyes and braced himself for attack.

  ‘Classy. I can see the attraction.’

  Hollie’s sarcasm barely dented his frazzled brain.

  ‘OK, Mr Stud, what’s going on? This is the third morning in a row I’ve had to drag your ass out of a naked situation. Zander, you’re not helping me here.’

  Zander couldn’t reply, too busy trying to manoeuvre himself into an upright pos
ition. Didn’t matter. What was going on? He could never explain it to her. When he stepped out of the clinic last week, he was so sure he could do this. Sober up. Make it right. Step out of the ‘fuck up’ lane. But . . .

  ‘Mr Leith, this is Sarah McKenzie from the Daily Scot … I have a few questions about the disappearance of your father …’

  How the fuck had that come up now, twenty years down the line? His family situation had been covered and put to bed two decades ago. Every reporter who had ever asked had been given a stock answer: ‘Zander’s family were private people and had no wish to be in the public eye.’ In today’s celebrity-obsessed, online culture, they wouldn’t have stood a chance of retaining any privacy, but back then his home life didn’t cause so much as a ripple of publicity. Since then, all requests for interviews or information about his family had been denied. All eyes turned to Zander’s new Hollywood life, and over the years he’d provided them with so many headlines there had never been a reason for anyone to go raking up his past. End of story. Nothing to report. Until now. Nothing about this made sense.

  Had something happened? Had he turned up? But no, that was never going to happen, was it? Yet… there was a reporter on the phone and her words kept playing in his head. And the only thing that made them stop was oblivion. Hollie pulled the sheets off the bed and balled them in the corner, then picked up the glasses, bottles and discarded clothes and took them all into the kitchen. It was only on the way back that she noticed the detritus on the coffee table.

  ‘Coke last night?’

  The guilt that flashed across his face said it all.

  ‘Jesus, Zander, they’re testing you again in ten days. Right, detox until then. Man, can you just stick to being an alcoholic and give me less shit to deal with? Now come on. You’re due on set in an hour and the 405 will be a bitch, even at this time. I don’t need this. I could have been working for—’

  ‘Matt Damon. I know.’

  It was their personal joke. Hollie had interviewed for Damon on the same day as Zander. Zander had offered first.