Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  She knew who she was. It was all there, on the soft caramel walls, punctuated by huge dark oak frames displaying promo posters for each of the Clansman movies, and smaller frames showing pictures of the people she loved. Logan on his first album cover with the band. Chloe when she modelled for Hilfiger in a ‘kids of celebrities’ campaign. Snaps of them both when they were younger – running in the sand, throwing snowballs in Aspen, riding horses in the Napa Valley.

  The McLean Productions HQ was in a quiet corner of the huge Pictor lot, past the sets of two hit sitcoms, turn right at the street that was built for a drama about five suburban housewives gone wild, turn left at the replica of the White House and through the mock-up of the fountain area in Central Park. The building behind hers was purpose-built and staged the location shots for Clansman’s house and village. Sixteenth-century Scotland brought to life in modern-day Century City, LA.

  It looked exactly as Mirren had imagined it would when she wrote the first book. Haunting. Beautiful. Atmospheric. Historic. There had been an impressive budget for sets and Mirren had repaid the studio’s faith in her production and directorial debut by ensuring that every cent was used wisely.

  That diligence and work ethic had never wavered. Already this morning she’d had meetings with accountants, engineers and costume, and now she just wanted a half-hour at her desk to take stock. Think.

  The click as her door opened was the first sign that thinking would have to wait.

  ‘Hi.’ Sheepish. Apologetic. Weak.

  Mirren put down her pen and reluctantly looked at the new arrival.

  ‘Really, Jack? Here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Didn’t have any choice. Seems the locks have been changed at home and the staff are under instructions to keep me out.’

  ‘Correct. It’s not such a challenge. Half of them hardly know you given that you’ve barely been there for nineteen years.’

  She mentally kicked herself for going there. Classy and dignified, that was how she had decided to handle this. Somehow, right now, those emotions were being batted out of the park by bitterness and fury.

  Mirren watched him as he slouched in the doorway, holding two coffees and a brown bag that she would bet her last dollar contained an apple and cinnamon tart from the French patisserie on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Dear wife, sorry I fucked another woman. Can I take the pain away by offering you a wildly indulgent yet delicious high-sugar snack?

  Sighing, she got up, came round to the front of the desk and took one of the coffees. They both took them the same way. Black and strong.

  ‘Outside,’ she said, knowing he would follow. She cut into the replica of the Central Park square and sat on the grass in front of the fountain. It was one of her favourite lunch spots. There was every possibility the next half an hour would taint that forever.

  ‘So speak.’ Her tone was calm again. Back on track with the dignity strategy.

  ‘I’ve fucked it all up, Mirren.’ His voice was hoarse. Too many Marlboro Lights, with an overtone of sleep deprivation.

  ‘Indeed you have.’

  Although staring straight ahead, she could just catch his silhouette in her peripheral vision. Was it wishful thinking or did he seem older? Tired? Jack was fifty-two, but he’d always looked a decade younger. Now, not so much. A week ago, that would have concerned her, made her resolve to persuade him to take time out, head off for a holiday. Now, she felt nothing at all. Nothing.

  The only twinge of pain was when she realized that he’d accessorized his black T-shirt and charcoal jeans with the black cowboy boots she’d bought for him when they sneaked off to Vegas to watch the ACM Awards last year. They’d danced all night to the best country music outside Nashville, drank tequila shots at the Hard Rock Cafe, made love over-looking the city in a glass suite at the Palms and Mirren had thanked God for making her happier than any person deserved to be. God clearly decided that too much of a good thing couldn’t be allowed to continue.

  ‘I’m staying at Casa del Mar.’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘I know. But just in case, you know, you thought I was staying . . . there. At her . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to spell it out for me,’ Mirren snapped, before curiosity got the better of her and she asked, ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘Because we’re not together. Shit, Mirren, she’s barely older than Chloe.’

  ‘That was going to be my next line.’

  The inside of her gum was starting to hurt, but she couldn’t stop chewing it because if she did, she knew she’d cry. And there would be no crying in front of Jack Gore today.

  ‘Mirren, I’m so sorry. It was a fuck-up. A couple of times. I was just—’

  ‘Don’t dare make an excuse, Jack.’

  He put his hands up. ‘I know. You’re right. But what can I do to fix this, Mirren? We can’t walk away from our family. We’ve got something great . . .’

  ‘Not great enough.’

  ‘OK, I deserved that. But, Mir, come on. I don’t want the kids to have the kind of home that we had.’

  His words delivered a thud to her stomach that took the wind out of her lungs and made her wince with pain. He knew where her weak spot was and he’d gone straight for it. He’d been brought up by a single dad in South LA after his mother died when he was three. A succession of his father’s companions had come in and out of his life. It was an area of instant recognition and compatibility when they met, both of them determined not to repeat the sins of the parents. ‘Until death, only you’ was engraved on the inside of their wedding rings. Until last week, Mirren had believed it.

  It took her a while to regain enough composure to speak. Calm. Dignity. Even though right now she could happily stab him through the heart.

  ‘Jack, I know how we were brought up. I know how that felt, and I know what it did. And when I met you, I knew that I’d finally found the man who would make sure that no child of ours ever went through that. And they didn’t. But it’s not me who changed it. It’s not me who’s taken a wrecking ball to our family, Jack. It’s you.’

  ‘I know, Mirren, and hell, believe me I’d do anything to change it. Please, honey. We have to get past this.’

  He was right. They did. And there were only two options for moving on. Either they put it behind them, forgave and found a way to forget, or they called it a day and let Jack do what they’d set out to do all those years ago.

  ‘Your new baby needs stability, Jack. What about it?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I don’t even know if it’s mine.’

  ‘But if it is?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The flash of anger that crossed her face made him back-pedal immediately.

  ‘I mean, the baby matters, of course it does. I’ll take care of it financially and I’ll take responsibility, do my share. But I can’t lose you and the kids for it, Mir, I just can’t.’

  God, he was so sincere, so heartbreakingly earnest and it was impossible not to feel for him.

  ‘I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t. So if you’re looking for an answer right now, I can’t give it to you.’

  He put his hands up in surrender again.

  ‘That’s fair, Mir. I get it. I know this is huge and I know it’ll take time. I’m just asking for another chance.’

  They both knew the conversation was over for now. Jack was first to his feet and he offered his hand to pull her up. She took it, ignoring the urge to use it as leverage to fold herself into his arms and make the stabbing pain in her stomach go away.

  Jack walked her back to the office, pausing in the reception area, where her assistant, Devlin, had his head buried in his iMac. It was a sure sign of distaste, given that the tall, buff twenty-five-year-old from New York generally balanced relentless chattiness with a relaxed confidence that let everyone know that there was nothing he couldn’t handle.

  ‘Hi, Jack,’ he muttered, before immediately returning his focused gaze to his
work.

  Nope, Mirren noticed, he couldn’t keep the edge out of his tone there. Gotta love loyalty.

  ‘Anything urgent?’ Mirren asked, hoping Jack would take it as a cue to leave.

  Devlin looked from Mirren to Jack, clearly unsure as to whether to divulge anything in front of the enemy.

  ‘Just a message about Chloe from Life Reborn. I’ve left it on your desk.’

  Task delivered, indiscretion avoided, but Mirren was too anxious to delay.

  ‘And it says?’

  ‘Sorry, but she’s asked that you don’t come up to family therapy today.’

  Mirren nodded slowly. She’d half expected it, but there had been a tiny bit of hope there.

  Jack reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘Honey, she’ll be fine. She’ll be OK. We’ll get her sorted.’

  Too much. Too, too much.

  ‘We’ll get her sorted? We? Are you kidding me? All these years and not once have you been here when Chloe has gone and got in a mess, got arrested, gone missing. Who’s sorted everything out every time, Jack? Me. So don’t you dare talk about how you are going to swoop in and save the bloody day.’

  ‘Mirren, I—’ He didn’t even get the words out before her right fist, working entirely independently of the rest of her body, harnessed years of kick-boxing training by swinging round, connecting with the target and cracking him square across the jaw.

  With a mutter of ‘Asshole’, she swept past him and marched through to her office. She had never been a victim. Never. And she wasn’t going to start now.

  Slamming the door behind her, she picked up her phone.

  ‘Is he gone yet?’ she asked Devlin.

  ‘Yes. And remind me never to ask for a raise.’

  ‘Excellent. Can you get Brad Bernson on the line, please?’

  Seconds later, Mirren picked up the receiver, pressed the button next to the one illuminated light and greeted Bernson, a PI she’d called on to help her with Chloe’s many disappearances and misdemeanours over the years.

  ‘Brad? . . . Good. Listen, my husband tells me he’s staying at the Casa del Mar and no longer screwing Mercedes Dance. Find out if it’s true.’

  23.

  ‘Let Me Go’ – Gary Barlow

  It was so close to the conflicting emotions he got when he knew he was going to drink. The gnawing feeling in his gut that he shouldn’t do it. The depressing knowledge that it couldn’t lead to anything good. Yet the certainty that nothing and no one could stop him.

  Zander had to see Chloe. He had to. She was drowning and he could feel every twist of pain and every void of emptiness inside her. He had to help her. Somewhere in the whole scheme of karma and fate, Chloe’s life was linked with his. If he hadn’t done what he’d done, if he and Mirren hadn’t made the mistakes they’d made, then Chloe’s life could have been so much different.

  He owed her.

  But more than that, he wanted to know her.

  Dr LeComber, Chloe’s case leader at Life Reborn, was frank in his disapproval of Zander’s visits, but Chloe had agreed to actively commit to the therapy if she was allowed to see him. Zander knew more than anyone that the manipulation was classic addict behaviour, but Dr LeComber had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt because nothing else was working. Chloe still refused to work with the therapists one to one or in a group.

  So far the gamble was paying off. The mute, sullen girl he’d seen when he was a fellow inmate had been replaced by someone who would at least occasionally make eye contact and utter the odd grunt. He’d been three times this week so far. The first time, she’d said nothing. The second and third, she’d answered basic questions but clammed up on anything personal and volunteered nothing deeper than demands for cigarettes. That was fine with Zander. No pushing. No stress. If they just sat there and said nothing every day for a month, that would be fine with him. When she wanted to talk, he was ready.

  That afternoon, she’d barely acknowledged him when the residents were ushered out into the garden, just sat in the chair opposite him at a table for two in between the meditation area and the yoga space and stared at the ground. But now, after working her way through two Marlboros, her audio setting kicked in.

  ‘They all hate me in here,’ she spat, throwing her cigarette stub into the greenery.

  He leaned over and shoved an ashtray in her direction.

  ‘No, they don’t. They’d probably just prefer it if you didn’t risk a bush fire every time you had a cigarette.’

  Defiance shot from her eyes as she finally lifted her head to meet his glare.

  That was fine. Defiance was good. So were anger, irritation and spite. Sense and politeness were a bonus, but for now he’d go with anything that made her engage.

  Her gaze went to the leather bracelet on her arm and she rubbed at the surface compulsively.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  Zander nodded.

  ‘Why do you come? What’s in this for you?’ she challenged.

  Hello, Anger, Irritation and Spite.

  Zander grinned and sat back, leisurely shrugging his shoulders. Every acting bone in his body conspired to ape casual nonchalance. It was important not to rise to her, to give her an excuse to retreat back into her world of self-pity and isolation.

  ‘Maybe I just like this place,’ he told her, grinning, as if they were two buddies sharing a joke. ‘Or maybe I get what you’re feeling. Maybe I’ve decided I like hanging out with someone who fucks up as much as I do.’

  The edges of her mouth twitched as she fought to suppress a smile and Zander’s heart melted. Underneath all that shit, she was really just a kid. A lost kid.

  He decided to test the water, see how far he could go.

  ‘You know, sometimes it helps if you work with your family here, Chloe.’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  OK, too far. Reel it back. Nope, too late. Chloe took a deep breath and launched.

  ‘My dad will only fuck off halfway through to go film in Morocco or Ibiza or somewhere else he can screw around. He’s never been here for us. Never. Do you know he’s fucking Mercedes Dance? Bastard. My whole life he would come home, be Daddy of the Year for a month, maybe two, then disappear again for a year. Prick.’

  OK, abandonment issues. Got that loud and clear. Now a choice. Quit while he was ahead or pick the scab? Nobody ever got sober by avoiding pain.

  ‘And your mum?’

  He braced for a tirade of abuse, but instead he got silence.

  Sadness.

  ‘She took him away.’

  ‘Who? Your dad?’

  Chloe shook her head and shrugged. ‘No. Just someone. Someone I loved. That’s what she does. He loved me and she couldn’t stand it. No wonder my dad fucked someone else.’

  A bell rang to signal the end of visiting and Zander cursed.

  He’d been getting somewhere there and he knew it was more than she’d revealed since she got here.

  ‘Do you want me to come back tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘I’m in the studio in the day, but I can come for the second visit.’

  The pause was so long he thought she was working out how to say no.

  Eventually she spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper.

  ‘I feel safe when you’re here.’

  He took that as a yes.

  The temperature inside the Aston was hitting sauna level when he jumped in, so he sat with the door open and had a cigarette, hand trembling. This was like the comedown after a blowout. The self-doubt. The guilt. The anguish. What was he doing? For twenty years he’d avoided anything that was connected to his past and now he was visiting Mirren’s kid?

  This was insane. Mirren would have his balls if she knew. Only the fact that Chloe was over eighteen and insisted her parents weren’t told about his visits was saving him right now. This was playing with fire after a gasoline shower.

  The journey home was a blur, each mile adding another level of need for that bottle of Southern Comfort that had
been re-stashed after he’d succumbed the week before. Back in the apartment, he didn’t even stop for a glass. How hypocritical was this? He was trying to straighten someone out and yet here he was chugging back the liquor to deal with his feelings. Getting wasted so he didn’t have to deal with the situation. Pattern. Repeat. Pattern. Repeat.

  He only knew he’d fallen asleep when the ringing of his phone woke him. Hollie! Crap, he’d overslept. Man, she was going to kick his ass.

  He answered without even looking at the screen.

  ‘Hollie, I . . .’

  ‘It’s Chloe.’ Like he didn’t recognize the voice.

  He squinted at his watch and saw that it was 3 a.m. Oh no, not again. They really had to tighten up their security. How the hell had she managed to get out?

  ‘I’m still here. Don’t, like, freak out. Got a phone off a dude that smuggled it in. You don’t wanna know . . .’

  He didn’t.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, his words thick with sleep and Southern Comfort.

  ‘Man, you sound wasted,’ she countered.

  ‘No! No, I was just sleeping. Sorry. Been a long day. Crashed out as soon as I got home.’

  The pause was so long he wondered if she’d hung up.

  ‘I’m gonna do it this time. I just wanted to tell you that.’

  Zander lit a cigarette – anything to distract him from the sound of the promise in her voice. Hadn’t he heard it all before? Hadn’t he said the very same thing?

  ‘I know you are, Chloe. We both are. We’re both on the road to good things here.’

  She thought about that for a moment.

  ‘Yeah, good things. I believe that.’

  Two dreamers. Two addicts. Zander knew he was lying.

  He wondered if she was too.

  24.

  ‘Raintown’ – Deacon Blue

  Glasgow, 1986

  Jono Leith rubbed at his temples with calloused fingers. Bastarding headaches. Ever since some cunt banjoed him with a baseball bat, the migraines had been crippling. The doc said there was nothing that could be done about it. The sneering arrogance he said it with made Jono want to take a baseball bat to the back of his head and see if the snidey wanker could come up with a solution then.