by Shari King
No. Just no. How dare she do this?
A past master of the schmooze, he put his hand back on hers.
‘Lana, baby, don’t be crazy. You know we’re perfect for each other.’
‘Not anymore, Davie.’ For the first time, her tone had a steely edge and he saw her body tense as she started to rise to her feet.
His hand flew to her arm, stopping her.
‘You bitch,’ he hissed.
Her smile was the only reply, as she stood, spun on her eight-inch steel stiletto heels and flounced towards her waiting car. It was only then he noticed it. The raised square inside the back of her dress, just a few inches tall and wide. A battery pack. She was miked up.
He frantically scanned the street. There it was. Almost completely concealed by a large black van parked on the other side of the road, a guy with a camera, pointed his way. He’d seen him earlier, assumed it was just another chancer from TMZ. Now he realized he’d been set up. Punked. And he’d just been filmed and recorded calling Lana Delasso a bitch.
Davie Johnston decided that at this juncture in his life he had only three feasible choices: he could just slide off his chair and go ahead and crawl right into the gutter; he could take a hostage and hope for death by cop; or he could head into the back restaurant area and punch Jack Gore. The latter would serve no purpose, but hell, at least it would draw attention to the fact that there was another useless prick in the room.
27.
‘Say Something, I’m Giving Up On You’
– A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera
Mirren drummed her fingers on her desk, itching to call Brad Bernson for an update. Every time she reached for the phone, she stopped herself. It was pointless. If Bernson had anything to report, she’d know about it. Calling him just felt needy and desperate and more than a little pathetic – all emotions that were tussling with blind bloody fury for supremacy in her head. Putting her palms face down on the desk, she took a deep breath. Focus. Calm. OK, move on to something else. Distraction. Spreadsheets, there was a distraction.
She clicked open the production accounts file that had arrived in her inbox a couple of hours ago and scanned the summary sheet. No surprises there. This movie was coming in at just under $56 million, but if it matched its predecessors, it would take four times that at the box office. No time to be complacent, though. Just because this was a major franchise with a stellar track record didn’t mean that would continue. The movie business was fickle. Unpredictable. One wrong move and you could lose the audience in a heartbeat. The novel on which this one was based had spent months on the New York Times bestseller list, but now the challenge was to bring that enjoyment to the screen. It was a huge pressure, but Mirren thrived on it. Until now. Right now, it seemed like the least of her worries. All she cared about was getting Chloe well and home. Even Jack slipped below that on the list.
The urge to call Bernson flared again and she counteracted it by clicking open a couple more files. Salaries. Overheads. She should go home.
Location costs. Distribution. She should go home.
Marketing. Sales. Promotion.
But she’d be going home to an empty house and she just couldn’t bear it.
‘I thought being the boss meant you got to go home and leave the overtime for us underlings.’
The figure in the shadows of the doorway made her jolt, then automatically smile.
Lex Callaghan, the Clansman, wasn’t looking particularly historical in his beat-up jeans and black T-shirt. He sauntered over to the couch under the window to her right, took a seat, and as always Mirren wondered at the incredible act of casting that had brought him to her world. He was the Clansman – exactly as she had written him, exactly as she pictured him when she wrote. Blue eyes, a jaw that could have been shaped from steel, black wavy hair that was pulled back tonight into a ponytail. On other guys, it would look clichéd, or sleazy, or naff, but Lex’s rippling masculinity made it sexy as hell. His wife was a lucky woman.
‘What are you still doing here? Must be after ten,’ she said, a quick glance at the time in the right-hand corner of her computer screen telling her she was correct.
‘Working with the language coach. The Gaelic is going to sound great.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Mirren smiled. It had been a risk in the first Clansman to have the dialogue in some scenes in Gaelic, with subtitles, but the trade-off of authenticity made it work. Right from the start the audiences had loved it.
‘Anyway, how are you doing?’ His voice oozed concern.
‘OK,’ Mirren replied with a hesitant smile, then immediately corrected her stock answer. ‘Actually, shit. Really shit. Chloe’s back in rehab.’
‘Can I help? Is there anything we can do? You know, Cara would be happy to go see her, or Chloe could go out to the ranch.’
Cara, Lex’s wife since they were sixteen. The ultimate happy ever after. Cara was a counsellor, worked with addicts on equine therapy out on their Santa Barbara ranch.
‘Thanks. If we ever get her out of there, I might take you up on that.’
There was a comfortable silence for a few moments. They’d worked together long enough, been friends for enough years to know that they didn’t have to fill every second with chat. Lex was a man of relatively few words who didn’t do small talk or meaningless gossip.
‘Do you wanna go for a beer?’ he asked when he finally broke the quiet.
Mirren shook her head, stretching back in her seat and yawning as she did so. ‘Thanks but no. You know, the situation with Jack . . . The press would be all over it.’
‘Yeah, I get that.’
Lex was out of his seat, out of the room, and Mirren stared at his retreating form, then the void, then his craggy grin as he returned with a bottle of Bud in each hand.
‘Keep these in the trunk for emergencies. Might not be too cold, but I don’t figure you’ll care.’
Taking the beer, Mirren grinned. ‘Wouldn’t matter if it was the temperature of soup. Thanks, Lex.’
He slouched back on the couch again and she went over to join him, her standard work uniform of smart black shirt and black tailored capri pants a sharp contrast against her bare feet, with red nails and toe rings on three of her toes. Jack had had them made for her in Bali on their last holiday before the children. Eighteen years later, she’d still never taken them off. Her back against the arm of the sofa, she folded her legs underneath her, her face illuminated by the arc lamp that reached from the floor and curved round behind her. This was her favourite spot to read, to edit scripts and to take five minutes of peace at the end of a day. A red corkscrew tendril escaped from the clip that held her hair out of her face and she unconsciously pushed it away.
‘I’m worried about you,’ he told her gently.
Mirren took a slug of the beer and shook her head. ‘Don’t. Please. I can handle this. I promise.’
‘So that’s why you’re still at work at ten o’ clock at night outside of shooting schedule?’
Working sixteen-hour days was normal in production, but more unusual before the cameras started rolling. Mirren acknowledged the truth of his comment with a shrug
‘Just keeping busy. Less time to think.’
‘Jack’s an asshole.’
The vehemence in his voice made it clear this was an opinion he held with some conviction.
‘Indeed he is,’ Mirren eventually replied. Another pause.
‘You know, even that feels weird,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never said a bad word about Jack to anyone else in all these years. Never. We defended each other. Stuck together. A team, you know?’
They both knew he did. His marriage to Cara was legendary for its devotion and longevity, and unlike most Hollywood unions, it wasn’t faked for the cameras or the press.
‘How could I have got it so wrong?’
Lex twisted round, one arm over the back of the sofa now, one leather boot across his other knee.
‘Way I see it, it wasn’t you who
got it wrong.’
That elicited a grateful smile. Friends. That’s what they did. Had your back and defended you against faithless bastards. Only her fierce insistence on restraint had persuaded Lou not to track Jack down and inflict some kind of pain on his body, mind or soul. But that wasn’t Mirren’s style. A long time ago, she’d learned that you had to fight your own battles.
‘But I didn’t see it coming, Lex. I thought I was smarter than that.’
Only when it was out did she realize how true that was. How could she not have known he was cheating? Not a single suspicion, not a single concern. How naive was that? What a fool. It wouldn’t happen again. And yet . . .
‘You trusted him. Doesn’t mean you were in the wrong.’
His attempts to console her made her smile. This was so not Lex Callaghan. He didn’t do hand-holding and deepest feelings. He did strong, silent and protective. The fact that he was trying made her love him even more than she already did.
‘Are you gonna work it out with him?’
‘I thought we’d be together until we died,’ was her only reply, because she still didn’t know the answer to his question. Could they work it out? Right now, she’d say no. But could she spend the rest of her life without him? Again, no.
It was just a case of working out which prospect terrified her more. At the moment, they were running equal.
Lex drained his bottle and set it down on the coffee table.
‘Another one?’ he asked.
Mirren shook her head, laughed.
‘No way. Cara will have my ass if I keep you here any longer.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m back in early again tomorrow morning, so I’m staying at the shack tonight.’
It was typical Lex. Any other actor of his status staying in the city would go for the Chateau or the Four Seasons or one of the other five-star hotels, but Lex had bought a wooden cabin in the hills above Topanga Canyon. ‘Shack’ was a slight understatement, but only slight. There was hot and cold running water, a kitted-out kitchen and a fifty-inch plasma on the wall, but that aside, it was rustic, isolated and simple. Right now, that sounded just about perfect.
‘Another beer sounds good, then. I’ve got nowhere I need to be.’
As he headed out to his truck to get the second round, Mirren closed her eyes. This was the first time in weeks that she didn’t feel that she was on the verge of disintegrating. ‘Normal’ was still a long way away, but at this point she’d settle for steady. Safe. It was like a timeout from the world. Lex’s footsteps interrupted her thoughts and she opened her eyes and reached for the outstretched bottle. He’d already opened it. Probably with his teeth, she decided.
‘What’s funny?’ he asked.
‘Ah, didn’t realize I was smiling,’ she replied. ‘Was just wondering if you took the bottle tops off with your teeth.’
His laughter filled the room. ‘Yes, ma’am. Right after I rustled up a herd of cattle and spat on the campfire.’
They were both laughing now, the volume increasing when he added, ‘Actually, I’ve got a bottle opener in the glovebox.’
Mirren was doubled over now, her laughter sending tears streaming down her cheeks, her emotions somewhere between hilarity and hysteria. All the pent-up emotion, all the stress, all the holy fucking terror that she’d suppressed and controlled now taking over and being released. Man, it felt good. Letting all that misery go felt fucking great.
She was so out of control that she missed the first couple of rings of her cell phone. The ascending tone rose another notch until it permeated her altered state.
It wasn’t the ringtone that was assigned to Jack, Chloe, Logan or Lou, so her first thought was that it had to be Brad Bernson. In which case, he’d found something. Something important that couldn’t wait until morning.
Snapped back to reality, suddenly icy calm, she uncurled her legs and was across the room in a second. The screen told her the number was withheld. Always a risk. Crank call?
Anonymous tip-off? Someone from the press, about to ambush her with more shit news that could ruin what was left of her life? There was a temptation to ignore it, but she would only torture herself with curiosity about who it could have been.
Accept.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. Is that Ms McLean?’
A voice she didn’t recognize.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Dr Le Comber, clinical director at Life Reborn.’
Mirren immediately put the face to the name. She’d met him a couple of times – the first time Chloe was admitted and then once on a previous stay during a family visit. A cold wave of dread and fear replaced the glimmer of warmth left by the beer.
‘How can I help you?’ she asked, knowing that her excruciating fear was probably making her come off like a heartless bitch.
‘Ms McLean, I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but one of our nurses just checked on Chloe and I’m afraid she’s gone.’
‘What do you mean, “gone”?’ It was an automatic question, out before she realized it served no purpose.
‘I’m sorry, Ms McLean. We’ve done a full search of the premises and she’s not here. I need to inform you that we’ve notified the police and a warrant will be issued. I can’t apologize enough. I can assure you this is a rare—’
Mirren didn’t wait to hear the rest. She clicked ‘end’, then immediately dialled a number stored in her contacts.
It rang once.
Come on. Come on.
Twice.
Where the hell was he? It rang again.
An explosion of anxiety made her heart thunder and sent her nerve endings to the outside of her skin.
‘Mirren? Hi.’
‘Brad, I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing. Chloe’s gone. You need to find her and you need to bring her home.’
28.
‘Lose Yourself ’ – Eminem
At first he thought it must be morning and he’d slept in. The banging on the door had the same incessant rhythm of Hollie when she was seriously pissed. Through the haze of sleep, Zander did a quick mental checklist. Sober? Tick. In his own apartment? Tick. Naked stripper in bed with him? He groped around with his left arm. Nope. Thank Christ. He was already ahead of the game.
Leaning over, he grabbed a pair of black Calvins off the floor, pulled them on and headed for the door. Even through the fugue he could see something wasn’t making sense. It was still dark and yet Hollie was here and . . .
He had the sense to look through the spyhole; then, situation suddenly clear, he opened the door to his returning visitor, who he caught just in time as she fell off a pair of ten-inch heels. Shit, she was wasted.
‘Za-a-a-a-nder,’ she giggled. ‘I missed you. Did you miss me? Did you?’
This wasn’t good. He’d so hoped she was ready to get sober. But then he knew how this worked. Didn’t he swear he’d stay clean after every bender? And didn’t it all go to shit in a vat of bourbon every time? Right now, all that mattered was that he got her off his doorstep before she woke the neighbours and someone called the cops.
‘Oh, Chloe, come on, love . . .’
He lifted her up and took her over to the bed he’d just left.
OK, a plan was needed. He picked up his phone and noticed the time was 4 a.m., before dialling the clinic. It answered on the second ring. ‘Life Reborn. How can I help you?’ A guy’s voice, but not Lebron.
‘Hey, can I speak to Lebron?’ He slipped into a New York accent, aware that if he used his own, there were few people in the movie-going free world who wouldn’t recognize it.
‘I’m sorry, Lebron isn’t working tonight. Can I help you?’ His answer was to hang up. A new plan. He couldn’t take her back there and just knock on the door. Her escape would be reported to the courts, and besides, she was completely wasted. They’d move her down to County before she’d even sobered up. OK, think.
She was out cold, but by her breathing and her pulse, he knew that sh
e just needed to sleep it off.
Choices. Take her back to rehab and she’d face the penalty. Or take her to Mirren. Or leave her here. The first was a definite no, the second made him want to throw up, and the third was out of the question. He headed over to the kitchen and got a bucket and a bottle of water. This was becoming all too familiar, but he had to help her. Wanted to. Man, he suddenly needed a drink.
‘Zander?’ Her eyes barely opened.
‘Yeah. Hey.’
‘Hey.’ There was a hint of contentment in her voice as her hand found his. The pause that followed was so long he thought that she’d fallen asleep again.
‘Zander, let me stay here.’
‘Honey, you know I can’t . . .’
Her tone flipped. ‘If you take me back, I’ll leave again. No matter where you take me, I’m not staying there. And next time, I won’t come here – I’ll go find my guys.’ And hello, defensive Chloe – abrasive, defiant and absolutely set on getting her own way. This kid was hard work. She was trademark addict. It was all about the manipulation and the self-obsession. Lies and emotional blackmail came as standard. It was his specialist subject.
But the mention of ‘her guys’ made his mind up. The low-life scum of rich kids and drug-dealing wannabes who would give her anything she wanted.
There was no way he was letting her loose with them. The ding of his alarm told him he had fifty minutes before Hollie was here to collect him for his 5.30 a.m. call time. If she saw Chloe, there would be no negotiation – the teen would be back at Life Reborn within the hour.
That couldn’t happen. Chloe would find another way to get out and she’d be in a gutter before they knew she was gone.
Fuck it. He almost felt sorry for her. It was a tough gig when the only person who looked like even being in with a chance of helping her was a guy who had it so together he kept coke in a bobblehead on his dashboard.
‘I’m staying here, Zander Leith. Staying with you.’
Damn it. Decision made. Keep her here. Let her sober up. Talk to her when he got back from work. Put together a strategy to get her sober permanently. He’d support her and help her make it happen.