by Shari King
An hour. As soon as Gemma was out of sight, she turned to the barman. ‘Hey, can I have a Diet Coke, please?’
In an hour she would be face to face with Davie Johnston and she was going to have to be sharp, because there was only going to be one winner.
36.
‘Stay’ – Rihanna (ft. Mikky Ekko)
‘Hey, are you ready?’
Jenny was leaning against the door frame, the halogen lights in his personal closet-cum-chill room bouncing off the sequins on her silver Marchesa one-shoulder sheath. He swung round in the leather chair, struck by the contradictions in this scene.
This room contained three walls of designer clothes, a state-of-the-art computer system, a marble bath that had been imported in one piece from a quarry in Italy. In total, that lot cost more than most people made in a lifetime, the stuff dreams were made of.
In the doorway, one of the most beautiful women in the world, his wife, a gorgeous, funny, warm star who was both smart and successful.
He was about to go to a party, a celebration of ten years of marriage that appeared to the outside world to be a true love match.
When he was a kid growing up in Glasgow, he’d have given anything to have this life. Anything at all. He had more than he could ever wish for – except happiness. He had everything, including, he realized, a large dose of self-pity, but he was utterly miserable. Scared. Anxious. This was different from the old days, even the darkest ones, when it seemed like life had gone to shit, because at least then he had optimism. Or maybe it was hope. Either way, being at rock bottom was a whole lot easier when he had nothing to lose.
Now it could be everything. The career. The family. And if the reporter who had been up harassing his mother didn’t give up, he could lose – what, his liberty?
He got up and grabbed his jacket from the hanger on the front of one of the mirrored panels that allowed him to check out his appearance in 360 degrees. The last few weeks of worry, combined with skipping his normal muscle-building regime, had left him looking even trimmer than usual. It suited him. In fact, he’d never looked better. Yep, irony was the gift that just kept on giving.
Engine running, the limo was waiting for them in their huge circular drive, its gleaming bodywork illuminated by the beauty of the fountain that shot jets of water and rays of white light into the night sky.
Davie had long since stopped noticing it.
They climbed into the car, and Jenny automatically reached for the bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé 2002 – always her drink of choice.
‘Soho House, Mr Johnston?’ the driver checked.
‘Indeed.’
The private members’ club had been the obvious venue for tonight’s celebration. Over on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, it was like a tiny British colony in LA, a crowd of UK talent, writers and industry insiders. The only downside was that a reciprocal arrangement with the media haven Soho House in London made it a bit of a regular haunt with British journos, but they knew that inside the club they had to keep it discreet and off the record.
Glass in hand, he turned to her. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Ten years.’
She returned the gesture. ‘Cheers.’
After they had both taken a long sip. Davie placed his glass on the top shelf of the inbuilt minibar.
‘And I know our actual anniversary isn’t until Thursday, but I wanted to give you this tonight.’ From the hip pocket of his jacket he pulled a small navy leather box, with an instantly recognizable crest on the front. Jenny let out an audible whistle.
‘So far I like,’ she told him. Harry Winston even topped Dom Pérignon on her list of favourite brands.
The box opened like window shutters, both sides folding back to reveal a blue suede interior. Nestled in the middle was a stunning circle of diamonds.
‘It’s an eternity ring.’
‘I see that,’ she purred, as he slid it onto the third finger of her left hand, where it nestled like it had always belonged beside her engagement ring and wedding ring. So it should. He’d had it designed to complement the other two. The inch between Jenny’s knuckles was now some of the most impressive real estate in Beverly Hills.
‘Until a few weeks ago I’d have said it hadn’t been a bad ride,’ he told her, holding her gaze as he leaned his head back against the cream leather upholstery. ‘But I guess the last couple of weeks have blown that theory.’
She didn’t reply. He took that as encouragement to go on.
‘We’ll get through this, though, Jenny. It’s just a bad patch. We’ll get past it.’
Perhaps some of that teenage optimism was still in there after all. Maybe this was the wake-up call they needed. Perhaps they could get their marriage back on track, ditch the lesbian lover, reconnect with the kids. Maybe in the long term he’d look back on this as a pivotal point in his life, when he realized he was on the wrong path and the gods of karma gave him a nudge back in the right direction.
‘Davie, are you on crack?’
Her forehead muscles that still had the power of movement puckered very slightly in the middle, his only clue that she didn’t agree.
‘We haven’t got a chance. Nothing. It’s over for us.’
An involuntary choking cough prevented him from answering for a few moments.
‘So what the fuck are we doing here, then? We’re on our way to celebrate our tenth anniversary, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Yeah, because it’s been arranged for months and I’m not cancelling because I don’t want it to look like I’m a disloyal jerk who is deserting you when the chips are down.’
‘So tonight is – what, pity?’ he raged.
‘If that’s how you want to see it, then, yeah.’ She sat back, almost wearily taking another sip of her champagne. ‘Come on, Davie, we’re not going to ride off into the sunset together and we both know it.’
‘What about the kids? Don’t you owe it to them to give us another shot?’
The palms of her hands curved into a fist as the brow re-furrowed. ‘Don’t you dare play the kids card.’
Davie bristled as her tone lowered to something resembling deadly. ‘Tell me anything about them. Anything. Favourite colour. Best friends. Favourite movie. Anything at all.’
It was a cheap shot but effective.
‘I love them,’ he offered weakly.
‘You love no one, Davie. Not even yourself.’
Wow. Just wow. That one got him right in the solar plexus. Speech eluded him. Thankfully, the outburst seemed to have deflated Jenny’s fury.
‘Look, Davie, I’m not abandoning you,’ she said, conciliatory now. ‘I’m going to stick by you, carry on the way we’ve been until you decide otherwise. I’m here for you now and will be for as long as you need me. We’re still family and nothing is going to change that, OK?’
Maybe he’d done something right after all to evoke such fierce loyalty. Just a shame that right now it was tussling for supremacy with sadness and regret. He should have tried harder to make it work. Made different decisions. Pulled it back. Despite what she said, maybe there was a glimmer of hope. Just a glimmer. An uncharitable thought flashed through his mind and he instantly batted it away. If it got out that he’d returned the ring, the gossip columns would kill him.
An eye-squeezing pain behind his forehead thudded as they drew up at their destination, entering the underground car park of Soho House. It was one of the perks of the establishment. A private entrance, no paps. However, that didn’t stop him automatically playing the part that he’d crafted and maintained for the last decade.
‘Stay where you are, mate. I’ve got this,’ he told the driver, before stepping out of his side of the car and going round to open the door for his wife.
Jenny took his hand, then unfurled her breathtaking body until she stood beside him. They moved into the reception area, then took the elevator to the penthouse, a stunning space, decorated in a classic vintage style, with a 360-degree view of Los Angeles.
As the doors o
pened, Jenny turned her Julia Roberts smile on full beam for the waiting photographer. They’d agreed to let US Weekly get ten minutes of access for $50,000, as long as the images didn’t look staged and the Johnstons were given full photo approval.
Camera and phone use was prohibited in Soho House, so they were confident that these would be the only images to hit the public domain.
Carla, the event planner whom Jenny used for everything from a picnic to a black-tie charity ball, joined them and walked them through to the private dining area. As they entered, suitably late, everyone was already seated, but they put down their glasses of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs, rose to their feet and clapped them through. It had been planned a small affair. Intimate. Thirty of their closest friends and one lesbian lover.
At the top of the table, they kissed, sending the applause volume up a notch. Davie held the gold velvet chair out for Jenny to sit, then headed to the matching chair at the other end of the long, polished mahogany table.
It was almost medieval in its symbolism. The king and queen at either end of the table, and in the middle, the lackeys and jesters. And, he noted, not a single noble knight in attendance. Fuckers. The hairs on the back of his neck began to tremble as he scanned the faces along either side of the table. His agent, Al, of course, with his twenty-five-year-old wife, Mel, a razor-sharp scriptwriter whose satirical comedy about internet dating, Click Me Up, was killing it in the ratings. There was no doubt she’d used Al to break into the business, but to her credit, her talent was keeping her there.
There were Jenny’s co-stars, her director, producer, friends. On his side? No one was there. The stars of his reality shows hadn’t shown. He’d made every one of those assholes and yet they weren’t here. The judging panel from American Stars, all of them on $5 million a season, hadn’t forked out the cost of a limo and a gift he didn’t need and come along to celebrate his fucked-up happiness. He’d worked with them for almost fifteen years. Now he’d been cut from the show, they’d developed amnesia. The seats that should be occupied by names that beamed into the nation’s living rooms every week were taken by suits he only recognized because somewhere along the line he’d added them to his payroll. Three corporate lawyers from CSA. Greer Ness, his personal lawyer, and his wife, Tanya. Jesus Christ, even Al’s secretary was there.
The pain in his head was working its way south to his chest now, squeezing it, making sweat pop from his pores as the act of breathing stopped being an automatic function.
No one was here. No one who mattered.
The waiter, who looked like he’d stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, responded to his signal instantly.
‘A large Macallan and ice.’
‘Coming right up, Mr Johnston.’
Was it his imagination or did even that come over like a sneer?
As soon as the drink arrived, he downed it in one go and asked for another, ignoring the wary, uncomfortable glances of those around him. What did they matter anyway? Booze had never been his thing, but that one was for medicinal purposes. His heart rate slowed a little. The sweating stopped. Tonight was a show and he just had to get to the final curtain. He raised his hand and ordered a repeat prescription. The waiter got the message and kept them coming through the meal. By the time dessert was served, Davie was wondering why he didn’t drink more. All those years of treating his body like a temple didn’t give him the buzz he was getting right at this minute.
The marketing genius that lived in his soul immediately summed it up. Whisky. Makes the world seem like a better place when it’s all gone to crap.
The thought made him laugh, freaking out the guests at his end of the table even more. These jerks were on his payroll and yet they were looking at their watches, wondering when they could get away with leaving.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to say a few words.’ At the popular end of the table, Darcy Jay was on her feet, one hand on Jenny’s arm and a glass of champagne in the other.
‘Really? You think?’ Davie asked, instantly inciting glares of scorn from Al and Jenny, and one of defiance from Darcy.
‘OK, go ahead. Everyone, please give your attention to my wife’s . . .’ He paused and everyone in the room stopped breathing. This was Hollywood. Every single person there probably knew the truth, yet he’d be a pariah if he said it out loud. Long live the act of pretending. ‘. . . best friend.’
Every other pair of shoulders in the room relaxed just a little.
‘Thank you, Davie.’ Darcy smiled sweetly at him, before looking around at the other faces there. ‘Thank you all for coming. I’d just like to thank Jenny and Davie for inviting us all here tonight to share their joy.’
Murmurs of approval and a handclap from one of the more eager-looking guests. It took Davie a moment to place him. He wanted to rest his head on the table when he realized it was Cyril, his business manager. Oh dear God, they’d been so stuck for invitees that his accountant was here. This had better be tax-deductible.
‘I’ve known them both for many years now and I can honestly say that they’re the most special couple I’ve ever met: warm, loving, incredible –’ Darcy was speaking in plural, but looking only at Jenny, ‘– and they deserve a lifetime of happiness and the kind of love that only a true soulmate can bring.’
She was still looking at Jenny. Jesus, she’d be as well sinking to her knees and screwing her right there in front of everyone. As the guests clapped, Davie muttered, ‘Another Macallan, please,’ and got to his feet.
‘Darcy, thank you. Your con-con-contribution to our marriage can never be underestimated.’ The slight slurring added a subtle hint of menace, sending every pair of shoulders back to the standard position for acute apprehension.
‘I’d just like to say thank you all for coming. Welcome to this surprisingly unstarry occasion. But how lovely to see so many people who’ve come here all the way from my payroll.’
Silence.
‘Oops, British humour, American silence. Tough room.’
They still didn’t laugh.
A sudden realization hit him as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. They wanted him to fuck up. He could tell. Not one person in this room gave a toss about him. They were waiting for him to fail, to hand the win to Darcy, to call timeout and give up.
Well, he wasn’t going to. No way.
He looked at Jenny and he knew that he wanted her. Had to keep her. Couldn’t make it easy for her to go. She’d loved him once – he really believed that. If he was losing his dignity, his career and his life, he was gonna fight to keep her. She hadn’t left him. She was here tonight. She had his back. That was all stuff they could build on, right? They weren’t like some celebrity couples, banking on two C-listers making one A-lister. They were both stars, even if his shine was a little tarnished at the moment.
‘And I just wanted to say one thing. Jenny, like everyone else, we’ve had our . . . differences over the course of our lives together. But I love you, baby. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that we’re back here in ten years’ time, celebrating our twentieth anniversary. In Hollywood years, that’s, like, a century. Over the last two decades I’ve produced some of the biggest hits on TV. But my proudest productions are my co-productions with you – our gorgeous children. They mean the world to me. And let me tell you, and everyone here, that nothing – and I mean nothing – is ever going to come between us. Forever, baby. Ten years, eight letters, three words. I love you.’
He raised his glass and the rest of the room followed, all pretending not to think they’d just listened to the biggest pile of reality-show-level crap, all aware that the devoted wife’s beaming grin stopped before reaching her eyes.
This was a power play, and fuelled by Macallan, he was under the delusion that he was up on the scoreboard.
After dinner, Al and Mel were the first to leave, Al shaking his hand and leaning towards him to envelop him in a hug. To an observer, it looked like a gesture of love and friendship. Thankfully no on
e was close enough to hear the parting shot Al whispered in Davie’s ear.
‘Go home, Davie – before you give me another fuck-up to deal with.’
‘No worries, Al. No worries. Everything under control.’
The trickle became a tsunami that cleared the room in what seemed like no more than a few moments, until just he, Jenny and Darcy remained.
‘Good speech, Davie,’ Darcy told him.
‘You mean that?’
‘No.’
He smiled at the predictability of it.
‘I’m gonna get my wife back.’
Jenny’s irritation was all over her beautiful face.
‘You know I’m right here? Listening to you? You’re a mess, Davie. Go home. The kids are at Darcy’s with a sitter. Not that you’d know that. We’re gonna go back and hang there tonight.’
‘Ooooooooh, cosy.’ OK, so granted he was being a little juvenile, but hell, he had to have some fun tonight. After all, he wouldn’t get change out of $30,000.
‘Another Macallan, please,’ he shouted to no one in particular.
Jenny couldn’t hide her disgust as she strutted past him.
‘You’re a fuck-up, Davie. And you’re lucky I’m sticking around. Go home. I’ll send the car back for you.’
‘Yep, I’m a lucky guy,’ he agreed, to the sound of the door closing.
Hauling himself to his feet, he pushed away the empty Macallan glass, grabbed three partially full glasses of champagne, emptied them into one glass and wandered through to the bar area.
It was pretty quiet. Just a few bodies at a couple of tables. No one stayed out late in Hollywood unless they were hustling, on the clock or falling off the wagon. Anyone who was working had an early call time in the morning, and the rest were in AA, NA or GA and knew that the later they were out, the more chance they had of surrendering to whatever vice claimed them.
He climbed onto a stool and ordered a drink, just as a thud on his back sent him reeling forward, almost giving him a spontaneous nose job without the comfort of anaesthetic.