Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  ‘I’m going to come, Mir. Fuck, I’m going to come.’ The voice was unrecognizable, somewhere off in the distance, drowned out by the one that was filling her head, bringing her closer and closer to . . .

  ‘Fuck! Oh yes, oh hell, yes . . .’ In the distance again, drowned out by . . .

  The scream took her by surprise, so thick and guttural that it was almost a howl of pain, of delicious, burning, blissful agony that came, and came, and came, so that even the feeling of hot liquid soaking her body couldn’t detract from the intensity of the orgasm.

  When she eventually opened her eyes, Jack was slouched against the wall, head back, his limp dick dangling over the open waistband of his jeans.

  For a moment Mirren didn’t want to move, determined to savour every moment of . . . No, it was gone. He was gone. The voice in her head, the feelings that he gave her, the things he was saying, all gone and she could weep with longing to have them back.

  The noise of Jack’s zip was enough to set the first ambush of shame in motion. For the first time in her life, she’d made love to her husband while thinking about someone else. And not just anyone. Him. Oh my God, where had that come from?

  She couldn’t make eye contact with Jack, not that it mattered. He leaned over, kissed her softly. ‘I love you, babe. And I’ll never screw up again, I promise. I swear.’

  No reply was forthcoming.

  ‘I’m just gonna grab a quick shower, then head to bed. You coming up? I want to hold you, babe. All night.’

  Mirren nodded. ‘In a minute. Let me just get cleaned up.’

  He kissed her again and then waited until she had climbed off the kitchen island and grabbed a towel from the pile in the linen cupboard, before opening the door and heading upstairs.

  Wrapping the towel around her, Mirren went in the opposite direction, out the back door, down the path that dissected the garden, and then stopped at the cabana that stood at the edge of her property. Inside, she dropped the towel and pulled on a swimsuit, before following the path to the sands and then crossing the short distance to the ocean. It was freezing against her feet, knees, hips as she entered, and only when she was submerged up to her neck did her body’s thermostat kick in and adjust to the waters, making her shivers stop and the goosebumps disappear. Mirren lay back and floated, letting the salt water soothe her aching head, her tense shoulders, and clean the remains of her husband from her body.

  If only she could float on. Just drift. Keep going until she reached somewhere that didn’t come with uncertainty and pain and worry.

  Somewhere he was.

  The thought made her spring to her feet, only her toes reaching the seabed. Her thighs fought against the receding tide as she waded to shore. In the cabana, she showered the salt off her body, then grabbed two fresh towels, wrapping one in a turban round her head and fashioning a makeshift toga with the other. Back in the house, she locked the back door, then headed upstairs, turning left at the half-landing where the stairs split in two different directions. The right-hand staircase led to their 2,000-square-foot master suite. The left one travelled somewhere far more important. At the open door leading to Chloe’s room, she paused and watched as the night nurse smoothed out Chloe’s blanket once more.

  Mirren liked this woman, a steely German who made no concession to the fact that Mirren paid the bills.

  ‘Please do not be waking her up. Only just got her back to sleep.’

  ‘She was awake?’ The guilt hit her like a sucker punch, right in the gut, winding her. Her baby had wakened and she’d been downstairs, screwing on the kitchen island. What the hell kind of mother was she?

  ‘Indeed. She opened her eyes for a few moments. She was mumbling. Difficult to make out exactly what she was saying. She was asking for someone.’

  ‘Me? Was she asking for me?’

  ‘No, I think not. It didn’t sound like “Mom”. Sounded like something else. Something I have never heard before. Like Ander. Sander. Yes, Sander. That was it.’

  Mirren’s heart stopped. Just stopped. Suddenly she was back in the past once again.

  Her mind flipped back to the call from Davie. At the time, it had been unsettling, but in the midst of her life disintegrating, she’d filed it away and chosen to ignore it.

  But this?

  There was no ignoring this.

  Her daughter was asking for someone, and with an inevitability that made her bristle with utter horror, she knew it was Zander Leith.

  Zander Leith.

  Why the hell was Chloe asking for Zander Leith? She had to know. Had to get to the truth.

  Since the second they were born, Mirren had known that there were no lengths she would not go to in order to protect her children from the past.

  With a gut-wrenching blend of fear and panic, Mirren knew that theory was about to be tested.

  38.

  ‘When We Are Together’ – Texas

  So much for the impenetrability of the A-list star. Sarah knew she’d been wildly optimistic in hoping that she’d actually manage to speak to Davie Johnston, but there he was, sitting at the bar, utterly pissed, feeling mighty sorry for himself, desperate to unload on a complete stranger.

  The biggest surprise was that she almost felt sorry for him. The revelation made her rethink her plan to go straight for the jugular, catch him off guard – in, out, leave the battlefield, don’t stop for casualties. Move on to Zander Leith. No, it would clearly be better to go soft on this one, at least initially.

  ‘My turn to buy you a drink,’ she said. ‘You sound like you need it.’

  ‘Man, your voice is fucking fabulous. I think I’m homesick. Which is really weird because I haven’t been homesick in twenty years.’

  Sarah waited until the barman had refilled both glasses.

  ‘Honestly? All that time and you’ve never wanted to go back?’

  Davie laughed. ‘Honestly? I never wanted to come here in the first place. I applied for a house in Cumbernauld, but it was full, so I came here,’ he joked.

  Sarah’s cackle came from deep inside. Cute. Surprisingly cute.

  Davie shook his head, smiling. ‘Turned out to be a good move. I like the sun. Like the business. Too much good stuff here.’

  It seemed churlish to point out that the man who was professing to have a great life looked like one of the saddest people she’d ever met. How bizarre to think that only a few days ago, she’d been chatting to his mother. A small part of her wanted to tell him, to give him something comforting and familiar to cheer him up. A really small part. Every other instinct was telling her that the fact he was off balance was her best chance to milk him for information. Crisis, conflict and chaos were the three best friends of the journalist.

  ‘So you know who I am, right?’ he asked her.

  How to play it? Dumb and hopeful, or switched on and unimpressed? There was no contest.

  ‘Sure. American Stars is shown on some obscure channel in the UK. Seems like quite a big deal over here.’

  That would do for now. Stroke his ego a little, but no need to mention that she was fully aware of his status as a US powerhouse.

  Or should that be ‘former US powerhouse, now generally referred to as “douche” ’?

  When he’d asked her earlier what she was doing in town, he’d taken her brush-off too easily, so he obviously didn’t much care about anyone else. It was his world; everyone else just lived in it.

  ‘Not so much of a big deal anymore,’ he said, shaking his head woefully.

  Oh dear Lord, the drama. This guy was acting with all the pathos of a leading man in a daytime soap.

  ‘Having a bad week?’

  ‘Bad month. You haven’t heard?’

  It was tempting to come clean, but what would be the point? The shutters would come down and there would be nothing to be gained. Instead, she shook her head.

  Davie raised his glass to her. ‘Well, congratulations. You must be the only person in the free world who hasn’t heard that my life came b
ack and bit me on the ass.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  He drained his drink, then gestured to the barman for a refill.

  ‘American Stars ditched me. The world thinks I’m an asshole. My wife thinks I’m a dick. That just about sums it up.’

  Sarah thought for a moment. ‘And your friends?’

  He swayed towards her. ‘Dunno. You’re my new best friend. What do you think?’

  Oh bugger, he was flirting. Seriously giving her come-on signs and flashing green lights.

  This wasn’t in the plan. Or perhaps it was, given that the only plan she had was to wing it and hope that something great came up.

  She realized that he was waiting for an answer to his question.

  ‘I don’t know. So far I think you’re a pretty nice guy. You’re the first person I’ve met here, so I don’t have much to base it on,’ she replied, careful to stay on the friendly side of flirtation, confident she could handle this. How many times had she had to manage drunk guys for the sake of a story back home? Too many to count.

  ‘Do you wanna get out of here? Go somewhere else?’

  Here we go, Sarah realized.

  ‘Depends.’

  Davie’s eyebrows raised with surprise. Obviously not used to any form of resistance, then. Not surprising. He was great- looking, rich and famous. And even in his pissed state, there was definitely something endearing about him.

  ‘On what?’ he asked, his amusement clear.

  ‘Well, here’s the thing. I have a boyfriend back home. He’s really big and he could kill you with his thumbs.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Indeed. So if you’re looking for anything . . . intimate . . . then I’m not that person. But if you want to hang out, grab something to eat, then I’m up for that.’

  Behind the bar, the barman had been polishing the same glass for ten minutes, utterly engrossed in the conversation. Even the bits that were in such a strong accent he couldn’t quite understand them. He made a mental note to watch Braveheart again.

  Davie contemplated his answer for so long she thought she’d blown it. Shit. Too cold? Too frosty? Making sure he wasn’t viewing this as a hook-up was crucial, but at the same time she wanted the meeting to continue. Needed it to. Already in her head she began to work out a plan B. If he blew her off now, she could phone his assistant in the morning, go the official route, even mention that she’d spoken to Davie the night before. Plan C, track his next event. Show up. Hope for a second shot at this.

  ‘With his thumbs?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about if I just take you for more beers and maybe a burger?’

  ‘Then he might be mildly miffed, but he’ll probably let you live.’

  ‘OK. Might have some fries as well. May as well make it worth it.’

  The barman was still staring. Still polishing the same glass. Still enjoying the conversation. Sarah, to her surprise, was too.

  Davie slid off his seat, more by design than accident, but only just.

  When he stood up, Sarah realized that he was actually slightly smaller than he looked on TV. Maybe five feet ten – about the same height as she was in her four-inch heels.

  ‘Can you see if my car is down at the door, buddy? Let them know I’m on the way down.’

  Sarah didn’t miss the irony. Last week, she met this guy’s mother in what was, in effect, a soup kitchen. This week, it was limos in LA. In terms of wealth divide, she’d just crossed the Grand Canyon of material goods.

  Davie spoke to the driver as they climbed into the car. Actually, reclined into the car would be a better description. The interior was white leather; an unopened bottle of champagne was cooling in the ice bucket, two glasses sitting between the bucket and a selection of individually wrapped chocolates. It was a far cry from the Glasgow Underground, her normal mode of transport.

  ‘So, tell me what I’m missing.’

  ‘Missing about what?’

  ‘Glasgow.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Dunno. Just talk. Just want to listen.’

  His reaction took Sarah completely by surprise. He’d done nothing but talk about himself all night, his conversation veering between self-love and self-pity, telling her how great he was and then telling her how other people in the business thought he was great too. Or used to.

  ‘OK, well, there’s the Royal Concert Hall, which is really beautiful. Especially at Christmas, when the ballet comes. It’s good to make a night of it, to go see the lights at George Square and walk round to the Concert Hall. And—’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t sleep with me?’

  His words were a little slurred as he spoke, while spilling champagne as he attempted to refill his glass.

  ‘Positive. Look, it’s fine if you want to drop me off. I understand completely.’

  ‘No, ’s’OK. But I may ask you again. Lots of times. Is that OK?’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Sure. Just as long as you don’t expect a different answer.’

  ‘Fair nuff. Just wondering, though – is there, like, a scale?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A scale. With your boyfriend, the one who’s going to kill me with his thumbs. So, like, if we just kiss, will that be, say, a mild concussion? A blow job – broken wrist? If there’s a scale, it might be worth weighing up my options. I’ve a high tolerance to pain.’

  ‘No, I think it’s a strict “touching equals death” policy.’ Sarah struggled to suppress her laughter and remain deadpan.

  This guy, even in his state, was really funny and surprisingly hard to dislike.

  ‘Ah well, then. He sounds a bit uncompromising. I definitely think you should dump him.’

  ‘I’ll take that on board. Thanks for the advice. I’ll give it serious thought.’

  ‘OK. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need you to get down.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Under the eyeline of the window. And then I’m going to put a blanket over you. We’re just about to pull up at my house and I’m guessing a whole big scumbag pool of paps will be there.’

  Whoa, his house? This wasn’t in plans A, B or C. Sarah looked out of the window and realized they’d left the city behind. This street was treelined, winding, with an occasional set of huge gates punctuating high walls and lengths of dense bushes.

  ‘I thought you said we were going to grab something to eat?’

  ‘Sandra—’

  ‘Sarah.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarah. Look, I promise it’s not shady. It’s just that things are a bit complicated and I can’t get papped on the night of my wedding anniversary having an In-N-Out burger with another woman. My cook does a great burger. I promise. Now please duck.’

  ‘But the windows are tinted.’

  ‘Sometimes the flashes still catch shapes. Don’t wanna take any chances.’

  ‘Shit,’ Sarah spluttered, as she slid down onto the floor, only to be immediately plunged into darkness by a black fur throw she’d noticed on the rear-window shelf earlier.

  It blocked out the flashes, but it did nothing to stop the noise.

  ‘Davie, is your career over? Put the window down. Talk to us, man!’

  ‘Jenny, are you in there? Are you still sleeping with him, Jenny?’

  ‘Put the windows down! Two minutes! Just two minutes! A few words.’

  The car had stopped now. Sarah presumed they were waiting for the gates to open. The noise was like a wall of sound, unrelenting, heckling. And still she could pick out phrases, shouts, aggression peppering almost every demand.

  ‘C’mon, Davie, you’re fucked. We all know it. Wanna apologize to your fans?’

  ‘Do you know your wife is fucking someone else?’

  ‘Are you suing his ass, Jenny?’

  ‘Say something, Jen. C’mon, just a quick vid. Cut him loose, man. He’s washed up.’

  As the temperature rose under the heat of the blanket, Sarah realized that her fists were clenched
and her heart was beating out of her chest. This lot made her look like Mother Teresa in the ruthless stakes. She could handle aggression, could handle abuse – God knows she’d had enough of it in her years at the Daily Scot – but to have this every time you left and returned to your house? That had to wear you down. The car moved off again, the sound of the mob receded, and suddenly she could breathe again.

  ‘You OK?’ Davie asked, as he flicked the blanket off and she slid back up onto the seat.

  ‘Yeah, fine. That lot were a bit hostile. Not fans, I take it.’

  Davie shrugged. ‘They’re just looking for a pay cheque. The more they piss me off, the better their chances of getting a reaction. One snap of me losing the plot can earn them thousands. Sometimes hundreds of thousands.’

  Sarah knew this already, but chose not to share that information right now. Getting kicked out of a limo, forced to walk back down the driveway and then scale a twenty-foot gate in front of dozens of vultures with cameras didn’t appeal. Tonight was becoming a bit like an out-of-control train and she was fairly desperate not to derail it in a way that would lead to global public humiliation.

  When the car finally came to a halt between a stunning fountain and the front door, she hesitated before climbing out.

  ‘Can they see us? Long lenses?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s completely screened by those trees.’

  Reassured, she climbed out when the driver opened the door, and followed Davie through another door, this time the one at the entrance to the house, helpfully held open by a stunning blonde female in a black sparkly minidress and eight-inch heels.

  ‘This is Ivanka. My housekeeper. Great burgers.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Ivanka replied in a thick accent with a tone that suggested she was anything but.

  Wow, the hallway was breathtaking, like something out of a 1940s movie set. A cream marble floor, with cream walls that glistened all the way up to the double-height vaulted ceiling. A sweeping split staircase in dark wood. Huge portraits of Davie and Jenny Johnston and the children lining the curved walls.

  The sight made her freeze, ask the obvious.

  ‘Davie, won’t your wife be pissed off that you’ve brought some strange female home?’