by Shari King
‘Are you strange?’ he replied. In a bizarre flash of recognition, Sarah had a mental image of an old movie. Yes, she was Liza Minnelli. He was Dudley Moore. This was Arthur.
‘That wasn’t actually my point.’
He walked ahead, compelling her to follow. ‘My wife won’t give a flying fuck. Right. Ivanka, burgers for two, please. Heavy on the mayo. And tomorrow, deny all knowledge of feeding me carbohydrates.’
‘Yes, Mr Johnston.’
He was still walking; she was still following, through into a den area that had two huge semicircular leather sofas and a gigantic TV screen on the wall.
A bottle of scotch was liberated from the bar in the corner and Davie poured them both an inch of honey-coloured liquid, then knocked his back in one go.
This guy was seriously messed up.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Do you bring a lot of women back here? I mean, I’m not trying to freak you out, but I wouldn’t think it was the safest thing to do.’
‘Nope.’
‘No, it isn’t, or no, you don’t?’ Jesus, Arthur was back.
‘Both. You’re the first chick I’ve ever brought back here and that’s because you’re right – it’s not safe.’
‘So why did you bring me here?’
For a moment Sarah thought he hadn’t heard because he just stared straight ahead. No movement. Frozen.
‘Because you made me laugh. Because I didn’t want to come home alone. Because my life’s already shit and can’t really get any worse. Unless your boyfriend with the thumbs turns up.’
The attempt to inject a bit of levity didn’t disguise the painful truth of his other reasons. Sympathy flared again. This guy had everything. Everything. Yet in just a few hours Sarah had realized that he was one of the unhappiest people she’d ever met.
Ivanka teetered through on her heels, carrying a tray with two laden plates. Burgers. Salads. Sauces. The smell made Sarah’s stomach flip straight to starving.
By the colour of Davie’s face, it had a very different effect on him.
‘Back in a minute,’ he said, wobbling to his feet and heading back out in the direction they’d come in.
Sarah waited a few minutes for him to return. Nothing. She took a bite of her burger. It seemed rude to start without him, but she was starving. Another bite. Then another. Soon it was gone and she was still sitting there, unsure as to what to do.
OK, options. She could go look for him, but what if she set off alarms? Or went into his kids’ rooms? Or fell over his wife? It seemed unwise to give the temperamental housekeeper a chance to stab her and claim she thought it was a house invasion.
On the other hand, she was a reporter. Snooping was what she did. Getting to the truth. Finding out facts. But . . . this was so, so out of her league. What the hell was she doing here? Not that she was an expert on A-list celebrity lives, but she had a fair guess that he was going to freak out when he discovered who she was. Shit.
OK, she could explain. There had been no lies. Just a few omissions of the truth. Couldn’t blame her, really. And he was so wasted that even if she told him the truth, he probably wouldn’t absorb it. Lying wasn’t an option, though. He could Google her name and in twenty seconds he’d have links to every feature she’d ever written.
Weariness and that last whisky crept up on her, so she lay back, kicked off her boots and curled up, pulling a throw off the back of the sofa.
It was no use. She had to tell him. He’d probably freak out, but she could handle a bit of flak.
How bad could it be?
39.
‘The Honeythief ’ – Hipsway
Glasgow, 1988
If anyone ever decided to make a soundtrack of her life, they could just forget all the melodic stuff and set the story to the thudding of a headboard against a wall.
Mirren sat at the kitchen table, trying to concentrate on the preparation for her English Higher. Did George Orwell write his classics to the sound of his mother shagging her boyfriend upstairs? Did Anaïs Nin come up with her best work while listening to her mother begging him to go harder, faster?
God, she’d do anything to get out of here. Anything. The minute her exams were finished, she was packing up and looking for a job and a flat-share. Didn’t matter where – as long as it was out of earshot of her mother’s whimpers. Not that Marilyn would notice, and if she did, she’d probably be glad. She’d no doubt pull on her favourite pink baby-doll and move the shagging from the bedroom to the couch. Urgh, the thought made her shudder.
The words she needed to get down for her essay got blocked by irritation, so she pushed it to one side and pulled the black A4 notebook out of her schoolbag. Where Mirren went, it followed, and it documented everything. Her day at school. The disaster of the perm that had made her look like she’d had a fight with a Flymo. Her thoughts on everything from music to books to the rank shiteness of The Hit Man and Her. Although, after a few cans of Diamond White, it wasn’t that bad.
And of course she wrote about personal stuff too. About what it felt like when he touched her. How she hated to say goodbye. How Zander and Davie were the ones who made her laugh whether her mother was ignoring her or swinging from a chandelier.
Urgh, another horrible mental image. She picked up the pen and wrote the title.
The Headboard.
‘Whit’s that yer writing there, then?’
The mug of tea next to her left hand almost went flying when she jumped.
Her mother’s sex god wandered into the kitchen wearing just a towel round his waist. Mirren resisted the urge to vomit.
‘Homework.’ Deadpan. No eye contact. It was bad enough that she’d had to listen to him for years, didn’t mean she had to like him.
In fact, ambivalence was slowly turning into a deep dislike. Ambivalence. There was a word to factor into her next essay.
Arse. There was another one. Noun. A man who thinks he’s in any way attractive when he’s actually a repulsive prick. Once upon a time, she thought he was OK, but not now. The one-liners she used to think were hilarious now seemed corny. The chat that was once inclusive and entertaining now bordered on creepy.
It was becoming difficult to conceal her hostility, especially because it upset her mother. That was always a bonus.
‘Ooh, check you, Miss Prim and Proper. Gonna be too good for us soon. Leave all us plebs behind, will ye?’
Mirren ignored him, just kept her head down. Kept on writing. He’d wander off again. He always did. All mouth and no trousers. Prick.
‘Think ye could teach me a thing or two, then?’
He was behind her now, carrying two cans of Tennent’s he’d just taken out of the fridge.
‘Oh, I bet you could.’
Still talking. Why was he still talking? And why did he sound so . . . weird? He was almost whispering now. She stared straight ahead. Frozen. Not taking the bait.
‘And I bet I could teach you a thing or two as well.’
The stink of beer and fags filled her nostrils as she realized he was leaning down behind her, his head almost resting on her shoulder.
‘Yer ma said yer shagging now. Found a condom in yer bag. Shame that. Who is it? Some spotty wee nyaff that spurts his stuff before he’s even got yer bra aff?’
Mirren’s teeth clenched together. Shit, her mum knew. She should have been more careful. Although, it obviously didn’t bother her because she’d never mentioned it. Not a word.
Nothing new there. It would be more surprising if she cared.
And why was he still here? Talking shite? He must have had too many beers and now he was doing that thing where he thought he was the dog’s bollocks. Arse.
Still she said nothing. It was the best way. He’d realize she wasn’t biting and he’d get bored and go back upstairs to the baby-doll queen.
‘That’s not what you need, girl. You need a real man.’
His breath was even stronger now that he was
only inches from her ear. He was leaning against her shoulder, his towel touching her and making her stomach turn.
‘This is what you need, doll. This right here.’
There was a moistness on her neck, a movement, a . . . Oh my God, he was licking her neck. And his . . . Oh fuck.
It took a moment for her brain to catch up, and when it did, her chair flew back as she leaped to her feet. The towel was on the floor and he was standing there, his erect dick protruding in front of him.
Her horrified reaction didn’t make an iota of difference. If anything, his smile became wider, his leer more pronounced.
‘Aw, don’t be like that. It’d be the best you ever had. C’mon here and let me show you what—’
Instinctively, with no real idea what she was doing, Mirren fumbled for something on the table that she could use to stop this. When she found it, her only instinct was to throw, sending hot tea splattering over him, the walls, the floor . . .
‘Ya wee bitch!’
She was terrified, raging, frozen – utterly unable to scream or shout. And what would happen if she did? Her mother would come running down the stairs and she would take one look at the scene in front of her and somehow it would be Mirren’s fault. The realization made her voice kick in.
‘Get away from me,’ she hissed. ‘Or the next time I’ll make sure the tea is boiling.’
His face went even redder as he reached over, picked up his towel from the table, and wrapped it back round his waist.
His face was right up against hers now, nose to nose.
‘Aye, you do that. And I’ll kill you and I’ll kill her. And don’t ever doubt it.’
‘What the hell is going on here?’
Her mother’s voice was shrill behind her. Mirren couldn’t look. Didn’t have to. She knew Mum would be wearing her short black silk kimono that she’d bought with the coupons out of her fag packets. Her hair would be tousled and her lipstick long gone. And the smell of sex would still be on her body.
His words were light and jovial. ‘Nothing at all, love. Your Mirren just being a bit clumsy, dropped her tea. I was just telling her to be more careful.’
‘Well, you needn’t think I’m cleaning that up,’ Marilyn said. ‘Don’t know what’s going on with you these days. Too much time with your head in those books.’
How stupid could her mother be? How could she not notice the ice in the atmosphere? Not even question why her daughter was shaking as she faced off against a half-naked man twice her age? Just Mirren’s fault for being so clumsy.
But then, Mirren expected nothing more. If that was the ending of a book, she’d have predicted it perfectly.
The glare of warning was still in his eyes as he walked past her. His expression said supremacy. Triumph. Right now, she had never hated anyone more.
‘There’s a mop in the boiler cupboard,’ Marilyn told her, before giving a playful yelp as he reached round her and grabbed her arse, pulling her towards him and kissing her hard on the mouth. Marilyn’s arms went round his neck, the belt of her kimono loosening and letting the silk part to reveal half of her large, white pendulous breasts and the red lace of her knickers. Mirren forced her eyes away, but too late to miss seeing her grab his hand and, still giggling, lead him back upstairs.
‘Come on, then. Think we’ve got some, erm, talking to do,’ Marilyn teased him.
He didn’t give Mirren a backwards glance as he followed her mother, his dick leading all the way.
Mirren scanned the scene in front of her, the puddle on the floor, the soaked textbooks, the removal of the last tiny shreds of respect she’d had for her mother.
The sooner she got out of here, the better. It had to happen.
The second her exams were over, she was out.
In the meantime, she made a promise to herself that this would never be allowed to happen again.
And if it did, she’d be ready with a lot more than a mug of lukewarm tea.
40.
‘A Girl Like You’
– Edwyn Collins
It was the train going past that woke him. The noise, holy shit, the noise. Thud. Thud. Thud. His eyeballs were rattling with every beat, the pain like a pressure cooker, squeezing his head tighter, tighter, until he decided death would have been a mercy.
The train crashed straight into Davie’s forehead as he pushed himself up, desperate for water to lubricate the sand that seemed to have been blasted against the inside walls of his mouth and throat.
The pain. Holy shit, the pain.
Crushing. Crucifying. If he was a horse, they’d have no option but to shoot him.
How the fuck did alcoholics do it?
Fumbling, he eventually located the knob on his bedside table and twisted it just slightly, altering the transparency on his windows from blackout to light enough to see, not so light his eyeballs would explode.
The room was too hot. Or maybe too cold. His receptors were too busy screaming with pain to relay specific information.
Random strands of thought were bursting into his consciousness. Information. Last night. Jenny. Lawyer. His grey matter fought to join the dots. Divorce. The bitch was divorcing him. He was in her cross hairs, she had lined up the lawyers, and they’d fire her bullets just as soon as they’d passed the ten-year threshold. Unbelievable. Detaching from the trashed brand, saving her own skin. Congratulations, kiddies, today is brought to you by the letter ‘f ’ – for ‘fucking marvellous’. He had to think. Had to deal with it. Needed to consider what to do, not just pull off a knee-jerk reaction. And yes, going over to her girlfriend’s house and throwing a brick through her Venetian windows fell into that category, much as – should he ever recover his motor skills – it would be tempting.
Carefully, so as not to cause his body to slide into shock, he got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He stood to pee, his body angle forwards, so his head rested against the cool of one of the $1,000 tiles that lined the wall behind the granite urinal.
Granite. Cost $50,000. To pee. This was all sorts of messed up.
Bladder drained, he let his trousers fall to the floor, kicked his Schiesser briefs down to join them, then peeled off his socks and shirt and added them to the pile of last night’s detritus. A shower was an ask too far, so he took the thick black cashmere robe from the back of the door and pulled it on, then slowly, carefully, gritting his teeth with every step, he headed downstairs.
In the kitchen, Ivanka had her back to him, throwing a concoction of carrots, wheatgrass, lemon and papaya into the blender for his morning juice.
Too late, he realized that his brain hadn’t thought through the next stage in the process. The screaming blades of the machine made tears prick his eyes. This was what hell felt like.
‘Mr Johnston, good morning,’ she said, her brusque, heavy accent and over-Botoxed face making her seem disapproving of his very presence.
Apparently, great food and loyalty were included in the pay grade, smiles and warmth extra.
‘Juice? And spinach omelette?’
‘Juice. Just juice. Thanks.’
‘Very well.’
Still disapproving. Jeez, cut a dying guy a break.
‘And your friend is out having coffee on the terrace.’
It took a moment, a long moment, before it registered. Even longer before it made any sense. The pixelated memory eventually formed a shape he vaguely recognized. A girl. Scottish. Cute. Long copper-coloured hair. At the bar.
Oh mother of God, what had he done? And why was she still in his house?
This wasn’t the kind of shit he normally pulled. He was way too careful for this. No drugs. No booze. No fucking strangers. And definitely, absolutely no one in his house whom he didn’t completely trust. That’s why he’d been able to stay afloat and prosper in this business for so long. And for what? For it all to go to rat shit anyway.
The anxiety and irritation morphed nicely into paranoia.
Hell, she could be anyone. And what had she done whi
le he was asleep? Had a tour of the house? Rifled through his office? Planted a microphone or, worse, a fricking camera somewhere?
‘Ivanka, can you call security and have them arrange a bug sweep of the house today?’
Only the Juvéderm in her lips stopped them from pursing in a defiant gesture of ‘I told you so’. If she wasn’t such a great cook, he’d definitely fire her ass.
Grabbing the brown juice from the breakfast bar, he slung on a pair of Sama sunglasses that were lying on the counter next to the door to the terrace.
OK. Here’s the plan. Go out, be nice, be apologetic, get rid of her without making her hate you so much she’ll sell a story to the paps or put it all over Facebook.
He locked on to her before she noticed him coming. Sitting in the huge, all-weather wicker-style chair, her knees were pulled up to her chest, her eyes closed, head back, letting the sun radiate on her face. Even in his chronically debilitated state, he could see the contradictions. Number one, she was in LA but she was sunbathing. Not the most popular pastime here, for fear of skin cancer or – and sadly this was the ultimate fear – wrinkles. Number two, in the last thirty seconds his mind had built her up to be a crazy, a hooker or a slut, yet she wasn’t naked. What did it say that in his all-new, decimated life, that was considered a bonus?
‘Hi. I’m Davie.’ Open with disarming humour, then gently work up to ‘Please leave before I call a SWAT team.’
The coffee mug she held, balanced on top of her knees, splashed as she instinctively jumped. OK, so stalker/stranger now had second-degree burns. Smooth start to the evacuation. He saw then that she was wearing the same green shirt as the night before, but her trousers appeared to be missing, revealing her white cotton boy shorts. Cute.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. My fault. I was dreaming – didn’t hear you coming. And hi, I’m Sarah.’
‘I remembered that bit.’
‘Did you?’ she asked, smiling, one eyebrow raised. Wow, fully functioning eyebrows. Another anomaly.