by Shari King
‘Well, almost,’ he admitted sheepishly.
Sarah gestured to her coffee mug. ‘Your housekeeper made me coffee, but she didn’t look thrilled. Should I have asked her to taste it first?’
His laughter made his head pound again. Son of a bitch.
‘Probably,’ he winced. ‘Sorry, head feels like I’ve had hair gel administered with a baseball bat.’
‘That bad?’
‘Actually, worse.’
The hangover may have taken control of his senses, but he still noticed that her smile was gorgeous. Not a pageant grin. It was friendlier than that. Warm. And it reached her eyes, making them crinkle at the sides. The whole green eyes, deep auburn hair, freckles across the nose combo was unusual here, and so strikingly different from Jenny’s and Vala’s exotic Latin vibe. But this girl was gorgeous in a quirky, naturally pretty way.
It was only when the noise of the coffee mug being placed on the table in front of them broke the silence did he realize a few moments had passed.
‘So,’ she broke the pause in the conversation first, ‘have you worked out how you’re going to make me leave without offending me yet?’
‘Why would I—’
‘Because that’s exactly what you should do,’ she interjected. ‘I could be anyone. I could be a mad stalker who’s been watching your every move for months and now I’m in your house.’
‘Thanks. I’d just managed to put the lid back on my can of paranoid worms. So are you a mad stalker?’
‘Yep.’
He groaned, but she cut him off with ‘But not yours. I’m Ryan Gosling’s stalker. The Notebook gets me every time. I think I should have his babies.’
Cute and funny. Suddenly, the urge to get rid of her wasn’t as strong as the urge to just sit here for the rest of the day talking to her. Looking at her made him want to smile.
‘I know his manager – I’ll pass on the offer if you like?’
‘Oh my God, that would be amazing. And it’ll stop me killing you and writing Ryan’s name in your blood. Another bonus. Sorry, too far?’
He took a sip of juice and then stopped to consider if it was going to stage a return.
Nope, it was staying down. Great. He might make it without adding throwing up to his list of recent public humiliations.
‘Definitely too far,’ he assured her, realizing that made her grin even wider, the familiarity kicking in a flashback from last night. She’d made him laugh. A lot. And God knows right now he could do with a laugh.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but will your kids be back anytime soon? It’s just, well, you know. It’s probably not appropriate for them to see me here.’
What did it say about his fatherhood skills that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind? The fact that she’d mentioned it made him add thoughtful to the list of pretty, cute, funny and Ryan Gosling’s stalker.
‘No, they’re at work. They’re in a show here. Family Three.’
‘And they work Saturdays?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Sometimes. Four days a week, that’s the deal.’
‘Wow. In the old days, it was only the poor who sent their children out to work.’
‘It’s not exactly . . .’ he started to defend himself, then stopped. What did it matter if she was making a judgement? She was probably right. They’d probably completely fucked up the kids. Macaulay Culkin. Britney Spears. Lindsay Lohan. It’s not like being a child star had a great rep for turning out stable and balanced individuals. ‘Whatever,’ he finished with a dismissive wave of his disgusting yet nutritional morning juice.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For sounding like a judgemental knob there. It’s none of my business.’
‘That’s OK. So, erm, what is your business? Other than stalking Ryan.’
The mood changed instantly, as her facial expression flicked from open and warm to something else. Apprehension?
She put her feet on the ground and sat up straight, clasping her hands on her naked thighs.
‘OK, look,’ she started hesitantly, ‘this might freak you out a bit . . .’
‘More than the image of you writing my name in blood?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Smashing,’ he replied.
His sarcasm was momentarily distracted by her thighs. They were gorgeous. White. Muscular. And the hair that had been straight and sleek last night was wavy now, that messed-up, just-out-of-bed way. Why was he thinking this right now? Concentrate. Priorities. Back to words.
‘My name is Sarah McKenzie.’
Even in his befuddled state, it set off bells of recognition that made him want to hold his head until the vibrations stopped.
‘You’re trying to remember where you’ve heard that name before?’
He could only nod.
‘I work for the Daily Scot. A few weeks ago, I called to ask if I could interview you. Your people blew me off.’
There were no words. He simply rocked forward and let his head fall onto the glass tabletop. Then he groaned. Really loudly. Until she resumed speaking.
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m probably the last person you want to be with right now. Except your wife. You told me last night that she thinks you’re a dick . . .’
Another groan.
She continued, ‘But I promise that nothing you told me up until now will be on the record. I promise. It would be unethical, anyway, given that you were utterly wasted.’
He left his head on the table. The coolness was helping douse the flames of the Seventh Circle of Hell.
A reporter. In his house. One that was already after a story. A story about back home. It was like inviting in a serial killer and asking him to sharpen the steak knives. Think, Davie, think. He had to play this right. Had to make sure that he didn’t mess this up, because if she ever got to the truth . . . Oh no, he was definitely going to vomit.
‘I’m sorry. I thought about lying, but you could have Googled me in a split second and found out who I really was, so there was no point. Look, I’m not trying to do a hatchet job, or make your life tough. I just wanted to interview you about your family back home. I, erm, I met your mum. She’s lovely.’
This revelation seemed to give his spinal column the motivation it needed to propel his body upwards again. His expression made it clear this wasn’t great news.
‘You’re the one who visited her on the bus?’
Sarah nodded, her top teeth visible as they chewed her bottom lip. That’s what guilt looked like. His heart started to mirror the thudding in his head as – against his every screaming instinct – he knew he had to probe further, picking off a scab to reveal the poison of his old life.
‘And what is it you want to know?’
Her shoulders shrugged. ‘I’m just doing a lifestyle piece and I’d like to know more about you when you were younger. More about your family and how they felt about you leaving. What your success means to them now.’
‘No plural,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘No “them”. It’s just me and my mum.’
‘Sorry. I knew that already. It was just a slip of the tongue.’
He wanted to believe her. Lifestyle piece. Innocent. Harmless. But he was realistic. There was no way she was going to come all the way over here for a story their PR people and a photographer could rustle up in ten minutes.
Yes, his mum is thrilled; no, he hasn’t lost touch with his roots; and of course they’re still as close as ever.
He wasn’t buying it.
And besides, she was a reporter, not a magazine journo. Reporters looked for stories, dug for dirt. And there was enough of that in his past to fill a quarry.
The original conversation he’d had with his assistant, Jorja, played back in his mind.
‘We’ve had an interview request from a journalist called Sarah McKenzie at the Daily Scot. I know you love to keep your profile up in the UK, so shall I set up a date? She wants the focus to be your life back in Scotl
and, growing up with Zander Leith and Mirren McLean. Oh, and she said something really weird, something about wanting to meet the families the three of you left behind.’
The three of you. Why link them together now, two decades after the event, when they’d had absolutely no connection in all that time?
For the last twenty years of his life he’d wondered what it would feel like if the ghosts came back to haunt him. Now he knew. Sickening. Terrifying. He was almost thankful for the physical distraction of the hangover.
But he’d been around enough to know that he had to act like he had nothing to worry about, because the minute she sniffed fear, she would know for sure she was on to something.
He just had to hope that she was fishing, that this was simply curiosity based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever.
Just as his addled mind attempted to formulate some kind of workable strategy, the French doors opened.
Like a Russian superhero in steel-spiked heels and a pencil skirt that gave her steps a ten-inch span, Ivanka appeared thrusting a phone towards him. ‘It’s Al. Urgent.’
The fear of ‘urgent’ was outweighed by the relief of ‘interruption’.
He got up and casually padded a few metres across the perfect lawn, out of earshot of his houseguest.
‘Hey, man, what’s happening?’
‘Jenny. She’s going on The Brianna Nicole Show on Wednesday night. Anything we should be worried about?’
Where to start? Number one, she was divorcing him. Number two, she was going to take millions. Number three, the last shred of his credibility would be gone because even those who had a suspicion that he wasn’t Satan’s spawn would convict him without a trial because they’d figure that’s why Jenny left him. Number four, The Brianna Nicole Show was the only talk show that actually went out live, and had an average audience of five million a night. This was all sorts of bad. Not that she’d say anything on Brianna. Oh no. The new series of Streets of Power was on the horizon so this was purely a business appearance and she’d gloss over any personal stuff. Besides, the most crucial element of the plan was that she kept the facade of a happy marriage going until at least Thursday, their actual anniversary. Then she’d file on Friday and go with one of two game plans. She’d either keep the divorce proceedings quiet until the current storm had passed, then in a few months they’d announce that they’d decided to split, were best friends, and wanted nothing but happiness for the other, or game plan 2: she’d make it public immediately, go to the press, use it for publicity and explain the suddenness by saying she’d discovered some terrible secret about him that she couldn’t possibly share with the world because he was the father of her children. His money was on the latter. And given his current popularity rating, the global public would right now believe that he was second only to that bloke that ran North Korea in the evil stakes.
Think, Davie, think. One problem at a time. Put the journo to one side for a second and deal with problem number two. Multitask. Play the game. Turn it to your advantage. There had to be something to be saved from this, a way to spin it to help him out. He slipped into sports mode, coaching himself to move forward, go for a win. Get back in the game, Davie. Come on, son, get back in the game.
‘Nope, nothing to worry about. But I’m just thinking, Al. How about we make this one special? Call the producer at Brianna. Tell her to expect another guest. And tell her we want to make it a surprise for Jenny. TV gold. Special moment. All that stuff. And if she even dares to hesitate about me going on, tell her neither Jenny nor I will be back. End of story.’
He hung up, walked back to the terrace and placed the phone down gently on the table, concerned that another loud noise may well tip him over the edge.
Right, back to the other trifling issue – the fact that he had somehow managed to acquire a tabloid journalist as a houseguest, one who could destroy what little life he had left.
There were two ways to play this. He could rage at the fact she omitted to mention her occupation and banish her from the premises, throwing out phrases along the lines of having her run out of town. Or he could use his considerable charm, keep her onside and give her what she wanted to know while keeping her away from anything that could cause him further damage. Or worse.
The former was his first instinct; the latter made more sense.
‘Sorry about that. So, what were you saying?’
Sarah held her hands up in a surrender position. ‘Look, you’ve every right to be pissed off, and I’m sorry. But I would still like to work on a piece with you. You have a big fan base back in Scotland and it would be a brilliant coup for me to get a personal interview with you. You know, “local boy made good” stuff.’
She was lying. They both knew it. And they both knew that he wasn’t going to agree to what she wanted. But for now, he had to get a break to think. And to get some pain-killers for his aching head.
Right on cue, a shooting pain right across his forehead made him visibly shudder.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, sure. Just the after-effects of too many refreshments. The last time I got wasted – I mean proper wasted – I think I was about sixteen.’
The eyes crinkled, the bashful expression made an appearance as he went for the full-scale charm offensive. It seemed to work.
‘Was that back in Glasgow? What happened?’ Wow, he walked right into that one.
‘I’ll tell you all about it, I promise. But can we take a rain check right now? Can we continue this when my bloodstream isn’t eighty per cent Macallan?’
‘Sure.’ An edge of incredulity crept into her voice. She was clearly surprised he’d come down on the side of cooperation. Score one for the hung-over douche.
‘Great,’ he said, using every ounce of physical and mental strength to switch into Davie Personality Johnston mode. Pull it back, son.
‘So where are you staying?’
‘Le Parc Suite, off Melrose.’
‘OK. So how about I come pick you up one day this week, take you for lunch and we’ll talk? We’ll put the interview together, maybe arrange a few pics?’
‘That would be . . . great. Amazing.’
He could tell it wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. Good.
‘Then it’s a deal. But if you don’t mind, I need to go now. Can I trust your promise that everything you’ve heard up until now will stay confidential?’
‘Absolutely.’
Either she was a brilliant liar or she was telling the truth.
‘Thanks, Sarah.’ He stood up, bringing the conversation to a full stop with a tone that said ‘warmth and trust’ instead of the more accurate ‘fear and horror’.
‘I’m gonna hit the shower. Ivanka will show you out.’
‘Will she have me killed on the way?’
‘Not today. She doesn’t do hits at the weekend.’
‘Good to know.’
He checked his watch. ‘And if you go now, you might make Bouchon for lunch. I’ve heard it’s Ryan’s favourite.’
This time her smile was genuine. ‘My day just got even better. Thanks, Davie.’
‘No problem.’
As he held open the door for her to pass him on the way to the waiting cab, there was a definite tug of regret. In a different world, he could like this chick. But hey, nothing was ever that simple. This had to be closed down and he’d have to find a way to make sure that happened. But first, time to play a little chess with his bitch of a wife.
And it was his move.
41.
‘Iron Sky’ – Paolo Nutini
Filming had overrun by hours and Zander desperately wanted it to be done. They’d been on set for twelve hours, and for ten of them he had been suspended in a harness that was cutting off circulation to his ass.
Yep, he was living the dream.
When Axl Chang, the director, finally called ‘Cut,’ he would have cried with relief if it were not for the fact that he was still in character as Dunhill, and the British spy would nev
er succumb to weakness or weeping.
Dunhill did saving the world from evil forces. He did not do cramp in one leg and serious impingement of his genital area.
The crane creaked as he was lowered to the ground and Hollie immediately materialized beside him.
‘How do you do that?’ he asked wearily.
‘Do what?’
‘Just appear like that.’
‘It’s a gift. OK, so I know you’re tired, but you had meetings tonight and I’ve managed to shift all of them except one.’ Hollie flicked through emails and texts on her iPad as she spoke.
Zander held up his hands to let the stunt team unclip him and set him free. Only when his nethers were liberated did he reply.
‘Which one?’
‘Adrianna Guilloti. Their head of marketing has flown in from New York and he’s on the red-eye back out tonight, so I couldn’t move it. You’re meeting him at eight p.m. at Shutters. I switched it from the Chateau so that he’s closer to the airport and you’re closer to home. Give you more time to impress him.’ Hollie rounded off the barb with a playful nudge. ‘Woo, Mr Leith. Woo him. To the tune of a million bucks if you do it right.’
Adrianna Guilloti was a major emerging player in the men’s fashion world. More classic than Tom Ford, edgier than Dolce & Gabbana, they were gaining serious market share in the high-end sector. They’d already put together a proposal with the business managers and now they wanted a meeting with Zander to seal the deal. ‘One on one, no suits’ had been their official request.
Zander ran his fingers through his hair, breaking the bond on the gel that had held it meticulously in place all day, then sat on a prop box while the make-up assistant removed the last trace of foundation and mascara from his face.
‘Hollie, I’ll love you forever if you get me out of it. Seriously.’
‘You’d better love me forever anyway, and no, I can’t. Look, they’re on course for world domination, and despite the fact that they’ve seen pictures of you sprawled in a gutter, they still want to talk about an endorsement deal. It’s a huge one. I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t make you go, so get it together and do your fricking job.’