by Shari King
One tool in particular definitely topped the nice scale.
On Monday morning, when she’d gone online, there had been loads of cars at the hire company that were perfectly adequate and in budget. A basic Ford Focus had seemed like the best bet. Economical. Functional. Absolutely fine. But like a legion of Brits who had gone before her, the minute she got to the pickup point and spotted the bright red convertible Mustang, she’d been unable to resist driving it away.
Sod the cost. Even if it was just for ten minutes, she was going to drive down Santa Monica Boulevard with Sheryl Crow blaring on the radio. The stellar altitude here had definitely done something to her sense of extravagance. Or perhaps it was spending the night in a house that wouldn’t leave change from $40 million. She’d checked the value on Google.
Anyway, the car might cost as much as a brick in Davie Johnston’s mammoth estate, but she’d still felt a little light- hearted recklessness when she drove it out of the car-hire lot.
It was a treat. And not something she did very often. Spending wasn’t one of the things that gave her a particular thrill. She was more functional and pragmatic. Her salary at the Daily Scot left her comfortable enough to pay half of all their bills. Simon had argued at first, pointing out that his name was on the mortgage because he’d bought the flat years before, so she’d told him to look at it as rent. They’d get around to changing the title deeds if they ever made things more permanent, but in the meantime, it was only right that she contributed to the roof over her head.
As for the other expenses, clothes had never particularly interested her. As long as she had smart outfits for work and a few decent looks for going out, she was happy. Shoes were functional and she’d never seen the point of the designer bag or statement jewellery. Low maintenance, Simon called her. She was never quite sure if that was a compliment or an insult, but he’d definitely have revised his view if he could have seen her cruising behind the wheel of her flash sports car.
Somehow what – in her opinion – qualified someone as being a pretentious arse in Glasgow seemed perfectly normal here. Wearing sunglasses indoors. Carrying small dogs around like accessories. Or worse, as she’d seen several times a day, tall, leggy, gorgeous women wandering around on the arms of little old men. Either they were a financial catch or there was a trend for taking Grandad out for the day.
After picking up the car, she’d headed straight for the Grove, the shopping centre just off West 3rd Street on the outskirts of West Hollywood. There had been dozens of paparazzi shots of Davie hanging out here and she wanted to suss it out. Perfectly manicured lawns, a fountain with water jets that danced in perfect time to music. She watched as it switched from the swing of Dean Martin to Kool & the Gang’s ‘Celebration’. There were even Picassos on the wall at the valet parking reception area. This was like a cross between a gallery and a theme park for adults who liked to splash their cash.
Abercrombie & Fitch, J. Crew, Nordstrom, Barneys New York, Kiehl’s – suddenly, she was tempted to stay and kill the credit cards, then stop at the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. At least she’d get a travel feature out of it.
But no.
That wasn’t why she was here. Focus. Back to business. One more stop, at AT&T on 3rd Street, Santa Monica to pick up a US pay-as-you-go phone.
Calls, texts, photos. That was all she’d need. Before she even left the car park, she’d texted Davie with her new number, not entirely sure that the number he’d given her when she left the afternoon before was genuine and not the contact details for some pizza place in South Central. And even if it was his number, there was every chance he’d block her the minute he got the text.
To her surprise, the reply had been almost instant. ‘Great. Enjoy your day. Speak soon. Glad we met. P.S. Still alive? Ivanka looks guilty.’
She hastily tapped out an answer.
‘Only just. At court fighting restraining order requested by Gosling security. Doesn’t he realize that when he meets me, he’ll love me?’
She’d pondered the weekend’s activities as she cruised around the streets of Beverly Hills.
Davie Johnston had been nothing like she’d expected. Completely poles away from her preconceptions. Top of the list had been aloof, unapproachable, arrogant, suave and – given his recent exploits – a real nasty piece of work. But somehow he’d been . . . She struggled to find the words. Messed-up. Lonely. Funny. Kind of sweet. And there was a desperation around him that was so palpable she could almost touch it. If that’s what fame got you, you could keep it.
The revelation about her identity had clearly rattled him, but he’d recovered well. Normally she prided herself on being able to suss out what someone was thinking before they knew themselves, but Davie was more inscrutable. Probably came with living in a city that revolved around people pretending to be someone else.
It was just difficult to know if it was her job or the fact that she wanted to rake into his past that had him more on edge, so she’d immediately back-pedalled and gone for the whole ‘lifestyle interview’ line. Soft start. Break it in gently. Don’t shut it down until she’d had at least some chance to dig around, to find out if there was anything to her hunch that there was a story here.
Convinced she’d blown it, it had been a real surprise when he’d agreed to see her again, but what did it mean? Nothing to hide? Something to hide? Or he was still drunk from the night before and not quite in control of his faculties?
Whatever the outcome, her job there was done for the moment.
Switching focus, she’d spent the rest of Monday and all of Tuesday hitting the phones, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, gossip sites, and the celebrity hangouts the internet told her were frequented by Mirren McLean and Zander Leith.
She’d had no luck tracking either so far. Their press people were giving her the standard ‘no interview’ line, and the agencies had no engagements flagged for either of them this weekend. Zander had started shooting on a new movie, and the soonest Mirren appeared on the radar was next month, when she was speaking at the Writers Guild on Doheny, in Beverly Hills. She needed another plan. Something a bit more radical.
After going back online this morning and coming up blank again on the celebrity tracking websites, she realized she’d been making the assumption that the stars would be protected by gated estates like Davie’s, but what if they weren’t?
It had only taken her ten minutes online to find out that Mirren stayed in Malibu Colony, and another five to learn that, legally, the beach on which the most expensive real estate in America sat was actually public and there were a couple of access points that could let her walk along it. After a thrilling jaunt up the Pacific Coast Highway, she parked the red fun-mobile on Malibu Road and climbed over a small wall down onto the beach below. As long as she stayed below the tideline, she was on public property. Google Earth had been no use – it seemed like street view was blocked for this area. However, she’d managed to find a brilliant app that pinpointed the access points to the sands. Once there, she simply walked along, her neck permanently crooked as she stared up at the incredible homes and balconies just feet above her. There wasn’t a person in sight. In fact, it was almost eerily deserted. One, hang on, two people walking their dogs along the whole mile or so of beach and one maid cleaning a glass veranda. On a thirty-minute stroll from one end of the Colony to the other, they were the only people she saw.
Bizarre.
Back in the car, she headed south again, back the way that she’d come. This time, going straight ahead instead of slinging a left onto the 66, she stayed on the PCH as it curved left at Santa Monica Pier; then she flipped right onto Lincoln. God bless satnav.
When she reached Rose Avenue, she turned right, then pulled into a parking space on the street just after the junction with Pacific. From there it was a sixty-second walk to the beachfront, where she turned left and headed along the boardwalk until she reached the address she’d jotted on the piece of paper in her pocket.
Zander’s
address had been impossible to find online, so she’d put a call in to her new best friend Gemma at the press agency. And Gemma was right when she said that you’d never guess Zander Leith lived there. It was just like all the other blocks within view. Nice. Impressive even. Right on the beach, and hey, everything looked better in the sunshine. But it was 12 miles and tens of millions of dollars away from Davie Johnston’s home.
Night and day.
Why?
Two guys from the same street, both thousands of miles away from home and they’d chosen lifestyles that were at opposite ends of the ostentation scale.
Already, Zander intrigued her. For weeks she’d read everything she could find on him and yet she still felt like she knew nothing about him other than that he drank too much, did drugs, had occasional anger issues and had dated some of the most beautiful women in the world, each one of whom was, it would seem, politely returned to singledom after a relationship that lasted no more than three months.
This guy had issues. But why? His mother? His father? Had to be his father.
No one disappears into thin air – not someone with a lifestyle like Jono Leith.
Sarah headed back to the car, determination reinvigorated. There was a story here. It was already Wednesday, she only had a few more days here, and right now her only lead was Davie Johnston.
She pulled out her new phone and texted him again.
‘Hey, still on for a catch up this week? From the future Mrs Gosling xx.’
No reply.
Bugger, perhaps she’d gone too far. Too keen. OK, no more texting. There was a little cafe at the corner of Rose, right on the beach, and she stopped there for a cold beer and a few minutes to think. This could be intoxicating, this life. It was obvious why people came here and then never went home again. Glasgow in the cold, dark nights or LA with the year-round sunshine and outdoor lifestyle?
Three laughing girls on roller skates sped past her, delivering the answer.
Sunshine every time. And if this was some weird episode of Location, Location, Location with Kirstie and Phil showing her the three homes she’d visited, the choice would be easy.
She’d take Zander’s. Davie’s was so huge it was quite frankly terrifying. Mirren’s was scarily quiet, the atmosphere almost rarefied. But here, she could live. She could breathe. There were people around, and the ocean would never be the same two days running. This would do. Her little red sports car and a condo on the beach. Sold to the lady in the sunglasses bought for twenty-five quid at Glasgow Airport. Back at the hotel, a room-service burger and a nap later, she decided it wasn’t a bad day’s work. Progress. Her FitFlops were not much closer to a story, but at least she could probably wing a piece about the differing lifestyles of the three conquering heroes.
There was a slight delay before the TV responded to the instruction from the remote and switched to Channel 14. A talk show called The Brianna Nicole Show had been trailing an interview with Jenny Rico all week and she was curious to see the illusive Mrs Johnston. According to the TV guide she’d just picked up at reception, The Brianna Nicole Show was filmed live in front of a studio audience and went out at 11 p.m.
Sarah chided herself at the missed opportunity. If she’d known that, she’d have tried to wangle a ticket for tonight’s show.
Damn.
The ring of her phone interrupted her irritation. For a moment her hopes climbed. Davie calling her back? Setting an interview time? It was almost a disappointment when she realized it was the UK phone and Simon’s photograph was flashing on the screen.
Accept Facetime?
She pressed the green button.
‘Hey, lovely, you’re up early,’ she told him, spotting that he was already in the office and it was only 7 a.m.
‘Got a case to prepare and couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d just come in early.’
It was so familiar. The man was the only person who worked even more hours than she did. He was obsessive. Dedicated. Committed. Sitting in a boardwalk cafe on Venice Beach in the middle of the day would be his idea of hell. Even when they went away, it was strictly first-class, five-star resorts, where he always had Wi-Fi and could call the office whenever he wanted. Which he did.
People depended on him, he’d tell her after he’d spent three hours on the phone to an opposing counsel.
There was no arguing with his logic. In Scots law, the SCCRC was the last hope for the innocent, the last chance to play the system for the guilty. Only last month, Simon had managed to prove that a man who’d been in prison for fourteen years for murdering his wife was innocent. Absolutely innocent. New advances in DNA had pinpointed the presence of someone else at the murder scene, someone who was also now inside, serving life for killing two other women.
The man cried when he walked free. His children, grown now, had taken him home.
That was the work that Simon did. And if it made him an obsessive, sometimes cold, occasionally irritable and controlling workaholic, then that was a trade-off worth making.
‘How’s La La Land?’
‘Warm,’ she replied, laughing. ‘And beautiful. I feel like I’m living in an episode of . . . of . . . What was that show you used to watch? The one with Jeremy Piven.’
‘Entourage.’
‘That’s it. I’m in an episode of Entourage. Without the drugs or the strippers, but there’s still time.’
She could see him moving stuff around on his desk and shuffling papers as he spoke.
‘I called you on Sunday afternoon, but it just rang out,’ he told her.
‘Yeah, sorry. I noticed the missed call, but by that time it was midnight and I didn’t want to call you back in case you were asleep. I must have had the phone on silent without realizing. I thought it was probably better to stick to texting so that I didn’t interrupt anything important.’
White lie. Yes, it was on silent, but that had been because she was at Davie Johnston’s house having coffee on his terrace and thought a call from her boyfriend might be a distraction from the matters at hand. And since then, she’d just stuck to a couple of daily texts because she was distracted by the hunt for Mirren and Zander. Now she felt a tug of remorse for her crapness in the girlfriend stakes and made an attempt to compensate for it.
‘This time difference is an awkward one. I’ll call you in the morning, though. It’ll be about eight a.m. here, so that’s four o’ clock your time.’
He hesitated before answering. Typical Simon. Every answer measured and considered. ‘Can’t do. I’m at a reception in the Blythswood Hotel. Something to do with the Commonwealth Games regeneration programme. Invitation from the Lord Provost.’
‘Well, you’d better show up, then,’ she teased.
He didn’t bite. On the mute TV in front of her, the titles were rolling for the start of The Brianna Nicole Show. A picture of Davie’s wife, Jenny, flashed onto the screen, followed by one of the actor Lex Callaghan. Small world. He was the Clansman, Mirren McLean’s hero. Looking at him, Sarah could see why. His face was so perfect it looked like it had been carved from stone in the image of some Greek god. The cheekbones, the jawline, the perfect teeth, all of it sitting on a frame that oozed masculinity. There was a reason every one of those movies made in excess of $100 million and he was it.
Third on the bill was a rapper who’d just launched a new clothing line that was fashioned entirely from white leather in honour of his decision to follow the teachings of Kabbalah.
Just another night in LA, then.
‘Look, tell you what, why don’t you call me when it’s good for you?’ she said, olive branch firmly extended in the hope of lightening his mood.
‘OK, will do.’
‘Goodnight, then. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
A little tense, not their most adoring phone call, but Sarah wasn’t unduly concerned. In fact, if she was being entirely honest, his attitude irked her. If he was off abroad, working on a case that was important to him, she’d support him uncon
ditionally. OK, so this wasn’t saving an innocent man from a miscarriage of justice, but it was her job and it mattered to her. And if he couldn’t muster up enthusiasm and support, he could at least avoid going the petulance route.
Sod it.
Sipping the beer she’d liberated from the minibar, she turned up the volume on the TV and watched, transfixed. Back home, she had absolutely no interest in the celebrity world. She didn’t watch the soaps, couldn’t care less about reality shows and, other than the famous names she met in the course of her work, had little interest in people in the public eye. But this lot were strangely fascinating. Shinier. Brighter. Wackier.
The rapper was on first. Fifteen minutes, including commercials, of talk about his new calling, punctuated by rants about how his new clothing line was ordained by God. Fair enough. Sarah added ‘crazier’ to her list of adjectives.
Lex Callaghan was up next, talking about the next movie, the perfect balance of promotion, self-deprecation and amusing anecdotes. He was definitely a pro. By the time he shook hands with Brianna and headed stage left, Sarah was already looking up the UK release date for the movie.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Jenny Rico!’ The crowd went wild and the camera panned to the left, then paused as one of the most beautiful women Sarah had ever seen came out from behind the set panel. Jenny’s show wasn’t on British TV, or perhaps it was, but Sarah so rarely turned the television on she’d never caught it.
Photographs in magazines did her no justice. Even the L’Oréal ads didn’t capture how truly breathtaking she was. Not just the face. The body too. The way she walked. The breasts that had a life of their own. She was wearing a red bodycon dress, with a low plunge at the top, revealing a cleavage that didn’t stop. The hemline reached mid-calf, giving her a Jessica Rabbit wiggle that made Sarah realize that when it came to comparisons, this woman was a different species altogether.
‘Jenny!’ the host welcomed her, kissing her on both cheeks, then standing back to allow her to savour the audience’s applause, responding with a wave of thanks.