Taking Hollywood

by Shari King

  ‘Sure we do.’ He was blustering. Spinning. ‘We bump into each other at events and shit like that.’

  ‘But you’re not friends.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  Another flicker of – what? Anger? Irritation? Sadness?

  ‘Like I said, our lives have changed. They’re different. We’re different. People grow out of each other and I guess that’s what happened to us.’

  Sarah stared at the moon above her. It was obvious he was lying, but she wasn’t going to press because she didn’t want him to clam up and . . . well, something else. It took a few moments to bubble to the surface of her psyche. She felt sorry for him. How ridiculous was that?

  There he was, this big-shot star with his $40-million estate and his glittering life. And OK, so his career had hit a bit of a speed bump, but aside from that and a troubled marriage, he was pretty blessed. And yet right now the sadness leached out of his every pore. He looked so crushed, so vulnerable, so . . . All she wanted to do was go over there, put her arms around him and hold him. Christ, what was in this beer? This wasn’t her. She was hard-arse. Ruthless. On a mission. But still . . . One side of her psyche was getting mighty infuriated with her apparent lack of ability to come up with answers, until her emotional grey matter finally ’fessed up the answer. She had known Davie Johnston for only a few days, but she liked him. Really liked him. He was arrogant, and totally messed up, yet there was just something about him that touched her.

  Jesus, how did that happen? And how did she make it stop?

  As if the Gods of Great Timing were paying attention, her phone rang, utterly breaking the spell of the moment.

  She thought about ignoring it, but Simon would only keep ringing back until he got her, and if he didn’t, he’d worry, kick into action. The last thing she needed was the LAPD breaking down her hotel-room door.

  Davie gestured her to answer it. ‘Want me to go?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she answered, picking up the phone and accepting the call. Davie disappeared anyway, down into the bowels of the boat, obviously trying to be considerate of her privacy.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, darling. How’s things? Left me for a movie star yet?’ It was a dry dig, yet Sarah couldn’t help the twinge of guilt that rippled through her. She dismissed it immediately.

  Ridiculous. OK, so she was on a boat on the ocean in the most romantic setting on earth, and yes, to her surprise, she was feeling a nugget of something resembling care for the person she was with. But that was it. Nothing more. Yet somehow she knew that if that information was relayed, Simon may see it slightly differently and jump to ludicrous, wildly inaccurate conclusions.

  ‘Not yet. Still looking. They all have this thing called security. Totally gets in the way. What are you up to?’

  ‘Just heading into the office. Case to prepare.’

  ‘Simon, do you ever give it a break? It’s – what? – six o’ clock in the morning and you’re already on the work treadmill.’

  Her outburst took her by complete surprise. Why did that seem strange to her? If she was at home, then chances are that 6 a.m in the morning would play out the same way for her too. OK, so she might not be on the way into the office, but she would be up doing research, catching up with the overnight news, planning her next story. Other than holidays, their lives were completely dedicated to work. Priorities: work, then each other, then everything else in life.

  Wasn’t that the wrong way round? And why was she only realizing this now? What was it about this week that was causing her to question it? Clearly, she’d been in LA too long. The heat. The glitz. The glamour. It was absolutely fake, shallow, and there was undoubtedly an undercurrent of darkness keeping the whole lot afloat, and yet there was something resoundingly optimistic here. Something inspiring. Positive. Like everyone was pushing to get on board and have the life of their dreams. She’d spent so many years enmeshed in violence and crime and the very worst of humanity that it was a relief to take a deep breath of warm air and experience a different life.

  Oh bollocks. Sarah put the beer down on the nearby table. There must be something in it that was making her lose the plot.

  Right. Back to Simon. Her boyfriend. Her partner in life.

  Home.

  He sounded a little distracted as he answered her, but at least his tone was lighter than it had been the last couple of times they’d spoken. ‘I know, honey, but we’re going to court on this case next week. A murder charge. Not sure we’ve got enough to prove his innocence yet, but we’re close. So where are you? Sounds really peaceful.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just . . . catching up with some work on the roof terrace at the hotel. There are lights, so I can see what I’m doing. Was just getting a bit claustrophobic in the room, so I thought I’d come up here for a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ he whistled. ‘Too bloody idyllic. You are still coming back to me, aren’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Just might dig a pool in the garden while you’re at work next week. And employ a waiter to bring me champagne every hour. As long as I can do that, I’ll be back.’

  ‘A pool? There’s a pool at the club.’

  He hadn’t been listening to her, she realized, picturing exactly what he was doing. He’d have the phone under his ear, briefcase in front of him at the kitchen table. It would be almost completely covered with case notes and he’d be sifting through them, slipping the ones he required into the case. Then he’d close it, roll his shirt sleeves down, clip on cufflinks and pull his jacket from the back of the door, slipping it on, juggling the phone from one ear to the other.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll just go to the pool at the club. Look, I won’t keep you – I can tell you’re busy. Good luck today.’

  ‘Thanks. You too. Only two more days and you’ll be home. Love you.’

  And he was gone. Charging out through the door, into the car and away to save the legal world from yet another travesty of justice.

  Only when she reached over to put the phone back on the table did she realize that Davie had returned, clutching two more bottles of beer.

  ‘You lied to him. Do that often?’ he asked, not accusing but curious.

  ‘No. Never, in fact. I tend to be a pretty straight-up kind of person, but he’s been a bit . . .’ Sarah paused to find the right word, ‘. . . miffed lately. Didn’t want me to come here. I don’t think he can decide if he misses me or is still pissed off that I came. I just didn’t want him to freak out and get all weird about the fact that I’m on a boat with some other guy. He knows it’s work, but it would still make him uncomfortable.’

  Taking the beer he offered to her, she sat back down on the lounger, facing him this time, their knees just a few inches apart.

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘No, of course not. There’s nothing to be uncom—’ Sarah stopped. Their eyes were locked; her stomach was flipping, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

  ‘What?’ she managed weakly.

  It was pointless. She knew. They both did. This had never happened to her before. Never. She didn’t do uncontrollable urges and rash impulses, but right now something deep inside was almost hypnotically drawn to him. Wanted him.

  ‘I want to kiss you,’ he said. ‘But my judgement has been a bit off lately, so I just need to check.’ His voice was low, filled with utter longing and speaking directly to the reflexes that were controlling every single one of her erogenous zones. ‘If I do lean over and kiss you, are you going to knock me out?’

  ‘Off the record?’ she whispered, suddenly struggling for air.

  ‘Off the record,’ he answered.

  ‘No.’

  Slowly, gently, Davie Johnston got up from his lounger and joined her on hers. Then, their eyes still locked, he lifted one hand and traced a line across her eyebrow and down her cheek, round her jawline then back, down the side of her neck and along her bare shoulder, her blanket falling away, her senses acutely aware that she was crossin
g a line. A big line. And yet absolutely nothing could stop her.

  She could smell him now. Rich, natural, with just a hint of beer. His breath was on her and then . . . his taste. Lips, soft. She opened her mouth to his and realized that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. Her hands came up to his neck and then into his hair, holding him to her. Her tongue traced his teeth as she fell back, pulling him on top of her.

  The panic came out of nowhere and rose from somewhere in her stomach, suffocating her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. Had to stop . . .

  ‘Davie, I can’t. I just can’t.’

  His head snapped up so that he was facing her, obviously confused.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, slipping out from underneath him. ‘I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have. I’ve never . . . God, I’m so sorry.’

  The crushed expression on his face was devastating. Then she could see his jaw clench, his eyes close, his shoulders slump.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.

  Nothing, she wanted to say. Just you. The internal wrangling started again. A voice in her head, the cynical hack, telling her to get a grip. Emotions didn’t run her show; her head did. And come on, who was she kidding? He was Davie Johnston. He pulled this stuff all the time and she’d fallen for it. She was about to fuck up her whole life for a guy who probably wouldn’t remember her next week. That couldn’t happen. She couldn’t let it.

  She came to a decision, reached round to her back pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it to reveal a printed image and placed it on the table between them. Not a word was spoken, until, ‘That’s Zander McLean’s dad, Jono Leith. And your mum. Not sure who the other two are, but I was hoping you could help me.’

  Still he said nothing. She took that as a sign to continue.

  ‘He went missing years ago, a couple of years before you, Zander and Mirren came to LA. From what I can gather, he was a career criminal who pissed off a lot of people. Perhaps that’s why he vanished. Zander has never spoken about it and I’ve no reason to think he’ll start now. So if you’re asking me what I want from you? I want you to tell me the truth about what happened to Jono Leith.’

  55.

  ‘Nothing’ – The Script

  Zander led the way into the apartment; Hollie followed him.

  ‘Just got to check your voicemails and look for any signs of eighteen-year-old wasted chicks. That OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Zander replied. ‘Wanna stay for a beer?’

  He caught her furious reaction and hastily offered an alternative. ‘I mean a coffee?’

  ‘Tempting, but I’ll pass. I want my bed, my DVR, five episodes of Scandal and I want to lie in private stroking my shiny new Chanel purse.’

  While Zander hit the shower, she made a quick check of his voicemails, put his phone and iPad on charge and headed for the door.

  She was out and halfway down the stairs when she heard his phone ringing. Damn. She thought about going back in, but . . . hey, she was his PA, not his mother. It could be Adrianna Guilloti calling to have phone sex while her husband was in the tub. And that was one thing Hollie didn’t need to hear.

  Still ringing. Aaaargh. It went against every instinct to leave it, but it was midnight, she was tired, and . . .

  It stopped. And since Zander was in the shower, it was highly improbable that he had answered it, so that must mean they’d given up.

  Excellent. A call at this time of night only meant bad news, strippers or drugs. The whole Adrianna Guilloti incident aside, she really felt they were turning a corner. All she had to do was keep his life as ordered and disciplined as possible, while making it interesting enough to stop him getting bored. Most importantly, no drama. No stress. No heartache. So whoever it was on the phone could take a hike.

  Zander Leith was closed for drama.

  56.

  ‘She’ – Elvis Costello

  Why were they pulling her away? Why? That was her girl there. They were saying things she didn’t understand. Using words she didn’t know. Gone, they said. Gone.

  No. She wasn’t gone. She was right there. In front of her.

  Beeeeeeep. Stop that fucking machine. Mirren spun round, raised her leg and booted it against the wall. It cracked, fell; the cable jerked, pulling the clip off her baby’s finger.

  Her baby.

  Oh God, her baby.

  She was gone.

  ‘Mrs Gore! Mrs Gore, please.’ A nurse had her arms around her, trying to calm her. What the hell was she doing? Why was she talking to her when she should be over there, helping Chloe. Chloe. Oh God, Chloe.

  Mirren fell to her knees and screamed until nothing else came out except tears, choking fucking evil tears.

  Rewind. Take it back. Change the dialogue. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be on the floor when Chloe was there, in front of her, not breathing.

  No. She was her mother. She could change this. Make her come back.

  Pushing the nurse away, she climbed onto the bed, slipped an arm under Chloe’s head and gently pushed her hair back with her other hand.

  ‘It’s OK, baby, Mom’s here. I’m here, honey. Don’t worry.’

  Cold. Why did Chloe feel cold?

  Leaning over, her face touching Chloe’s, cheeks wet with tears. Her breath would bring her back. If she just lay there, kept her warm, made her heart beat for them both, it would be fine. It would be fine. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

  The nurse was watching her now, pity written all over her face.

  ‘Help her, please help her.’ A whimper now. ‘Oh, Chloe, no. Please no.’

  Her head fell against the pillow now, her lips touching Chloe’s cheek, their hair, same colour, same curls, meshed together so she didn’t know where hers stopped and Chloe’s started.

  They were one person. One person, with only one heartbeat. And that’s how they stayed.

  For the longest time.

  Until the nurse was gone, and only the light of Chloe’s bedside lamp still shone in the silence.

  Sometime later, Mirren had no idea how long, the nurse returned.

  ‘Mrs Gore,’ she said softly, ‘can we call anyone for you? We have a room you can sit in . . .’

  ‘I want to stay here. I’m not leaving her.’ Mirren didn’t recognize the voice. It was hers but different. Tragic. Broken. It was who she was now. The mother of a dead child.

  ‘That’s fine. Stay as long as you need.’

  Until the end of time, Mirren wanted to say. This was her child and she wasn’t leaving her. Not ever.

  When the nurse had left, Mirren kissed Chloe on the cheek, like she’d done every night of her childhood. Every night. She’d watch her sleep for a few moments and then kiss her cheek. ‘Goodnight, my darling. I love you.’

  Tonight, she added, ‘Sleep for now, my love. I’ll get Daddy.’

  Jack. She had to tell him.

  Hands trembling, she rifled in her bag, found her phone, dialled.

  It only rang twice.

  ‘Jack . . .’ she blurted.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mirren.’ Not Jack. Oh God, not Jack.

  ‘How’s Chloe doing? Jack said he, like, totally overreacted last night when she was unwell. And he’s still real shaken up. So is she feeling better? Hang on, I’ll get him. Jack, honey, that’s your ex-wife on the phone.’

  The smug victory in Mercedes Dance’s voice was unmistakable. So Jack had gone running back to her. When the going got tough, the spineless ran for cover. Mirren wanted to tell her it didn’t matter. It didn’t hurt. No one won. Because now that her daughter was dead, no one would ever win again.

  She hung up. Dialled Lou. Straight to voicemail. Hung up again.

  Now the aching had started. Aching for someone to be with her, for someone to tell her it was a dream, a nightmare.

  She dialled again. The number she’d found in Chloe’s phone, saved, swore she’d never use.

  He answered after five rings.

  ‘Zander, i
t’s Mirren. I’m with Chloe. Zander, my baby is dead.’

  And he roared.

  57.

  ‘Clown’ – Emeli Sandé

  What was it they said? Your life could only change when you hit rock bottom? Gets worse before it gets better?

  Well, Davie decided, he must be due for a mighty big slice of paradise.

  For a second there he thought he had it. Sarah. How had that happened? He’d known her for a few days and yet she was making him feel things he hadn’t felt for a long time. Too long.

  When was the last time he’d actually wanted to make love to someone? Not a quick bang or an opportunist blow job. Even lust in the early days with Jenny hadn’t been like this. That was all about physical connections, aesthetics, two driven people on the same path. But this? This was a real, heartfelt, meaningful connection and it had taken him by complete surprise.

  Almost as much of a surprise as the stunt she’d just pulled. Talk about a boot in the bollocks. He’d envisaged a night under the blanket, in the peace of the ocean, talking, loving.

  Shit, he was starting to sound like a Movie of the Week on Lifetime.

  One with a tragic ending.

  He’d been played. Absolutely played. And the only thing that made him more pissed off than being played was the fact that he’d walked into it with his defences down. Twenty years of self-preservation, of convincing himself that he had all he ever needed, only for this girl to change his mind.

  And now this. All his nightmares, all his regrets began right there on that piece of paper.

  To his surprise, he felt the sensation of his left eye twitch. Christ, that hadn’t happened for years. Since he was a teenager. A kid, hanging out with Zander and Mirren, lying on the messed-up floor of his hut, listening to the Sunday-night chart show while smoking Embassy Regal and laughing until it hurt.

  A few years later it would hurt more than he could ever have known.

  His heart thudded out of his chest and he had a sudden urge to jump. Swim. Just keep going until the currents decided his fate.