by Shari King
65.
‘Let Her Go’ – Passenger
When the buzzer from the gate rang, Davie was standing right next to it and automatically pressed the intercom button. His mum must have cleared baggage reclaim quickly. Normally he’d have gone in the limo to collect her, but he’d taken the kids down to the beach for an hour. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Lots of things had caused the shift in his view of parenting responsibilities. All the shit that had happened to him, Jenny’s behaviour, the fact that the divorce was filed, under absolute confidentiality, and if it went to war, he wanted to show that he was making a real effort to be a dad. Not because he thought it looked good, but because he wanted to. Turned out Bella and Bray were really good kids. No thanks to him.
But he was determined to make the change because he was beginning to get it now. He got what it meant to be present, to be a parent. It was written all over every one of the images of Mirren’s stricken face, plastered all over the celebrity mags in the days after Chloe died.
He was devastated for her. It was like it wasn’t real. Nothing, he knew more than anyone, was real here. It was all just another titillating drama for the magazines and entertainment shows to feed on. He’d wanted to go to her. Of course he had. Desperately. But the last thing he wanted to do to Mirren McLean was cause her more pain, drag her back there. They’d tried to make it work. Back in the early days, when they first got here, they’d tried to act like before, to love each other, protect what they had. But the shadows were too dark.
Zander had disowned them, disgusted that they’d coerced him into using the story. That left just the two of them in this shiny new world. It should have been fun, exciting, thrilling, but all they saw when they woke up every morning, when they looked at each other, even when they closed their eyes, was that night.
In the end, it was too much. They were in love, but they were killing each other one memory at a time.
So they’d said goodbye, agreed never to speak again, never to meet. And he’d missed her every single day. Not today’s Mirren – the successful, strong, accomplished Mirren. He’d missed the girl he adored, who’d cried when they made love for the first time, and who’d left him believing that perhaps real love only happened once.
‘Hi, this is Sarah McKenzie. I’d . . . I’d like to speak to Davie Johnston.’
Leaning against the sink, Davie closed his eyes.
Brilliant. Great. Just what he needed today.
He was tempted to ignore it, tell her to piss off, but he knew that it would eat away at him. Why was she there? Had she discovered something? Back to ambush him? Ready to go public with some combination of fact and fiction?
God knows he didn’t need this right now, and Mirren definitely didn’t.
Apprehension rising, he pressed the buzzer to open the gate and then headed to the front door. Ivanka was at the store and he was suddenly aware that he was on his own. No time to call a friend. No time to plan a defence. No time to go change out of his surfing T-shirt and board shorts. No time to prepare his heart and make it promise not to make an arse of him again. That lesson had been learned.
By the time the front-door buzzer rang, he was right there. Wordlessly, he opened the door and let her follow him back into the kitchen. His preference would have been to talk on the doorstep, but he was savvy enough to know that she could have let a photographer in and they could be out there, waiting in the gardens, ready to capture his reaction to anything she said.
‘So what shall we start with?’ he asked her, pulling out a stool at the breakfast bar and gesturing for her to do the same. ‘Do you want to just ask me what you need to know, or do you want to fuck me first to make sure I’m nice and vulnerable and then maybe you’ll get better answers?’
Harsh. And she reacted with a physical jolt. It took her a moment to answer as she climbed up onto the stool, her face flushed with – what? Heat? Embarrassment? Anger?
Even in his state of heightened anxiety, he could see that she looked different. Her hair was loose, in messy copper waves that reached down past her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, the green even deeper than before, almost a perfect match for the string of jade that hung round her neck, making a plain white vest and denim shorts seem edgy rather than just casual. No make-up, just a soft sheen on her lips.
‘I deserved that,’ she nodded, her hands clasped in front of her, nails painted dark grey.
‘I know.’ He wasn’t letting her off the hook. Not until he knew why she was here. Another fishing expedition? Another interrogation?
‘I know everything,’ she said, her voice low and calm, which was the exact opposite of the emotions that swept over him. Speech wouldn’t come, so he listened, watching as she pulled that bloody picture out of her pocket once again.
‘Jono Leith was seeing Marilyn McLean. That’s why they look like husband and wife here in the photograph. He was her lover. He attacked Mirren. Raped her, maybe. One of you killed him. In the movie, Zander takes the blame, but I’m not sure that’s true.’
It had always been a risk, to make the movie of their story, but what choice did they have? Stay on the run, no money, no qualifications, no future? Or try to do something, anything to grasp for a better life?
No contest.
Mirren’s account of what happened that night, the story she’d written, the one that he’d slipped in front of Wes Lomax at the St Andrews hotel, had been a faithful account of the truth. When they’d adapted it for the screen, there’d been some changes. Wes felt that Zander – brooding, handsome Zander – should be the fall guy, break the heart of every girl in the audience. They’d agreed, glad to have injected some fiction into a plot that they claimed had come entirely from the depths of Mirren’s imagination.
At the time, they’d waited. Waited for someone in Scotland to watch the movie and put two and two together. Waited for Jono’s body to be somehow found. Waited for it all to come crashing down.
But none of that happened.
What they hadn’t realized was that almost nobody cared. Those who did were glad Jono was gone and most people believed the story that he’d gone off with Marilyn.
Marilyn wasn’t going to tell anyone any different.
Zander’s mum believed that story, and much as she loved him, she thanked God that she didn’t have to live with the daily shame of watching the man she’d taken vows with in front of God commit adultery with the woman two doors along. God may forgive him, but she never would.
The criminal community shut down, convinced that Jono’s disappearance involved cement boots, the River Clyde and payback for shafting and killing Billy McColl.
And the police? They were just happy to be shot of one more specimen of law-breaking scum. They put more effort into finding a lost cat than they put into locating the disappearing Mr Leith.
‘So, what? What now?’ Davie asked, neither confirming nor denying, frantically scrambling in his head for some way to make it out of this intact.
‘Nothing.’
He could deny, get his lawyers on it, file an injunction . . .
What did she say?
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. I’m doing nothing.’
It was so absurd he laughed. ‘So let me get this straight. You think you’ve stumbled onto a huge story that would set you up for life, one that you could milk to death – newspapers, TV, maybe even a book – and you’re not going to run it?’
‘No.’
‘Not even in the Daily Scot?’ His arms were wide now, gesturing disbelief.
‘No. I don’t work there anymore. I quit. And even if I hadn’t, I still wouldn’t run it. There’s no evidence. No corroboration. Mirren has been through enough and . . .’ He could see she was struggling to find the words. ‘Maybe Jono Leith is no loss to the world.’
That took the wind out of his pissed-off, overanxious sails.
Instant deflation.
It was almost as if saying all that, getting it all off her shoulders, made h
er sit up a little straighter. He noticed that her jaw jutted out slightly and he wasn’t sure if it was defiance or pride, or just a determination to stay strong and remain unemotional. Reading her had clearly never been his strong point.
‘I quit my job, quit Scotland, moved here a week ago. I’m going to be working out of the LA bureau. Travel and lifestyle stuff for the whole group, not celebrity gossip, so you don’t have to worry.’
‘The boyfriend?’ Crap, why was he asking? Why? What did he care, he thought – while suddenly caring immensely.
‘Gone. Long story. Actually, not that long. He met someone.’
‘He met someone?’
For the longest time she didn’t speak. Just stared. Not a sound except for the beat of his heart.
‘And so did I,’ she whispered, her eyes locked on his.
For the first time he heard a break in her voice as emotion caught in the back of her throat, as she watched, waited for him to speak. Nothing came. The fear was still there. Was this a set-up? Another sting?
Silence. More silence.
‘So, OK . . .’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘I’m going to go. I just wanted you to know in case you were worrying, or . . . scared. There’s no need to be. It’s done.’
He so wanted to believe her. Wanted to pick her up, swing her round, scream with relief and then . . . but no. Not yet. Not until he was sure and the knot in his stomach had time to fully unravel.
‘Where are you staying?’ he managed to shout, as she reached the doorway.
His question made her pause, turn round, and for the first time she grinned, almost shyly.
‘Same place as last time. When you’re ready, come and get me.’
Davie was still laughing as the noise of her car faded into the distance, crossing over with another, more familiar engine getting closer. He met his mother at the door and took her coat.
‘Someone looks happy, son. It’s good to see you.’
‘Good to see you too, Mum,’ he told her, meaning it.
‘But I don’t know why you booked me in first class. You know I don’t mind being in the normal seats. Waste of money, so it is. Why would anyone pay thousands of pounds for just a few hours in a comfier chair?’
‘You’re worth it. I’ll send a private jet next time. Totally freak you out.’
That one got him a punch in the arm.
‘Don’t you dare. Oh dear Lord, I’d be affronted. I could buy a new soup bus with what they charge for one flight.’
They were moving through to the kitchen, his arm around her, so glad he’d persuaded her to come.
‘The kids are dying to see you,’ he told her. ‘We’re having dinner here tonight. I told them you’d make a Scottish speciality. Don’t know where you’re going to get steak pie and chips at this time in LA.’
‘Don’t you worry, son. You could put me in a desert and I’d still manage to rustle that up. Right, a nice cup of tea, I think. I brought my own teabags and some caramel wafers. I know how you—’
Her carefree chat stopped, and as Davie pulled his head out of the fridge, he realized why. The photo. The one Sarah had left. Still on the breakfast bar. And now his mum was staring at it, and it had stolen her words, and slapped her face until it was frozen.
Oh God.
‘Mum?’ he asked, over with her now, his arm around her again, hoping she could feel his love, desperate to ask the question that had been bothering him since the night he first saw it. Eventually, he realized that she couldn’t speak, and decided he had nothing to lose.
‘Mum . . .’ he began, feeling more terrified than he’d ever been in his life, ‘was Jono Leith my dad?’
66.
‘Lego House’ – Ed Sheeran
It was a perfect California sunset. The rays of light popped from every ripple of the ocean, their colour changing from white to burnt orange as they caught the reflection of the red rays of the sun slowly disappearing into the horizon.
On the Malibu beach in front of her home, Mirren and Zander sat on the sands, Mirren cross-legged, in black denim shorts and a grey tank, forty but looking no more than thirty. It was strange, Zander thought. In the last couple of weeks she seemed to have turned back the hands of time.
In the days after the funeral, they’d talked, twenty years’ worth of conversations crammed into hour after hour of talking, crying, healing and even laughing. How could that be? Such a terrible time and yet there had been moments of light in there, brief but just enough to give them the strength to keep going.
During that time she’d told him that for years she’d lain awake at night listening for Chloe, searching the streets for her when she didn’t come home, panicking that she’d die in her sleep when she came home high or wasted.
Now, sleep still often eluded her, but only because she was sitting on her deck, watching the waves, having conversations with her girl out there in the ocean.
How he wished he’d been there for her.
He’d been so angry when they’d first moved here, so disgusted that they’d pushed him to make the movie, so scared of the demons that it would raise in him. And raise they did. Twenty years of addiction and chaos.
He hadn’t been fit to love or to care for anyone. But as she told him repeatedly, he was here now. And that was all that mattered. They loved each other. Always had. Not in a romantic way, but as brother and sister, family, bonded over two sets of fucked-up DNA that had almost destroyed them both.
Almost.
‘Heard from Jack?’ he asked her, rolling up the sleeves on his white shirt, then shaking sand grains off his jeans.
Mirren nodded. ‘He pops in every couple of days, has a coffee. Says he might go on the road with Logan for a week next month. Mercedes doesn’t seem to be objecting. Think having an affair with someone might be a bit different from being their full-time partner,’ she said, just a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Who could blame her? ‘Especially now that she’s six months pregnant.’
‘Do you think it’s Jack’s? I heard there’s some uncertainty. Charles Power’s wife has cited Mercedes in their divorce.’
Power was the actor Mercedes had starred with in Jack’s last movie.
Mirren flicked a stray strand of hair from the side of her face and shrugged sadly. ‘I have no idea. Jack’s problem. Not mine anymore.’
‘How’s Logan taking it?’
‘Losing Chloe is breaking his heart. Our divorce isn’t. He says he hears from his dad more now than he’s ever done. I’m glad. Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing?’ she asked, nudging his leg with her toe.
‘OK. I think. Mostly. The filming is keeping me straight, and your friend Lou has threatened to send Carlton Farnsworth pictures of me with his wife if I fall off the wagon again. I’ve no idea if they really exist,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I’m not taking any chances.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. That woman knows everything,’ Mirren said, ramping up the feasibility factor.
‘Yeah, you’ve got to love her. But listen, Mir, you know I won’t go back there. I wouldn’t do that to you. And I wouldn’t do that to Chloe. She deserves better. She deserves me to stay clean for her. And I will, I promise. So please don’t think you ever have to worry.’
‘I know,’ she said, her quiet confidence in him radiating between them. He’d made the promise to himself the night Chloe died. It was over. The drink. The drugs. He was completely clean for the first time in years and it felt . . . strange. Not great yet. Not even good. But he knew that if he went down that road again, Mirren would be devastated and he wouldn’t do that to her. She deserved better.
‘And what about the delectable Adrianna?’ she asked. ‘Did you see her again?’
‘Are you kidding me? Nope. I’ll save my scenes of dodging death for situations that have a stunt double.’
To anyone wandering past, surfboard under their arm or walking their dog along the Malibu shore, it would look like any two old friends, comfortable with each
other, glad to be there.
‘Are you sure that you’re ready to do this?’ Zander asked. They both knew what he meant. Mirren turned to look back at the gap between her house and the one next door.
‘Too late if I’m not,’ she said, raising her hand in greeting. Zander followed her gaze and saw Davie Johnston walk towards them. His stomach clenched, then relaxed. It was he who had left Davie behind, cut him dead, and he’d give anything to change that now. But would Mirren? He’d never seen a love like theirs before. Solid. Complete. Both sure that it would last forever. Maybe their lives would have been better if it had. It was Jono’s legacy. The bastard was dead and yet his actions still had consequences.
As Davie reached them, they could tell he was nervous. His left eye flickered the way it had done in times of stress since he was a toddler. That, right there and then, made Zander get up, throw his arms around him and hug him. Holding him so tightly that both of them struggled to breathe. Judging by the way it was reciprocated, Davie felt the same.
‘Whenever you boys are done . . .’ Mirren said warmly. At once they were fourteen again, and they fell on her, making her scream with laughter.
Those casual bystanders would now assume that they were three adult members of the same family. Had to be.
Only when they got their breath back did they all stop to look at each other properly.
‘Thanks,’ Davie said, ‘for inviting me over. You’ve no idea what it means . . .’ He stopped, his voice suddenly breaking.
‘We do,’ Mirren told him. ‘Zander and I have been back in touch for a few weeks . . .’
‘I’m so sorry about Chloe, Mir.’
‘Thanks, and yeah, that brought us back. But it didn’t feel right without you. So we thought, if it’s OK with you, maybe we could give it another try. Be in each other’s lives. Just friends,’ she said, reassuring him of where they all stood.
‘God, I’d love that,’ Davie said at once, and Zander could see the pain that was still there.
‘But there’s stuff I need to tell you both first. There was a journalist trying to contact us a while back . . .’