by Shari King
Davie stood up while Lou left the table. It was a habit bred into him in childhood. His mother, Ena Johnston, didn’t have
much, but she had high standards of what was acceptable when it came to manners and she made sure her son lived up to them.
‘OK, then, go for it. What’s up?’ Mirren asked, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.
Why did he suddenly have the feeling that what he was about to do was the equivalent of kicking Bambi when she was down? Why hadn’t he considered that Jack Gore’s presence on a show that Davie produced might be an issue for Mirren?
He returned to his defence that he’d never known Mirren and Jack Gore as a couple, so it didn’t even cross his mind that she might have an opinion on the situation.
OK, preparing arguments for the defence. It had been a lot of years since he’d had to consider anyone else’s feelings and he was out of practice. Hopefully, that one would both bring her round and even elicit a tiny tug of sympathy. Win. Win.
Second argument: he hadn’t wanted to bother her because he knew she had so much on her mind right now. Didn’t think it mattered. He had a hunch she might not see it that way. Lose. Lose.
Third and most important argument: if he didn’t make the show, someone else would. Beauty and the Beats had killed in the ratings, and any other network would give their right ball to pick it up. At least this way, he could treat it sensitively, make sure that Mirren and Logan were protected, that Jack was portrayed as an island: a middle-aged, midlife-crisis, tattooed, island. In an AC/DC T-shirt. Knob.
However, now, looking at Mirren, so unsuspecting and curious, he could see the holes in every argument. It all came back down to the same thing. He should have thought about this sooner. Told her sooner. Who was the asshole now?
‘Look, this is really difficult and I really hope we can work it out. The series I produce, Beauty and the Beats . . .’ he started.
What? Mirren frowned with confusion as she tried to keep up.
‘You know it used to star Carmella Cass and Jizzo Stacks, but sadly Jizzo died . . . ?’
Mirren sussed out the situation immediately.
‘Ah, honey, are you going to tell me that Carmella is seeing Jack? Thank you, but don’t worry – I’d heard and I saw the tabloid coverage of the funeral.’ She put her napkin on the table and exhaled, and for a second Davie felt the unfamiliar feeling of goosebumps prickling up his arm. God, he’d loved this woman. Loved her so much it had taken him years to recover from the hole inside him when she left. His break-up with Mirren had shaped him, changed him. Hustling and determination to make something of himself had always been part of his nature, but back then, they’d all been secondary to how he felt about Mirren. She had been all that really mattered to him. If she’d wanted to stay in Glasgow and live a completely different life, he’d have gone with it.
Jono Leith’s death took away that option.
Then, when they’d got to LA, it was different. They were different. Too much pain, too much horror. They were drowning in the memory of what had happened and it sucked away everything that was right about them being together.
So they’d agreed to walk away from the only person they’d ever loved.
That’s when he changed. It was like she was his balance, the good part of him, and when she was gone, what else was there?
It became all about Davie Johnston.
Twenty years, and every one of them lived on his own terms, doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted and considering no one else. It had occasionally backfired. The three-way with Jenny and Darcy was a case in point. A wild night with two of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen had turned out to be a one-way ticket to divorce. In truth, it was for the best, though. His marriage to Jenny had never even come close to what he’d once had with this woman sitting in front of him right now.
He realized she was waiting for a response to whatever it was she’d just said. Not that he had any idea what it was. Blind panic was proving to be the ultimate amnesiac.
Fuck it, he wasn’t telling her.
Bail out, bail out now! his brain, the part that was responsible for self-preservation and the aversion to rocking bloody huge, unstable boats screamed.
‘Yeah. But see, erm, the thing is . . .’
What the fuck was the thing? This was ridiculous. He was Davie Johnston. Scared of no one. He had a $40-million house and a homicidal housekeeper. He’d made it in this town. He could do this. He had to take responsibility.
‘Carmella would like Jack to replace Jizzo on Beauty and the Beats.’
OK, so maybe not quite take full responsibility, but that was just semantics, wasn’t it? As long as the salient points were shared, what was the difference?
Mirren paused, her glass midway to her mouth, then quickly knocked back a large gulp of Pinot Noir, before replying, ‘Jack. On a reality show. Oh my God, that’s ridiculous. The man’s lost the plot.’
Another sip of wine and a weary sigh. ‘Davie, I know it’s probably a bit weird saying this to you, but when I look back now, I honestly don’t know how Jack and I ever made it work for all those years. The man is a fool.’
Oh Christ, her sadness. It was so real he could almost touch it. And she was still talking.
‘I just think that after you and I split up, I needed an anchor, you know? Somewhere to belong. I wanted a family so badly and he was my opportunity to make it happen. He was away on location so much, and when he was at home, he worked such long hours that we weren’t actually together long enough for me to realize what a dick he was.’ Another pensive moment, another sip of wine, another sigh of sadness. ‘I just got carried along with how happy the kids made me, how relieved I was to have a unit. A real family unit.’
She paused again for a moment and Davie wasn’t sure where she’d gone to in her head. He wanted to reach over and take her in his arms and hug her until she didn’t have that haunted expression in her eyes any more. But more than that, he realized that he just wanted to sit here and listen to her talk. He knew what it took for Mirren McLean to open up to anyone, and here she was, sharing stuff that probably really hurt to reveal.
‘I’m glad I’m out of it now.’ She smiled sadly and he absolutely believed her. ‘I just want peace from here on in.’ A rueful laugh. ‘God, does that make me sound melodramatic?’
No. It really didn’t. But unfortunately, he couldn’t say that, because the functioning of his mouth and vocal cords appeared to have been battered to death by dread and panic.
Mirren obviously mistook his silence for sympathetic listening skills, as she carried on, ‘But I can’t tell you how horrible last year was with . . .’ As she let the words trail off, Davie realized her eyes had filled up. Her jaw clenched shut, obviously unable to say the words. She didn’t have to. Chloe’s death had been a horrific event and he’d watched how hard Mirren had fought to get through it.
When she spoke again, she’d slightly changed tack. ‘With Chloe. But what made it even worse was Jack being such a prick. To be honest, I really couldn’t give a fuck about the affair from a loyalty perspective. I exorcized my anger over that when I put his Maserati over a cliff at Trancas Canyon . . .’
The confession sparked Davie’s memory of that event. It had been all over the news, and for a time, no one was sure if Mirren was in the car when it rolled. He had the sudden thought that in the next few minutes, she was probably going to wish that Davie would follow in the path of the Maserati.
‘But it was the scrutiny that made everything even tougher to bear. Seeing headlines in the tabloids. People discussing our lives on entertainment shows. Late-night talk-show hosts making jokes at our expense. Everyone had an opinion, relished the gossip, loved the drama. But we were living it.’
Davie finally found a voice, searching for a glimmer of hope. ‘I can’t even imagine how much of a nightmare that was. How are things now with Jack? Is it amicable?’ Perhaps if they were still mutually supportive, she’d be happy for his new career dire
ction.
Mirren nodded. ‘You know, it’s OK. As long as I can stop Lou from taking out a contract on him, it’ll be fine.’
She’d lightened the mood. That was a good sign.
‘But I just wish he’d fade back into the background. Go off on location again. Stop living like a publicity-seeking, walking midlife crisis. Logan has to be in the public glare because that’s his job, and he handles it brilliantly. But every time Jack does something that’s totally ridiculous or laughable, we’re back on the covers of the magazines at supermarket checkouts. They dredge up our history. Print pictures of Chloe. Tarnish her name even further. I can’t stand it, Davie. I just want to go back to living a life that isn’t a talking point for strangers. And Jack needs to stop being a tit to make that happen.’
Hope eradicated. Fuck. He couldn’t tell her. Oh dear God. He could feel his heart pick up a pace that came close to palpitation, and he was fairly sure that not even the combined efforts of trimmed armpit hair, deodorant and a couple of injections of underarm Botox could stop damp patches appearing in the oxters of his pale blue Balmain shirt. This was the deepest conversation they’d had in decades, she was being so open with him, and he could now see that he was about to deliver the emotional equivalent of a bullet to the heart.
Nothing in the busy room had changed, yet suddenly he felt claustrophobic, unable to breathe, like the walls were closing in.
Bugger. Bastard. Fuck. Help.
Mirren refilled her glass from the bottle on the table and shook off her seriousness, as if she was suddenly embarrassed about revealing her feelings. That was so typically Mirren that Davie curled up just a little more inside as she spoke, clearly trying to be light-hearted.
‘Christ, listen to me. What do I sound like? Sorry, Davie, I don’t know where that all came from. Must be getting melodramatic. I blame my age. Or this very nice wine. Anyway, how did they take the rejection?’
Davie wasn’t following. ‘Who?’
‘Carmel. Carmen. Sorry, what’s her name?’
‘Carmella.’
‘That’s it. How did she take it when you pointed out it was ridiculous?’
Silence.
Long silence.
Excruciating silence.
And prayer. Dear God, if a meteor is even going to hit earth and blow it apart, annihilating the human race, please make it right now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lou head back towards the table, spot the awkward moment, pivot and go join a table headed by a guy who might just be Pierce Brosnan. It was hard to tell. They kept the light low to enhance the mystery.
Mirren’s eyes had narrowed now, focused on his face, the optic equivalents of laser beams that could fry human matter in seconds.
‘Davie?’
‘I didn’t reject the idea. The thing is, Mirren . . .’
What? What was the thing? Arguments. One. Two. Three. He closed his eyes and picked one.
‘The thing is, if I don’t make the show, then someone else will. The first series killed in the ratings, and I know that three other networks will want it. At least if I’m producing it, I can handle it properly, make sure you’re protected.’
‘Protected? How does having Jack Gore acting like a dick on TV every week protect us?’ Her voice was low and deadly, in the manner of a movie mob guy right before he orders a hit to wipe out everyone who has ever crossed him. ‘Close it down, Davie. Make sure this doesn’t go ahead.’
Davie’s eyes darted left, right, his brain trying and failing to form cognitive thought. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can, Davie. Because if you don’t, you and I are done. So you’ll do it.’
It was almost a whisper. A threatening, furious whisper.
‘I can’t stop it, Mirren, because . . .’
His brain screamed, Say it. Say it. Just fucking say it! He was a man on death row, thirty seconds until they pressed the button that would switch on the current, and he knew he had to make his confession, tell the truth, own his mistakes.
‘The contracts were signed this morning.’
The next day, he would be entirely grateful that there were no journalists in Giorgio Baldi that night. He would give thanks that no other diners were covertly filming their meeting. Because if either of those scenarios had played out, then the world would have seen or heard about the dinner conversation between Mirren McLean and Davie Johnston that ended with her standing up, smoothing down her skirt, flicking back her long Titian mane and strutting to the door – but only after she punched him square in the face.
32.
‘Live While We’re Young’ – One Direction
Sarah
How did she get here?
This might just be the most intoxicating environment Sarah had ever experienced. The atmosphere was thick with hot, throbbing lust, and raw sexuality. The stench of bodies, the noise, the heaving, breathless energy. It was utterly mesmerizing.
‘Hey, how’s Lois Lane doing?’
Deeko, the South City manager, had been calling her that since she’d joined the tour. He thought the journalistic reference was cute. It was, the first time. Now, it was starting to wear a bit thin, but she wasn’t going to chastise him. Bite. Hand. Feed. As he came into her peripheral vision, she didn’t turn to face him, strangely unwilling and unable to take her eyes off the action.
From her position just off stage left, she had a panoramic view of over 66,000 spectators screaming for the five boys in front of them, singing, fainting, pleading with them not to leave.
‘Lois Lane is thinking that if she could put in a request to come back as a specific person in the next life, she’d like to return as a member of South City.’
She wasn’t entirely joking. The lives these guys lived were seriously outrageous.
They’d flown on a private jet out of LA, headed to New York to do a couple of TV-show appearances – Good Morning America and Letterman – then headed north to Toronto to kick off the next leg of their North America tour. Sarah had done her research: 54,000 tickets had sold out in minutes when they’d gone on sale eight months before, and were already swapping hands for over $1,000 on ticketing websites. It was a phenomenon that was repeated for every date they were booked to play.
She was twenty-six. This was making her feel forty-six. It suddenly struck her that forty-six was only a few years older than Davie. She was dating a guy who was – technically – old enough to be her dad. Was that what was behind her reticence to settle down and play happy families?
That was for worrying about when she got back. Right now, she was on tour with the biggest band in the world, and she wasn’t going to lie, this was pretty exhilarating stuff. Suffocating too, sometimes. The boys were never alone, and they rarely rested.
Toronto had been a scream-fest, Ottawa two days later had been off the chain, and now they were . . . where? Bugger, three dates in and she was losing it already. Montreal. Of course! But she could now understand the old ‘every town looks the same’ road-tour cliché, because every day did follow the same pattern.
When they’d landed this morning, they’d headed straight to the hotel for four hours of back-to-back interviews with press, entertainment shows and influential celebrity websites. As soon as they were done, they were shepherded into a convoy of black SUVs and whisked to the stadium for a soundcheck. When that was over, they went back to the hotel for an intensive workout with their trainers. A quick break to eat and then back to the stadium for meet-and-greets, where they smiled, shook hands and hugged a line of fans that felt like it would never end. After the concert, it was either back to the hotel for a few hours’ sleep before flying out or straight to the airport to head to the next city, where they would land, the familiar convoy of black SUVs would pull onto the tarmac, and they’d do it all again.
And of course, almost every single moment of every single day was played out to the soundtrack of hysterical fans. Crowds of girls waiting for them at airports, outside hotels, at TV studios, at the stadium.
&nbs
p; The bodyguards certainly earned their money. Now she was here, she could see that there was no way Marilyn McLean or anyone else for that matter was getting anywhere near these boys.
The security team was twenty-strong, all former members of Shabak, the Israeli Security Agency. Sarah knew they were trained to kill. She just wasn’t sure how those skills translated to pulling twelve screeching, overwrought teenage girls off the lead singer in a boy band.
The team worked as a collective, but each of the boys had their personal guard. Logan’s was one of the oldest in the crew, a thirty-eight-year-old called Eli, who watched a lot and said little. Occupational hazard, she supposed.
In the days she’d been with Logan, she’d seen and learned a lot. He came over as the rock of the group, the one who liaised most with the management, kept an eye on making sure things ran smoothly.
A few days of research and first-hand experience had given her an insight into the dynamics of the rest of the group. Jonell, the lead singer, was undoubtedly the diva. He was a typical frontman, all ego and demands, and under no doubt that he mattered most. There was no question he’d begin to irritate her soon. There was only so much leverage being five foot six and incredibly cute could buy a guy.
Ringo, on drums, was the geek, the one who risked repetitive strain injury of the thumbs by spending every non-drumming moment on his Xbox. Everywhere he went, it got set up first, the headphones went on, and he zoned out of the world. She’d yet to have much time with the lead guitar, Lincoln, or keyboard player, D’Arby.
It didn’t matter. Logan was the focus. It was all about him. She just hadn’t decided yet if that was because she was looking out for Mirren or because he was another chapter in her book.
A collective roar snapped her out of her contemplation and saved her from answering her own question. From her position on the side of stage left, she watched the boys break off on the last note of their hit ‘Not Taking You Back’, then throw their hands up in thanks and farewell to a heaving, throbbing mass of hormones and hysterics.