The Rise, page 13
‘No, thanks. I just wanted a quick chat with Ena Dawson. Is she around?’
Isabel gesticulated heavenwards. ‘Upstairs. She’s just giving it a quick tidy before the rush starts.’
The winding stairway was narrow and treacherous to navigate in six-inch heels. When Sarah reached the upper deck, her exhalation of relief caused a tiny cloud to form in the freezing air in front of her.
The woman sweeping between the chairs looked up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ena Dawson?’
Wariness and hesitation flickered across her face.
‘Yes?’
Bingo. Sarah could see immediately that she’d got the right woman.
The resemblance to her son was uncannily obvious. The same dark, wavy hair. The brown eyes. Something in the shape of her face…
‘I’m Sarah McKenzie. I’m a reporter with the Daily Scot and a friend of Isabel.’
‘Och, if you’re doing another one of those reports on the work Isabel does here, you’re better talking to Dan downstairs. Lovely boy, so he is.’
Her smile was warm now, with just an edge of embarrassment. Sarah decided to go with open confidence and hope for the best.
‘Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to, Mrs Dawson. I’m actually working on a story about your son, Davie. It did used to be Ena Johnston, didn’t it?’
21
‘LOSING MY RELIGION’ – R.E.M
Davie fidgeted as he spoke. ‘So what’s the verdict? Give it to me one fucking disaster at a time.’
Cal stared at the screen in front of him for so long Davie had time to contemplate what would happen if the heat of the blood coursing through his veins caused a spontaneous combustion. He just hoped the fire caught Cal’s $10,000 silk wallpaper and burned the whole fucking place down.
‘American Stars have dropped you. They’re offering it to Seacrest now that Idol has slumped. They had no choice – Pepsi and Nike threatened to pull sponsorship. The talk show with E! has been put on indefinite hold. Obviously filming of New York Nixons has been canned: Sky is out of the coma, but no other details yet, and Jax Nixon has announced that he’s taken a contract out on you if you come within a hundred miles of the Eastern Seaboard. The Hugo Boss campaign is cancelled, Ferrari have taken you off their ad, and you’ve been politely informed that your services are no longer required for the Kids Kick Cancer Telethon.’
Cal stopped with a sigh when he realized that Davie was no longer breathing.
‘Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds.’
‘It’s fucking worse.’
Cal sighed again and rubbed his temples with his index fingers.
‘I can see why you’re thinking that. But look, Davie, there’s still hope. Your productions are still killing it – Liking Lana got its best ever ratings last week, and Dream Machine is doing great. Even if you’re not presenting it, you’ll still get production credit on American Stars, so you’ll still be banking three of the top-rating shows in the country.’
It wasn’t much of a consolation. Sure, the money, to a lesser extent, was still coming in, but for how long? These shows rarely went past five seasons before they ran out of storylines and the public got bored with them. Only the Kardashians had managed to hang on, and that’s because they’d turned scandal and obnoxious wealth into a full time job.
He might be at the top of that tree now, but it wouldn’t be long until some bastard came along with a chainsaw. He slid out of the white leather Corbusier chair and started pacing, his white McQueen Puma sneakers leaving indentations on the thick black rug.
What did the ratings matter anyway if the whole world thought he was scum? The press conference had halted the damage only temporarily. There was at least a seed of doubt that he had the moral values of the average serial killer, but then Rainbow had hit back the following day denying his story, calling him a liar and announcing she was launching legal action. It was an entirely predictable move, but according to Cal, popularity was a numbers game. Prior to the press call and the debacle that night at the Lakers game, 100 per cent of people thought he was guilty. The entertainment round-ups and daytime shows had all run his explanation slash apology the next day. Now 30 per cent thought he was guilty, 30 per cent thought Rainbow was making it up, and the remainder had forgotten about it because their attention had been entirely captivated by Miley Cyrus twerking at the VMAs.
Davie made a mental note to send flowers as a thank you for taking the heat off. Not that the pressure from the paps had cooled any. The tossers were outside his house, following his car, staking out the CSA offices. They’d even formed a welcoming guard at Nespresso on Beverly to deprive him of his morning shot of caffeine.
They were like vultures, circling, knowing that their biggest feed ever had just been given last rites.
Cal clicked onto a new page on the screen. ‘We’ve had requests from Leno, Letterman, Ferguson, Kimmel, Fallon, Ellen, Elaine, The View, The Talk, Chelsea Lately. And you know, Davie, we could do an Oprah special.’
Davie stopped mid-pace. ‘I’m not doing Oprah. Lance Armstrong does Oprah to announce he doped. Lohan gets all repentant on Oprah. Cruise makes a dick of himself on Oprah. I’m desperate, mate, not fucking suicidal.’
Cal’s massage of his temples was now beginning to look like he was attempting to drill through his skull.
‘We’ve got a meeting at 4 p.m. – full team, damage control. In the meantime, I’ve leaked your schedule today.’
‘What schedule?’
‘You’re picking the kids up from set and taking them to the playground at Coldwater Canyon at noon. The shots will be on long lens, so make sure they don’t get you scratching your balls or ignoring the kids.’
Davie stopped and stared at him like he was insane.
‘My kids. The park. Noon. Cal, have you met my kids? They’re fucking redheads. They don’t do midday sun. Forget it, Cal. Change of plan. I’ll be back at four for the war room.’
‘Look, Davie, do you want me to bring Harvey back in?’ Davie shook his head. Harvey Jones was his former manager of over a decade, fired a year ago because Davie decided he’d been giving away 10 per cent of his income to someone who added nothing to his career. Jenny had said at the time that Davie was being a control freak. She was probably right. But he was a control freak who had a couple of million a year more in the bank. The managerial stuff now got handled by CSA, alongside every other aspect of his career. It used to seem like wise strategic planning. Now, for the first time, Davie wondered if it was too many eggs in one overloaded basket. The peg that held Cal’s Zegna blazer was looking shakier by the second.
As Davie headed out of the underground car park, a squad of paparazzi motorbikes and SUVs fell into a convoy behind him, one dick on a Ducati actually riding up alongside him and shooting off shots through the window. Davie had never been more tempted to swerve the car.
It would make sense to go home, batten down the storm doors and keep a low profile for a few days, but the thought of being stuck out in Bel Air while his life crumbled around him drove him insane. He had to be busy. Had to be doing something. Even if it was just screaming at Cal and manipulating those bastard paps.
He needed a plan, one that didn’t involve bloody Oprah. In the meantime, he’d go get the kids, take them for ice cream in their lunch break and let the paps get their shots. Dad of the Year.
Twenty minutes later, the chase ended when he slid into the entrance lane at Captis Studios.
‘Hey, Mr Johnston, good to see you.’
The beaming smile and courteous nod were proof that Rick the security guard was either a convincing actor who’d missed his calling or he didn’t keep up with celebrity news. Or perhaps he just knew that in this town, it paid to stay onside with everyone.
It was a sad frigging day when he was grateful for the kindness of someone who earned less than he spent on gas every year.
The wave of fear that had been slamming against him since this whole fiasco broke took over again, making his hands shake against the walnut steering wheel as he drove through the gate.
He checked his watch. Half an hour to kill. Usually he’d slip into Vala’s trailer, let her amuse him in the only way she could, but not today. That bitch had trashed him on national television. Not a shred of defence. Not an iota of praise of his many talents. Just the tremble of that salacious pout and the bat of those lash extensions. But still…
Acting on pure testosterone, he doubled back, turned right, stopped and sprang out of the car, checking first to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Security was tight in here, but all it took was one maintenance guy with a mobile phone looking to make a quick buck from Radar Online.
No one.
He knocked on the door and then went straight in without waiting for a reply.
Vala was lying on her chaise longue, in a tank and G-string, watching the latest Seb Dunhill movie. You have got to be shitting me. There was no way he was getting a hard-on now.
‘Hey, are you ever gonna stop bursting in here?’ Her accent was staccato, her voice high-pitched – the latter due to the fact that Zander Leith was kicking the crap out of someone on her fifty-inch plasma.
Libido crashed, Davie went into the fridge and took out a Bud, screwing off the top and tossing it in the sink. She kept a stock for him and her deadbeat brother, who showed up once a week looking for cash.
‘What time are you due on set?’ he asked.
No pleasantries. No subtlety. He didn’t care. No way he could shag her now.
‘One hour,’ she said, licking her finger, then letting it trail downwards.
It was amazing how a personal invitation could bypass the brain and go straight to the penis.
‘I’ll only need half of that,’ he said, objections gone. Beer bottle still in one hand, he used the other to flip open the button of his AG jeans, slide down the zipper.
Vala lifted the TV remote and pressed pause, leaving a huge image of Zander on the screen, looking down on them. Davie wanted to grab the remote and switch it off, but he could see she was in the mood for a fight and there wasn’t enough time to humour her. Instead, he turned his back to the TV and walked towards her. Still looking over his shoulder at the screen, she put a foot out in front of her to stop him.
He played along. Eyes locked on his, she whipped off the tank and tossed it to the side, exposing her tight, high breasts. Then she pulled hard at the tiny G-string so it barely resisted as the side band snapped and the flimsy triangle of lace came clean off, revealing perfectly smooth, hair-free skin underneath.
‘C’mere,’ he said, his voice a couple of octaves lower than normal.
Vala hit his hand away and moved to the edge of the chaise.
His groan was as desperate as it was irrepressible.
‘Kneel down,’ she ordered.
Right now she could have told him to sign over all his worldly goods and he’d have done it. He sunk to his knees, then shuffled in closer, ready to enter her and relieve the unbearable pressure in his groin.
Once again, she stopped him.
‘No, no, amigo, not today. Today, it’s all about me.’
She leaned forward, grabbed his head and pulled it down so he could taste her. As he got to work, even the roaring in his head couldn’t block out the fact that she had restarted the movie and was watching it over his head. He blocked out the voices coming from the TV, Zander’s guttural roar.
In just a couple of minutes, the rasping of her breath, the heat of her limbs, the shudder of her ass told him that she was coming.
‘Oh yes, baby. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh… oh… Zander!’
As she gasped out that name, something both inside him – and outside – died.
What would, by most men’s standards, be considered the zenith of their life experiences became the moment that Davie Johnston knew for sure that his time at the top was over.
22
‘HOW CAN YOU MEND A BROKEN HEART?’– AL GREEN
There was something comforting about being back in the office. Every single thing in here had been picked by Mirren, set up when she’d won the development deal with Pictor Films to make the first Clansman movie. The two pale cream jacquard sofas sat on either side of a tile coffee table she’d brought back from Mexico on the back of a pickup truck ten years ago. Her oak desk was worn and much loved, found at the Fairfax flea market and previously installed at the tiny Santa Monica apartment she’d lived in when she first moved here, the one in which she’d written the first Clansman movie. Simple. Basic. Functional. Some thought it too low key and cheap for a woman of her status in this city, but for Mirren, it said the opposite. She didn’t need a $10,000 marble desk to reflect the size of her dick.
She knew who she was. It was all there, on the soft caramel walls, punctuated by huge dark oak frames displaying promo posters for each of the Clansman movies, and smaller frames showing pictures of the people she loved. Logan on his first album cover with the band. Chloe when she modelled for Hilfiger in a ‘kids of celebrities’ campaign. Snaps of them both when they were younger – running in the sand, throwing snowballs in Aspen, riding horses in the Napa Valley.
The McLean Productions HQ was in a quiet corner of the huge Pictor lot, past the sets of two hit sitcoms, turn right at the street that was built for a drama about five suburban housewives gone wild, turn left at the replica of the White House and through the mock-up of the fountain area in Central Park. The building behind hers was purpose-built and staged the location shots for Clansman’s house and village. Sixteenth-century Scotland brought to life in modern-day Century City, LA.
It looked exactly as Mirren had imagined it would when she wrote the first book. Haunting. Beautiful. Atmospheric. Historic. There had been an impressive budget for sets and Mirren had repaid the studio’s faith in her production and directorial debut by ensuring that every cent was used wisely.
That diligence and work ethic had never wavered. Already this morning she’d had meetings with accountants, engineers and costume, and now she just wanted a half-hour at her desk to take stock. Think.
The click as her door opened was the first sign that thinking would have to wait.
‘Hi.’ Sheepish. Apologetic. Weak.
Mirren put down her pen and reluctantly looked at the new arrival.
‘Really, Jack? Here?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t have any choice. Seems the locks have been changed at home and the staff are under instructions to keep me out.’
‘Correct. It’s not such a challenge. Half of them hardly know you given that you’ve barely been there for nineteen years.’
She mentally kicked herself for going there. Classy and dignified, that was how she had decided to handle this. Somehow, right now, those resolutions were being batted out of the park by bitterness and fury.
Mirren watched him as he slouched in the doorway, holding two coffees and a brown bag that she would bet her last dollar contained an apple and cinnamon tart from the French patisserie on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Dear wife, sorry I fucked another woman. Can I take the pain away by offering you a wildly indulgent, yet delicious, high-sugar snack?
Sighing, she got up, came round to the front of the desk and took one of the coffees. They both took them the same way. Black and strong.
‘Outside,’ she said, knowing he would follow. She cut into the replica of the Central Park square and sat on the grass in front of the fountain. It was one of her favourite lunch spots. There was every possibility the next half an hour would taint that forever.
‘So speak.’ Her tone was calm again. Back on track with the dignity strategy.
‘I’ve fucked it all up, Mirren.’ His voice was hoarse. Too many Marlboro Lights, with an overtone of sleep deprivation.
‘Indeed you have.’
Although staring straight ahead, she could just catch his silhouette in her peripheral vision. Was it wishful thinking or did he seem older? Tired? Jack was fifty-two, but he’d always looked a decade younger. Now, not so much. A week ago, that would have concerned her, made her resolve to persuade him to take time out, head off for a holiday. Now, she felt nothing at all. Nothing.
The only twinge of pain was when she realized that he’d accessorized his black T-shirt and charcoal jeans with the black cowboy boots she’d bought for him when they sneaked off to Vegas to watch the ACM Awards last year. They’d danced all night to the best country music outside Nashville, drank tequila shots at the Hard Rock Cafe, made love overlooking the city in a glass-fronted suite at the Palms and Mirren had thanked God for making her happier than any person deserved to be. God clearly decided that too much of a good thing couldn’t be allowed to continue.
‘I’m staying in our room at the Casa del Mar.’ It was their bolthole, a tax deductible haven in their favourite hotel on Santa Monica beach, that they kept for when they wanted solitude, to work in peace, have private meetings, or indulge in romantic weekends. Right now, it didn’t feel like there would be any more of those.
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘I know. But just in case, you know, you thought I was staying… there. At her…’
‘You don’t need to spell it out for me,’ Mirren snapped, before curiosity got the better of her and she asked, ‘Why aren’t you?’
‘Because we’re not together. Shit, Mirren, she’s barely older than Chloe.’
‘That was going to be my next line.’
The inside of her cheek was starting to hurt, but she couldn’t stop chewing it because if she did, she knew she’d cry. And there would be no crying in front of Jack Gore today.
‘Mirren, I’m so sorry. It was a fuck-up. A couple of times. I was just—’
‘Don’t dare make an excuse, Jack.’
He put his hands up. ‘I know. You’re right. But what can I do to fix this, Mirren? We can’t walk away from our family. We’ve got something great…’
‘Not great enough.’
‘OK, I deserved that. But, Mir, come on. I don’t want the kids to have the kind of home that we had.’
Isabel gesticulated heavenwards. ‘Upstairs. She’s just giving it a quick tidy before the rush starts.’
The winding stairway was narrow and treacherous to navigate in six-inch heels. When Sarah reached the upper deck, her exhalation of relief caused a tiny cloud to form in the freezing air in front of her.
The woman sweeping between the chairs looked up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ena Dawson?’
Wariness and hesitation flickered across her face.
‘Yes?’
Bingo. Sarah could see immediately that she’d got the right woman.
The resemblance to her son was uncannily obvious. The same dark, wavy hair. The brown eyes. Something in the shape of her face…
‘I’m Sarah McKenzie. I’m a reporter with the Daily Scot and a friend of Isabel.’
‘Och, if you’re doing another one of those reports on the work Isabel does here, you’re better talking to Dan downstairs. Lovely boy, so he is.’
Her smile was warm now, with just an edge of embarrassment. Sarah decided to go with open confidence and hope for the best.
‘Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to, Mrs Dawson. I’m actually working on a story about your son, Davie. It did used to be Ena Johnston, didn’t it?’
21
‘LOSING MY RELIGION’ – R.E.M
Davie fidgeted as he spoke. ‘So what’s the verdict? Give it to me one fucking disaster at a time.’
Cal stared at the screen in front of him for so long Davie had time to contemplate what would happen if the heat of the blood coursing through his veins caused a spontaneous combustion. He just hoped the fire caught Cal’s $10,000 silk wallpaper and burned the whole fucking place down.
‘American Stars have dropped you. They’re offering it to Seacrest now that Idol has slumped. They had no choice – Pepsi and Nike threatened to pull sponsorship. The talk show with E! has been put on indefinite hold. Obviously filming of New York Nixons has been canned: Sky is out of the coma, but no other details yet, and Jax Nixon has announced that he’s taken a contract out on you if you come within a hundred miles of the Eastern Seaboard. The Hugo Boss campaign is cancelled, Ferrari have taken you off their ad, and you’ve been politely informed that your services are no longer required for the Kids Kick Cancer Telethon.’
Cal stopped with a sigh when he realized that Davie was no longer breathing.
‘Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds.’
‘It’s fucking worse.’
Cal sighed again and rubbed his temples with his index fingers.
‘I can see why you’re thinking that. But look, Davie, there’s still hope. Your productions are still killing it – Liking Lana got its best ever ratings last week, and Dream Machine is doing great. Even if you’re not presenting it, you’ll still get production credit on American Stars, so you’ll still be banking three of the top-rating shows in the country.’
It wasn’t much of a consolation. Sure, the money, to a lesser extent, was still coming in, but for how long? These shows rarely went past five seasons before they ran out of storylines and the public got bored with them. Only the Kardashians had managed to hang on, and that’s because they’d turned scandal and obnoxious wealth into a full time job.
He might be at the top of that tree now, but it wouldn’t be long until some bastard came along with a chainsaw. He slid out of the white leather Corbusier chair and started pacing, his white McQueen Puma sneakers leaving indentations on the thick black rug.
What did the ratings matter anyway if the whole world thought he was scum? The press conference had halted the damage only temporarily. There was at least a seed of doubt that he had the moral values of the average serial killer, but then Rainbow had hit back the following day denying his story, calling him a liar and announcing she was launching legal action. It was an entirely predictable move, but according to Cal, popularity was a numbers game. Prior to the press call and the debacle that night at the Lakers game, 100 per cent of people thought he was guilty. The entertainment round-ups and daytime shows had all run his explanation slash apology the next day. Now 30 per cent thought he was guilty, 30 per cent thought Rainbow was making it up, and the remainder had forgotten about it because their attention had been entirely captivated by Miley Cyrus twerking at the VMAs.
Davie made a mental note to send flowers as a thank you for taking the heat off. Not that the pressure from the paps had cooled any. The tossers were outside his house, following his car, staking out the CSA offices. They’d even formed a welcoming guard at Nespresso on Beverly to deprive him of his morning shot of caffeine.
They were like vultures, circling, knowing that their biggest feed ever had just been given last rites.
Cal clicked onto a new page on the screen. ‘We’ve had requests from Leno, Letterman, Ferguson, Kimmel, Fallon, Ellen, Elaine, The View, The Talk, Chelsea Lately. And you know, Davie, we could do an Oprah special.’
Davie stopped mid-pace. ‘I’m not doing Oprah. Lance Armstrong does Oprah to announce he doped. Lohan gets all repentant on Oprah. Cruise makes a dick of himself on Oprah. I’m desperate, mate, not fucking suicidal.’
Cal’s massage of his temples was now beginning to look like he was attempting to drill through his skull.
‘We’ve got a meeting at 4 p.m. – full team, damage control. In the meantime, I’ve leaked your schedule today.’
‘What schedule?’
‘You’re picking the kids up from set and taking them to the playground at Coldwater Canyon at noon. The shots will be on long lens, so make sure they don’t get you scratching your balls or ignoring the kids.’
Davie stopped and stared at him like he was insane.
‘My kids. The park. Noon. Cal, have you met my kids? They’re fucking redheads. They don’t do midday sun. Forget it, Cal. Change of plan. I’ll be back at four for the war room.’
‘Look, Davie, do you want me to bring Harvey back in?’ Davie shook his head. Harvey Jones was his former manager of over a decade, fired a year ago because Davie decided he’d been giving away 10 per cent of his income to someone who added nothing to his career. Jenny had said at the time that Davie was being a control freak. She was probably right. But he was a control freak who had a couple of million a year more in the bank. The managerial stuff now got handled by CSA, alongside every other aspect of his career. It used to seem like wise strategic planning. Now, for the first time, Davie wondered if it was too many eggs in one overloaded basket. The peg that held Cal’s Zegna blazer was looking shakier by the second.
As Davie headed out of the underground car park, a squad of paparazzi motorbikes and SUVs fell into a convoy behind him, one dick on a Ducati actually riding up alongside him and shooting off shots through the window. Davie had never been more tempted to swerve the car.
It would make sense to go home, batten down the storm doors and keep a low profile for a few days, but the thought of being stuck out in Bel Air while his life crumbled around him drove him insane. He had to be busy. Had to be doing something. Even if it was just screaming at Cal and manipulating those bastard paps.
He needed a plan, one that didn’t involve bloody Oprah. In the meantime, he’d go get the kids, take them for ice cream in their lunch break and let the paps get their shots. Dad of the Year.
Twenty minutes later, the chase ended when he slid into the entrance lane at Captis Studios.
‘Hey, Mr Johnston, good to see you.’
The beaming smile and courteous nod were proof that Rick the security guard was either a convincing actor who’d missed his calling or he didn’t keep up with celebrity news. Or perhaps he just knew that in this town, it paid to stay onside with everyone.
It was a sad frigging day when he was grateful for the kindness of someone who earned less than he spent on gas every year.
The wave of fear that had been slamming against him since this whole fiasco broke took over again, making his hands shake against the walnut steering wheel as he drove through the gate.
He checked his watch. Half an hour to kill. Usually he’d slip into Vala’s trailer, let her amuse him in the only way she could, but not today. That bitch had trashed him on national television. Not a shred of defence. Not an iota of praise of his many talents. Just the tremble of that salacious pout and the bat of those lash extensions. But still…
Acting on pure testosterone, he doubled back, turned right, stopped and sprang out of the car, checking first to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Security was tight in here, but all it took was one maintenance guy with a mobile phone looking to make a quick buck from Radar Online.
No one.
He knocked on the door and then went straight in without waiting for a reply.
Vala was lying on her chaise longue, in a tank and G-string, watching the latest Seb Dunhill movie. You have got to be shitting me. There was no way he was getting a hard-on now.
‘Hey, are you ever gonna stop bursting in here?’ Her accent was staccato, her voice high-pitched – the latter due to the fact that Zander Leith was kicking the crap out of someone on her fifty-inch plasma.
Libido crashed, Davie went into the fridge and took out a Bud, screwing off the top and tossing it in the sink. She kept a stock for him and her deadbeat brother, who showed up once a week looking for cash.
‘What time are you due on set?’ he asked.
No pleasantries. No subtlety. He didn’t care. No way he could shag her now.
‘One hour,’ she said, licking her finger, then letting it trail downwards.
It was amazing how a personal invitation could bypass the brain and go straight to the penis.
‘I’ll only need half of that,’ he said, objections gone. Beer bottle still in one hand, he used the other to flip open the button of his AG jeans, slide down the zipper.
Vala lifted the TV remote and pressed pause, leaving a huge image of Zander on the screen, looking down on them. Davie wanted to grab the remote and switch it off, but he could see she was in the mood for a fight and there wasn’t enough time to humour her. Instead, he turned his back to the TV and walked towards her. Still looking over his shoulder at the screen, she put a foot out in front of her to stop him.
He played along. Eyes locked on his, she whipped off the tank and tossed it to the side, exposing her tight, high breasts. Then she pulled hard at the tiny G-string so it barely resisted as the side band snapped and the flimsy triangle of lace came clean off, revealing perfectly smooth, hair-free skin underneath.
‘C’mere,’ he said, his voice a couple of octaves lower than normal.
Vala hit his hand away and moved to the edge of the chaise.
His groan was as desperate as it was irrepressible.
‘Kneel down,’ she ordered.
Right now she could have told him to sign over all his worldly goods and he’d have done it. He sunk to his knees, then shuffled in closer, ready to enter her and relieve the unbearable pressure in his groin.
Once again, she stopped him.
‘No, no, amigo, not today. Today, it’s all about me.’
She leaned forward, grabbed his head and pulled it down so he could taste her. As he got to work, even the roaring in his head couldn’t block out the fact that she had restarted the movie and was watching it over his head. He blocked out the voices coming from the TV, Zander’s guttural roar.
In just a couple of minutes, the rasping of her breath, the heat of her limbs, the shudder of her ass told him that she was coming.
‘Oh yes, baby. Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh… oh… Zander!’
As she gasped out that name, something both inside him – and outside – died.
What would, by most men’s standards, be considered the zenith of their life experiences became the moment that Davie Johnston knew for sure that his time at the top was over.
22
‘HOW CAN YOU MEND A BROKEN HEART?’– AL GREEN
There was something comforting about being back in the office. Every single thing in here had been picked by Mirren, set up when she’d won the development deal with Pictor Films to make the first Clansman movie. The two pale cream jacquard sofas sat on either side of a tile coffee table she’d brought back from Mexico on the back of a pickup truck ten years ago. Her oak desk was worn and much loved, found at the Fairfax flea market and previously installed at the tiny Santa Monica apartment she’d lived in when she first moved here, the one in which she’d written the first Clansman movie. Simple. Basic. Functional. Some thought it too low key and cheap for a woman of her status in this city, but for Mirren, it said the opposite. She didn’t need a $10,000 marble desk to reflect the size of her dick.
She knew who she was. It was all there, on the soft caramel walls, punctuated by huge dark oak frames displaying promo posters for each of the Clansman movies, and smaller frames showing pictures of the people she loved. Logan on his first album cover with the band. Chloe when she modelled for Hilfiger in a ‘kids of celebrities’ campaign. Snaps of them both when they were younger – running in the sand, throwing snowballs in Aspen, riding horses in the Napa Valley.
The McLean Productions HQ was in a quiet corner of the huge Pictor lot, past the sets of two hit sitcoms, turn right at the street that was built for a drama about five suburban housewives gone wild, turn left at the replica of the White House and through the mock-up of the fountain area in Central Park. The building behind hers was purpose-built and staged the location shots for Clansman’s house and village. Sixteenth-century Scotland brought to life in modern-day Century City, LA.
It looked exactly as Mirren had imagined it would when she wrote the first book. Haunting. Beautiful. Atmospheric. Historic. There had been an impressive budget for sets and Mirren had repaid the studio’s faith in her production and directorial debut by ensuring that every cent was used wisely.
That diligence and work ethic had never wavered. Already this morning she’d had meetings with accountants, engineers and costume, and now she just wanted a half-hour at her desk to take stock. Think.
The click as her door opened was the first sign that thinking would have to wait.
‘Hi.’ Sheepish. Apologetic. Weak.
Mirren put down her pen and reluctantly looked at the new arrival.
‘Really, Jack? Here?’
He shrugged. ‘Didn’t have any choice. Seems the locks have been changed at home and the staff are under instructions to keep me out.’
‘Correct. It’s not such a challenge. Half of them hardly know you given that you’ve barely been there for nineteen years.’
She mentally kicked herself for going there. Classy and dignified, that was how she had decided to handle this. Somehow, right now, those resolutions were being batted out of the park by bitterness and fury.
Mirren watched him as he slouched in the doorway, holding two coffees and a brown bag that she would bet her last dollar contained an apple and cinnamon tart from the French patisserie on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Dear wife, sorry I fucked another woman. Can I take the pain away by offering you a wildly indulgent, yet delicious, high-sugar snack?
Sighing, she got up, came round to the front of the desk and took one of the coffees. They both took them the same way. Black and strong.
‘Outside,’ she said, knowing he would follow. She cut into the replica of the Central Park square and sat on the grass in front of the fountain. It was one of her favourite lunch spots. There was every possibility the next half an hour would taint that forever.
‘So speak.’ Her tone was calm again. Back on track with the dignity strategy.
‘I’ve fucked it all up, Mirren.’ His voice was hoarse. Too many Marlboro Lights, with an overtone of sleep deprivation.
‘Indeed you have.’
Although staring straight ahead, she could just catch his silhouette in her peripheral vision. Was it wishful thinking or did he seem older? Tired? Jack was fifty-two, but he’d always looked a decade younger. Now, not so much. A week ago, that would have concerned her, made her resolve to persuade him to take time out, head off for a holiday. Now, she felt nothing at all. Nothing.
The only twinge of pain was when she realized that he’d accessorized his black T-shirt and charcoal jeans with the black cowboy boots she’d bought for him when they sneaked off to Vegas to watch the ACM Awards last year. They’d danced all night to the best country music outside Nashville, drank tequila shots at the Hard Rock Cafe, made love overlooking the city in a glass-fronted suite at the Palms and Mirren had thanked God for making her happier than any person deserved to be. God clearly decided that too much of a good thing couldn’t be allowed to continue.
‘I’m staying in our room at the Casa del Mar.’ It was their bolthole, a tax deductible haven in their favourite hotel on Santa Monica beach, that they kept for when they wanted solitude, to work in peace, have private meetings, or indulge in romantic weekends. Right now, it didn’t feel like there would be any more of those.
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘I know. But just in case, you know, you thought I was staying… there. At her…’
‘You don’t need to spell it out for me,’ Mirren snapped, before curiosity got the better of her and she asked, ‘Why aren’t you?’
‘Because we’re not together. Shit, Mirren, she’s barely older than Chloe.’
‘That was going to be my next line.’
The inside of her cheek was starting to hurt, but she couldn’t stop chewing it because if she did, she knew she’d cry. And there would be no crying in front of Jack Gore today.
‘Mirren, I’m so sorry. It was a fuck-up. A couple of times. I was just—’
‘Don’t dare make an excuse, Jack.’
He put his hands up. ‘I know. You’re right. But what can I do to fix this, Mirren? We can’t walk away from our family. We’ve got something great…’
‘Not great enough.’
‘OK, I deserved that. But, Mir, come on. I don’t want the kids to have the kind of home that we had.’
