The Rise, page 3
When Chloe shuffled in, she avoided eye contact, kept her gaze on the floor, her lids swollen and ringed with dark shadows. Mirren was desperate to reach out to her, to stroke her tangled hair, but there was little point. She’d tried the love-bomb approach and it had been every bit as unsuccessful as the harsh rejection of tough love she’d tried next.
As the case was set out by a couple of expensive lawyers in Armani, Mirren zoned out, wondering if the crowds had started to form outside yet. There would be the usual paps, and then there would be the idle curious with their camera phones at the ready. That was the problem. Everyone these days was a potential videographer. Telling stories all over town. Recording snapshots they might be able to flog for $100, or, if they got really lucky, $100,000. They would be out there. Waiting. Calling their friends.
Perhaps, just like last time, a rumour would already be sweeping the city, claiming that Chloe’s brother, Logan Gore, was inside supporting his sister, and a thousand teenage boy-band fans would be outside right now chanting his name. The noise of the gavel interrupted her thoughts and she listened as Lou leaned forward from the row behind. ‘Mandatory rehab. Under the circumstances, that was the best verdict we could have hoped for, darling.’
Only when she was being taken out of the courtroom, did Chloe raise her eyes to meet Mirren’s. The emptiness was harrowing. Nothing. Nothing there at all. Any sign of the little girl she’d adored had been snuffed out by her cocktail of choice: Xanax and coke.
‘Want me to come home with you?’ Lou offered.
Mirren shook her head, causing some of her curls to come free from the grip that held them in a loose chignon. Physically, twenty years in Hollywood had changed her very little. She was still as slender as she’d always been, with just a few crow’s feet belying the passage of the years. She put it down to yoga, SilkPeel and OXYjet facials, and the skills of Dr Romaine, the dermatologist who was on speed dial for half the stars in town. No trout pouts or G-forced faces there. Just small tweaks, natural work that gently took the years off without leaving a trace of a needle or laser.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I need to get organized. We start shooting next week on Clansman 5.’
Her other love. The Clansman. He’d come along right after the Oscar, when she realized that millions of American women got their rocks off at the thought of those mythical bare-chested, kilted heroes of Scottish historical fiction.
The Clansman had been her first novel, penned almost two decades before, when she’d cocooned herself in a tiny Santa Monica apartment during her first year in California. A bestseller, it demanded a sequel, then another. Ten years after she’d written the first book, Mirren wrote the screenplay and persuaded a small studio, Pictor, to buy it. That studio backed a winner. Clansman was now a brand that encompassed novels, merchandise and movies. On Clansman 2, Mirren had persuaded the growing studio to allow her to make her directorial debut and give her production credit. Now Mirren McLean was writer, director and producer on every movie in a series that was a global sensation.
She was now one of the top female earners in the town, rich in everything except maternal satisfaction.
As the courtroom began to clear, Lou leaned in and whispered in her ear, ‘Can I come and leer at Lex Callaghan’s pecs? C’mon, throw an old broad a bone. I can be there any day you like.’
Lex Callaghan. He’d been playing the Clansman since day one, and his fans were a legion that included her best friend.
Mirren’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lou, that’s a totally inappropriate thing to say. We’re in a court, for God’s sake. And he won’t be half naked until week two.’
It was impossible to resist. The humour of their friendship had got her through so many tough moments in the last two decades.
‘Miss McLean, there’s quite a crowd outside. My men will see you to your car.’
She smiled in thanks to the sergeant, a tall, handsome guy with the lean, muscular build of an NBA player, who looked much younger than his rank suggested. It wasn’t lost on her that this was the type of man she would want for her daughter. Strong, streetwise, employed, focused. Was it too much to ask?
As good as his word, the sergeant got her out of the building. There, they were joined by another four officers.
There was a myth that every officer in Beverly Hills was also a member of the Screen Actors Guild. Looking at these guys, Mirren would hedge her bets that it was only the three with the buffed fingernails.
They almost got to the car. Almost.
Later, she wouldn’t be able to remember the paparazzo’s face, only the voice.
The next morning, sitting back at that kitchen table, whisky in her glass, watching the sun come up over the city, the eternal reel of doubt over her skills as a mother and wife had been replaced by a recurring loop of the words she’d heard as she left court.
‘Mirren!’ a vaguely familiar photographer had shouted as she passed by. ‘Do you have any comment on the rumours that Jack is having an affair with Mercedes Dance?’
She hadn’t reacted, aware that it was a common ruse to get a reaction, one that would sell pictures to news desks across the country. An old trick. It meant nothing. Move on, people, nothing to see here.
But now, as dawn broke and she replaced the whisky with coffee, her gut clenched as the phone call she’d been expecting all night finally came.
‘Honey, it’s Lou…’
Chloe was locked up. Only an hour before, Logan had sent a text saying he was just about to go on stage in Miami. So there were only two things that Lou could have discovered that would warrant an early morning call and inject such dread and despair into her friend’s voice. One belonged in the past, had sat on her shoulder since long before Hollywood was her home, and could rip apart her life, her reputation, her career and everything she’d ever achieved. The other lived in the present and came with the prospect of slicing her heart in two. Every instinct told her heart to adopt the brace position.
‘I know,’ she replied. Calm. Serene. Resigned.
‘It’s Jack.’
‘I know.’
‘And Mercedes.’
‘I know.’
‘Mirren, she’s pregnant.’
The pain exploded inside her.
Her career, her reputation and her achievements remained untouched. This was much, much worse.
Her heart began to bleed.
Lou broke the silence. ‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’
Mirren could only manage a whisper. ‘Yes.’
4
ZANDER LEITH
‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ – U2
Malibu, 2013
* * *
The curvy, fifty-something nurse trundled towards him, brandishing a cup from the coffee house down the street. Zander knew it would contain a skinny latte with a vanilla twist and three extra espresso shots. His caffeine overdose of choice. He also knew that somehow his coffee-winning manner, combined with a perception that he was a lovely guy who always got the girl/ saved the day/won the war in the movies, may have given this woman a glimmer of hope that the top box-office draw in the country would respond to her daily gift by ravishing her in a very expensive Malibu rehab clinic, sometime between group counselling and having his pee tested to ensure he hadn’t discovered a way to smuggle in a bottle of JD.
Shit like that happened all the time. The groupie who got a friend at the alarm company to disable his house alarm so that she could sneak in, strip and lie spread-eagled on his kitchen table. The model who would upgrade on a flight so that she was sitting next to him and ‘accidentally’ roll her head onto his shoulder as he slept. He’d never found manipulation to be much of a turn-on, so while it was always a conversation-opener, it never ended in a relationship. A blow job, maybe. But ever since Clinton, that didn’t count.
However, he accepted his coffee from Nurse Gretta with his million-dollar smile and a wink that ensured the same scene would play out again tomorrow morning. It was Groundhog Day in here. Same walls, same people, same shit for weeks now. The expensive carpets, manicured gardens, the top-class therapists and the prime location on top of one of Malibu’s most scenic clifftops didn’t mask what this was – a collection of misfits and desperadoes who had everything yet couldn’t deal with reality without a pill or a swig from a bottle. And he was one of them. Again.
He made his way along the corridor to the patient reception, where Lebron greeted him with a wide grin of perfect white teeth.
‘Hey, man, big day today. You want me to, like, do a drum roll or something?’
Zander laughed. He liked the irreverence and the sarcasm. Reminded him of another place and time, many years and several thousand miles ago.
‘Naw, just give it to me straight.’
The strength of his Scottish accent surprised him a little. It had softened over twenty years in LA and rarely made a reappearance unless he was talking to someone from home.
Home. Strange that he still called it that when he hadn’t been back in two decades. The memory of that night in 1993 when he was forced to attend the Oscars ceremony still made his perfect, professionally whitened back molars grind.
His thoughts were cut short by Lebron handing over a telephone with a flourish and a cheeky bow.
His weekly phone call. Zander thanked him and strolled out through a side door to the garden, punching in familiar numbers as he walked. Last week, he’d used it to call his PA, Hollie. This week, it was to the only other person in the world who gave a shit.
The call was answered immediately. ‘Yeah?’
‘Wes, it’s me.’
‘Hey, bud. How you doing?’
Zander could picture Wes Lomax reclining in his $10,000 calf-hide chair, cigar hanging from his mouth, much to the disgust of the anti-smoking lobby, who wanted an immediate death penalty for anyone who sparked up in this town.
‘You tell me,’ Zander replied, aware that the clinic management sent a daily report to the head of the studio and the insurance company that were underwriting his next movie. It was standard practice for all productions to have a safety net. The policies were expensive, but they paid out for delays and shutdowns caused by freak weather, terrorism and actors going off grid.
Zander had become high risk. One more strike and they’d start withholding a percentage of his salary as collateral against another incident.
The next level above that was uninsurable. If that happened, his career was over. No one would touch him. When Robert Downey Jr. was in the depths of his chaos, the insurance companies refused to back him. His career was only saved when Mel Gibson stepped in and paid an insurance guarantee to allow him to work on The Singing Detective. Ironic. One hellraiser saves another.
‘They say you’re doing great, son. Spoke to the insurance company yesterday and they want one more week. Publicity are saying that public opinion is still with you – that Entertainment Tonight special really helped. Legal have made the charges go away and shooting starts in a fortnight, so we’re looking good.’
Another week. He supposed he should be grateful. The blowout had been spectacular, a combination of Jack Daniel’s, a reality-show prick who crossed the line and the kind of beating that no stunt coordinator could fake. Zander’s hands had healed, and no doubt a large cheque from Lomax had helped the wounds to the Z-lister’s body and ego heal real quick.
He was lucky he wasn’t in jail. But the insurance company had been unequivocal in their insistence that he go to rehab before they’d back his next movie, the seventh in a spy series featuring Seb Dunhill, an MI6 operative who could kick Bond’s ass. Bourne went to four movies, Die Hard was at five and Rocky at six. On number seven, Dunhill didn’t quite match Bond in numbers but it blew the other action franchises away at the box office. That bought Zander Leith a whole lot of leverage and understanding.
So it was back to the five-star, all-inclusive package in Life Reborn, the finest rehab in town. He knew the drill. It wasn’t like this was the first time.
Hanging up with a sigh, Zander lit a cigarette, the smell blending with the scent of the flowers that bloomed in shades of white all around him. It was like drying out in a fricking morgue.
It was only when he tossed the remnants of his smoke into the sand of a podium ashtray behind him that he noticed her. Sitting in the corner. Hugging her knees. Head down. Long red curls falling around her. The image kicked him in the chest, closing his airwaves. Mirren.
But no. This was a young woman. Mirren from thirty years ago. He was about to question if something had been slipped in his coffee when he realized who it had to be.
As if sensing his presence, she looked up. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
His shrug clearly wasn’t the answer she was looking for.
A light of recognition switched on in her eyes.
‘Zander Leith.’
It was a statement, not a question.
‘I’m Chloe.’
‘I know.’
Run. He should turn and run. For once in his life he should do the smart thing and walk away from trouble.
‘You grew up with my mom.’
‘I did,’ he replied. Run. Just run.
‘So you already know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Just what kind of bitch she is.’
5
‘DON’T YOU (FORGET ABOUT ME)’– SIMPLE MINDS
GLASGOW, 2013
The room smelt of death and a million futile wishes. Sarah McKenzie prided herself on having a strong stomach, but the stench was making her want to retch. Swallowing, she fought to keep down the bile. Nothing was going to get in the way of this story. It was her first chance of a major break since she’d joined the Daily Scot and she’d been working on it for months. Manny Murphy. Glasgow gangland crime lord. A giant of a man and a legend in this city.
But that was before the cancer started eating away at his organs until he was nothing but skin, bone and disease. Now in his seventies, he was bedbound and totally reliant on the nurse his sons paid for to assuage the guilt they knew they should feel for stepping into the old man’s shoes and walking in the other direction. His young, gold-digging wife had left him, and not one of his three boys had been near his home on the outskirts of Crofthill, the area in the east end of the city where Murphy had been born and raised. The press called the streets of this dilapidated housing scheme ‘urban deprivation’. Not Manny. His home had once been owned by the council, but he’d bought it from them and built a fortress around it: gates, fences, security systems. But it was the people in this area that were his biggest protection. Nobody got in or out without Manny knowing about it. This was his haven and he wouldn’t go any further afield until they took him there in a box.
His sons belonged to the new Glasgow. The side that left Crofthill and the other scars of the Mean City behind. The glittering shopping centres. The world-class restaurants. The architecture, there for hundreds of years, now appreciated for its historic splendour. The commerce, the culture, the fashion, the forward-thinking buzz. That Glasgow was an extraordinary city. A dear green place. Somewhere to belong. A city of ambition, aspiration, humour and hope.
Not that his sons’ desertion was a great loss. Manny was never slow in telling any audience what a disappointment his offspring were. All of them too impetuous, cardboard gangsters who thought they could throw their weight around without the intelligence to back it up. Where were their plans? Where was their class? Their long-term strategies? Not like it was in his day. Back then, the territories were marked and everyone knew where they stood. Now, it was all about a fast buck with no thought to the future. Coke. That’s what his boys were into now. Running it up from Liverpool in the back of fruit trucks. Ironic. He’d heard the rumours that all three of his spawns were using the drug as one of their five-a-day.
He’d told Sarah all of this on her last visit. Three times she’d sat here now and so far there was nothing she could write about without ending up sued or dead. Patience. Wasn’t that what her editor always told her she needed? Patience. Quick reactions on the daily stories, patience on the long shots. She’d spent months on this now, setting up the meetings, bribing the nurse, getting Manny to agree to speak to her, determined that he was going to give her the story that would make her career. Put her on the map. At twenty-five, it was time to prove she had the grit that was needed to make it in newspapers.
If only the old bastard would tell her something she could use. For the last hour he’d been banging on about a post office job he’d carried out in the late 1980s. None of what he was telling her was new.
He hacked up some phlegm and wiped his face with the sleeve of his black silk pyjamas before continuing.
‘The whole crew got ten years, except me and Jono Leith.’
Sarah almost missed it. On the face of it, nothing in that last statement jumped out. Manny’s ability to dodge justice was the stuff of urban legend. He’d already moved on to the next anecdote when something niggled. Perhaps it was the fact that in all her research she’d never come across Jono Leith. Perhaps it was the unusual surname, made famous by one of Glasgow’s most-loved exports. Something made her stop Manny mid-flow.
‘Jono Leith?’
Manny paused for a moment, as if rewound straight back to the memory of a long-ago time.
‘Aye, Jono. Whit a guy. Bampot. Maddest bastard I ever knew.’
Coming from someone whose friendship circle comprised of many mad bastards, that was quite an accolade.
A shot of adrenalin made Sarah’s hand shake just a little.
‘What happened to him?’
Another pause. ‘Dunno. Disappeared off the face of the earth one day. Just never showed up again. Heard he fucked off with some bit on the side he was shagging. Christ knows there were many.’
