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  This was a guy who oozed strength and who chose activities that required power. The fact that he was the head of a studio at forty-five said he was a workaholic – probably why his marriage to Jade’s mother had failed. Mirren racked her memory for any information stored on his past history. Married to a lawyer, divorced a few years ago, mutual decision, no one else involved. That was it.

  It struck her that she should probably have done a bit of research – purely for professional purposes, of course.

  Beside her, Jade was refusing to look at Logan now, clearly so overwhelmed it was easier to bury her head in the menu. Mirren’s heart melted a little. When she was that age, she’d been obsessed with Spandau Ballet. She could still sing every word of every one of their songs. If Martin Kemp had ever ambled into the cafe in her local High Street while she was eating a bacon roll and drinking a can of Tizer, they’d have had to resuscitate her.

  Apart from the chronic blushing, Jade’s face bore a strong resemblance to her father’s. It was obvious that her wide mouth, sallow skin and piercing blue eyes came from him, as did the deep brown hair, although the natural curls must have been her mother’s contribution. Mark wore his hair straight, short at the sides and back, longer on the top so that it flopped slightly over his forehead. From the neck up, there was a bit of David Duchovny going on there. From the neck down, it was more Hugh Jackman.

  Focus, Mirren. Back in the game. What was going on with her? This was business. OK, so it was dressed up as personal, but as far as she was concerned, this was just breaking the ice with the new guy, getting to know him a little better, improving relationships so that they could gain a mutual respect that would pay off in the day job.

  Logan took control of the conversation, asking Jade about her school and the cheerleading squad and her position on the soccer team. How brilliant was he at this? Years of meet-and-greets, or, as they were known, ‘meet-and-gloats’, had obviously taught him how to handle the situation perfectly, and somewhere between the food order being taken and their dishes being placed in front of them, Logan had prised Jade out of her shell and they were chatting away comfortably. Sometimes she couldn’t believe this amazing kid was hers.

  Mark’s gaze caught hers and she could see he was both amused and delighted.

  ‘She hasn’t talked this much to me since she was five,’ he joked, earning another glance of total disdain from his daughter.

  The conversation flowed happily throughout dinner, neutral subjects that were inclusive for everyone. It was only when the dessert plates had been cleared and Logan and Jade were compiling lists of their favourite songs ‘ever in the whole wide world’ that he leaned over towards Mirren, allowing them to strike up their own conversation. ‘I don’t want to make you sad, but I was so sorry to hear about your daughter.’

  The sympathy caught her by surprise and her reply stuck in the back of her throat. It did that sometimes. All would be fine and then a thought or a kind word would collapse her windpipe, making it impossible to breathe. She saw Logan check on her out of the corner of his eye and it was enough to kick-start her body into action again.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m good. Some good days, some bad. But mostly bearable,’ she said, knowing that if he had any people-reading skills at all, he’d realize she was lying. None of it was bearable. She doubted it ever would be.

  ‘We’re opening a centre in her name next month. It’s called Chloe’s Care and it will operate a drop-in centre for teens with substance issues. Somewhere to go. Not a rehab. Or a therapy centre. Just somewhere that a kid can go and talk if they want to, seek help if they choose or just be in an environment where they know they’re safe.’

  ‘Wow, that’s incredible.’ It wasn’t a glib retort – she could see that he meant it. ‘How is it going to be funded?’

  ‘Twenty per cent of the profits from McLean Productions, and the rest will come from fundraising. I have a feeling Logan will be recruited to help with that.’

  ‘Are you pimping me out again?’ he asked, teasing.

  ‘For a good cause, son.’

  ‘Ah, that’s fine, then.’

  Mark’s gaze went to the patio entrance, where a woman had arrived and was clearly scanning the tables.

  ‘Nicole,’ he said, standing up.

  Jade’s face fell. ‘Noooooo.’

  The other woman was at the table now. ‘I think you’re about to take over my title of least favourite parent,’ Mark joked.

  ‘Nicole, Mirren McLean and Logan Gore. This is Jade’s mum, Nicole. It’s a school night, so she’s come to collect her.’

  ‘Not leaving,’ Jade said sullenly.

  ‘Look –’ Logan nudged her ‘– I’m going on tour in a few days, but how about I come visit your school when I get back?’

  Jade’s face could have functioned as a beaming light to steer incoming ships. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. Hang on, take a pic with me.’ He picked up her phone and took a double selfie.

  Jade then screamed with glee as she watched him jot on a napkin, ‘I hereby promise to visit Jade when I get back from tour. Love, Logan.’

  It was enough to get her to leave happily, if still slightly reluctantly.

  ‘Thanks. And good to meet you.’

  With that, mother and daughter were gone and Mirren noticed there had been very little dialogue between the parents. So. Amicable for the sake of Jade, but not friends, then. Interesting. She made a mental note to press Lou for information later. If there was a story to tell here, Lou would know about it.

  In his hand, Logan’s phone buzzed and he checked the screen, before returning his attention to Mirren. ‘Do you mind if I shoot off now? It’s just, er, some of the guys are meeting tonight and I fancy hanging out.’

  Mirren grinned, realizing he wasn’t quite telling the truth. She had given birth to him, watched over him almost every day of his life and it was so easy to see when he wasn’t being entirely honest. His eyes would dart to the side, his jaw would tighten, and he’d have exactly the same expression as the time when he was five and she found three candy bars under his bed and he denied knowing how they got there. ‘Something you’re not telling me?’

  Her voice was teasing, light-hearted. ‘There’s been a few of those texts over the last few weeks. I’m thinking my son has found a girlfriend and he’s reluctant to tell his mother in case I disapprove. Life was so much easier when I could hack into my children’s phones and computers and spy on their every move.’

  ‘You did that?’ Logan feigned horror. In truth, it had always been part of the deal. Full access to all devices until they turned sixteen. Mirren thought it would help her keep them safe. How foolish she had been. Chloe had two secret cell phones by the time she was fourteen and used them to order her next high to be delivered to school.

  Bloody hell. It crept into every thought, every sentence, got so far under her skin that sometimes she felt it was all there was to her. Regret. Despair. Sadness.

  ‘Can I take the car?’ Logan asked, standing up and reaching for the keys with a cheeky wink.

  ‘Sure. I’ll get a cab home.’

  ‘I’ll drop you,’ Mark offered immediately, then to Logan, ‘It’s the least I can do for your mom after you made me Parent of the Year.’

  ‘Mark will drop me,’ she corrected herself.

  Logan shook Mark’s hand, kissed Mirren on the cheek and headed off.

  ‘Nightcap?’

  ‘Nightcap would be good,’ she agreed. ‘Brandy. On ice. I’ll be right back.’

  She headed to the washroom, leaving him to order. She’d missed this. God knows, this wasn’t a date, but she’d missed male company, conversations with someone she didn’t know, learning new things, talking to a guy who knew little about her past and nothing about her mistakes. There was something escapist about it, something that allowed her to just be. Not to be Chloe’s mom, or Jack Gore’s ex-wife. Just to be.

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nbsp; In her purse, her phone started to ring as she pushed open the door to the washrooms. Lou.

  ‘Hey, honey. Are you checking up on me?’ she asked, laughing.

  ‘Have you dangled Mark Bock over the balcony of Moonshadows by his ankles yet?’

  ‘I was just about to do that when you called and interrupted me.’

  ‘Ah, sorry. I’ll let you get back to it. I just wanted to let you know that your ex-husband is a feckless, no-good piece of crap . . .’

  ‘I knew that already.’

  ‘Who continues to astonish and delight with his levels of stupidity.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s he done now?’

  ‘I’ve sent you a clip. Gotta go. I’m having dinner with Jackie Collins. I frigging love her.’

  ‘More than me?’

  ‘Ooooh, it’s close,’ Lou confessed.

  Mirren was still chuckling when she hung up.

  Checking out the room, she made sure she was alone before pressing ‘play’ on Lou’s incoming text. A video filled the screen, one that Mirren didn’t quite understand.

  That girl, the model whose boyfriend died. On Davie’s show. Carmella – was that her name?

  On the screen, she started to speak, and Mirren could see immediately that she was altered. Drunk? Stoned? Definitely not sober.

  Carmella practically trilled, ‘I don’t care at all. Because I’ve got my little Jacko now. And my Jack is gonna take care of me and never ever, ever, ever leave.’

  Mirren’s stomach lurched; her legs trembled. This was too, too close. That girl couldn’t be much older than Chloe, and she clearly had some of the same issues, yet Jack was fucking her?

  Rage. Pure rage.

  What was wrong with people? Didn’t anyone have a decent bone in their body, or were they all so bloody self-absorbed that they just did whatever the fuck they liked whether it was the right thing to do or not?

  For nineteen years she’d been married to that man, and she’d loved him for every day of that, even though he was largely absent from their lives. He spent more than half of every year out on location, and many of the months at home locked in the editing suite. Mirren wondered now how long they would have lasted if they’d actually lived together. Judging by the man she knew him to be now, it wouldn’t have been long. But back then, she was just desperate to have her family, desperate to make it work and desperate to have the kind of stability she’d craved since she was that child sitting outside her home because she wasn’t wanted inside.

  Leaning on the vanity unit, she stared at the woman in front of her for a few seconds before she realized it was her own reflection. Her skin looked pale. Her eyes tired. There were lines on her face that hadn’t been there this time last year. The face belonging to that woman was the face of exhaustion. Of a broken soul. The whole world was moving on and yet she couldn’t, still stuck in a quagmire of regret and devastation.

  And she couldn’t stand to look at it for a single minute longer.

  Leaving the washroom, she headed back to the table. Mark was signing the check, two large brandies already on the table.

  ‘Do you mind if we just head off?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I’m in the mood for brandy after all.’

  He covered the surprise well. ‘Not at all. Of course. Let’s go.’

  Outside, he guided her to a black Range Rover. Predictable. After telling him her address, not another word was spoken in the ten minutes it took to reach the Colony. When security saw her, they were waved through, and Mirren directed him to her driveway.

  Only when they’d stopped did he turn to speak to her. ‘Look, are you OK? Only – and maybe I’ve got this completely wrong – you seemed fine and then you seemed really pissed off and I’m not sure what happened.’

  A sigh escaped her.

  She reached over and opened the door. By the time she got to the front of the car, he’d stopped the engine and jumped out too. Wordlessly, she put her key in the door, opened it, deactivated the alarm and took one step inside, only turning then to see him standing there, bewildered.

  It took a moment for her brain to transmit her thoughts to her vocal cords.

  ‘Right now, I really don’t give a damn that you’re the head of the studio. I don’t care what you think of me or whether you had a good time tonight. Right now, I just want someone to come in here, and lie with me, and make love to me, so I can forget, for just one night, how much my life hurts. If that’s you, please come in. If not, then thank you for dinner.’

  Mirren turned and walked into the house without looking to see if he followed.

  26.

  ‘Fire and Rain’ – James Taylor

  Zander

  Adrianna hadn’t even looked back. It was as if she knew what he was going to say and didn’t want to hear it. She just strutted forward, head held high, her arm wrapped around the crook of her husband’s elbow. From the floor-to-ceiling windows, Zander watched as they crossed the rain-swept tarmac and stepped onto the gleaming Challenger 300 that was parked directly beside the Gulfstream G200 that had brought them here.

  His hands had shaped themselves into fists, and his jaw was clenched so hard it was making his teeth ache. His gut was twisting so tightly it felt like it was ripping his insides apart. This was like the worst comedown ever. Worse than the aftereffects of a three-day coke binge. Worse than waking up to the sound of a cellmate pissing in a steel toilet.

  Fuck, he really, really needed a drink.

  Every day that thought crossed his mind, and every day he pushed it away, but right now he’d never felt more like locking himself in a confined space with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a whole lot of self-reproach.

  ‘Mr Leith, we’re ready to take you through now,’ the smiley ground-control attendant told him.

  His head was buzzing. When he boarded the plane, he couldn’t remember the walk from the terminal, his whole brain still consumed by the sight of her walking away, not turning back.

  Again, fuck, he really needed a drink.

  On board, it was the same hostess who had been there on the way over, and if she looked surprised to see him alone, she didn’t show it. Over the years Zander had had many wild times on private jets. There was the time he flew from New York to Paris with eight girls, three bags of coke and a legendary guitarist, renowned for debauchery and excess. Only when they woke up back in the Big Apple did they realize they’d been too messed up to remember to get off the plane in France.

  On another occasion, flying from LA to Miami for a location shoot, he’d played Wild Turkey strip poker with an actress famous for playing the ditsy lead role in chick flicks. Every time one of them lost a hand, they had to down two fingers of Turkey and remove an item of clothing. By the time they were an hour east of California, they were doing stuff that was undoubtedly illegal in several of the states below them.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Mr Leith?’

  Fuck, he really needed a drink.

  And he could have one. Who would know? He could take a bottle right now to the bedroom and drink himself into a stupor, then sleep it off until he reached LA. Job done. Oblivion achieved.

  Chloe would know. He wasn’t sure he believed in the afterlife, and he definitely didn’t believe in heaven or hell, but if they did exist, he was pretty sure she’d be above him, calling him all the fuckers under the sun for even considering getting wasted.

  He’d promised her. Just a few weeks after they’d met in rehab for the first time, he’d promised her that they could both do this, swore he’d get her through it and they’d come out the other side sober and clean.

  He did.

  Chloe didn’t.

  If he fell off the wagon to hell now, he’d never forgive himself, not for being weak and capitulating, but for letting her down.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going to go next door and sleep. Can you wake me when we’re twenty minutes out from LA, please?’

  Wendy from Nebraska didn’t even try to hide her disappointment. She
’d only been in this job for two months and Zander Leith was the biggest star she’d flown with. What was the point of fame, fortune and a private jet if you were just going to sleep your way through it? Going by all the scandals and court cases over the years, she thought he’d have been a wild ride. In all respects.

  Zander closed the door behind him and stripped off his jacket and shirt, then his jeans, leaving on the cashmere boxer shorts with the Guilloti label. The irony almost made him laugh. The same woman who had just walked away from him was still all over his ass.

  A knock on the door and then it opened without waiting for a response. The stewardess had removed her neck scarf and undone the top buttons on her blouse, revealing a cleavage that a lover could get lost in. On any another day, he’d be up for a spot of orienteering.

  ‘Mr Leith, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’

  She couldn’t have made the suggestion any more salacious if she’d written it on a thong and delivered it with her teeth. Now she was blatantly staring at him, showing absolutely no acknowledgement or embarrassment that he was as close to naked as it got without a full frontal. Her gaze lingered on the wide, carved shoulders, the beautifully defined pecs, then paused in the groove between every single bump of his perfectly formed abs, stopping to linger on the point on his lower torso where a deep V-shape from one side his pelvis to the other disappeared at the middle point under the waistband of his cashmere shorts.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m good. I’m just going to catch some sleep.’

  ‘No problem,’ she replied, the tightness of her mouth suggesting that it was indeed a problem.