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  The ludicrous thought made Davie smile . . . then peer at Jizzo’s teeth.

  Mellie was making her way back to the gallery now, while cueing up the second half of the show. ‘OK, people, ten seconds to the kind of carnage that could end our careers. Five, four . . .’

  Davie adjusted his shirt collar again, thanked the make-up girl – what was her name? Zoe? Zane? Zelda? Christ, he was fairly sure they’d hooked up a few years ago when she’d first arrived to work for him – and decided on his opening line. The key was to ask a perfectly innocent question, but one that he knew Jizzo would give an outrageous answer to.

  He decided to ask Jizzo to share his favourite thing about Carmella.

  Any other guy would look at his partner lovingly, before going for eyes, soul or heart. And that’s because any other guy would lie through his teeth. But not Jizzo. Davie knew he’d had way too many drinks from the liquor bottle of truth.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Davie saw the make-up girl – Zoe, Zelda, Zane? – glance at Jizzo and then root herself to the spot. The audience saw her reaction as well. Thankfully, they were too far away to realize that the reason for it was the tiny ring of white powder round Jizzo’s right nostril.

  Instantly, Davie was out of his chair, leaning over, disguising his actions as a man-hug while using the cuff of his shirt to dust off the evidence from the guest’s nasal cavity.

  ‘Davie, what the fuck?’ Mellie roared, before continuing, ‘Two, one . . . and we’re back. I think I’ve just aged ten fricking years.’

  Davie zoned her out as he made the intros, with Jizzo leaning over to give him a high five and Carmella blowing him a kiss, before waving at the audience. Every guy out there sat a little higher in his chair, puffed his chest out a little more and wished he’d stuck with that band he’d joined at school.

  ‘Guys, you know I love you two,’ Davie started, eliciting another kiss from Carmella. ‘And the show is great.’

  ‘Yeah!’ yelled Jizzo, punching the air, while nodding to an invisible beat from inside his head.

  ‘Oh my God, we, like, love doing it.’ Carmella leaned forward, her breasts threatening to escape the white tank she clearly wore with no bra.

  ‘I think the most fascinating thing for us viewers . . .’ Davie went on, completely ignoring the fact that he was more than just a ‘viewer’. As creator and producer, the royalties from this month’s Beauty and the Beats alone would allow him to buy a new beach house in Hawaii. ‘. . . is the incredible connection and love between the two of you. Jizzo, I know it’s a tough choice, but what do you adore most about the beautiful Carmella?’

  Fist pump over, the rock god stared at the white crocodile cowboy boots – with disguised lifts – that protruded from the bottoms of his black leather jeans.

  Davie paused to let him answer, aware that the substances coursing through his veins were probably causing the pharmaceutical equivalent of a satellite delay.

  Only when the silence became uncomfortable did Davie cajole, ‘So come on, Jizzo, don’t be coy here.’

  Still nothing.

  Had he fallen asleep? Oh fuck, he had. He was actually sleeping.

  In the gallery, Mellie spotted it too. ‘Holy shit, what’s with this guy? Cut to Carmella. Cut to Carmella! Davie, you have to pull this back!’ she barked.

  Davie was about to do exactly as she asked when Jizzo’s head slumped to the side. Was this a wind-up? He wanted outrageous; he wanted wild; he wanted action that the whole world would be talking about the next day.

  At no point did he want to see a guest pass out on the sofa.

  Aware that he was live and he’d be judged by the actions he took in the next moment, he ignored Mellie and instead leaned over and touched Jizzo’s arm. ‘Hey, man, are you OK?’ That was it. Tender. Caring. Human. Real. If tomorrow’s press used any of those adjectives, he’d be happy. They were definitely preferable to ‘heartless bastard’.

  Jizzo didn’t move for a few seconds, not even a flicker; then events took a turn that Davie struggled to process.

  Jizzo’s whole body sagged to the side; his mouth fell open; his eyes stayed shut.

  ‘Wake him up! Wake him up,’ Mellie was hissing now.

  But Davie wasn’t listening. He’d seen this before, knew what it looked like, even though it was so out of context he just couldn’t absorb it.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be waking up ever,’ he murmured.

  3.

  ‘Wish You Were Here’ – Pink Floyd

  Mirren

  Mirren McLean glanced around the antique burr-walnut boardroom table and realized that all eyes were on her. It was the movie-industry equivalent of the Last Supper. Twelve suits, at least half of them playing the role of Judas, all waiting expectantly for an answer to a question that she wasn’t even sure she remembered.

  Focus. Come on, focus.

  She pulled back into the moment. Contracts. That’s what they’d been talking about. OK, contracts. Renewals.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, with all due respect, I believe you people are tasked with negotiating and shaping the deal, then giving me the relevant information to make informed decisions. I don’t yet feel I have that.’ Direct words, spoken calmly. Tantrums and diva strops had never been her thing.

  Two of the assembled started to speak over each other and she put her hand up to shush them both.

  ‘Perry, you shoot first. Summarize it for us,’ she said, nodding to Perry Scholl, the lawyer she’d recruited out of a tiny office in Santa Monica to negotiate the very first Clansman deal a decade before. Five movies later, the partnership had reaped unprecedented profit, and the arrangement had been a fruitful one for both sides.

  Perry put down her Mont Blanc pen – a Christmas gift from Mirren after Clansman 3 broke box-office records – and exhaled. ‘OK, so the situation is this. Pictor want to do a deal for the next two Clansman movies, but they want to squeeze us on terms—’

  ‘I hardly think “squeezing” is an apt description,’ interjected Euan Anderson, the newly appointed chief suit for Pictor. There had been a top-level clear-out at the studio only a few months before and the new head guy, an all-out corporate action man called Mark Bock, had brought in his own people to several of the top posts.

  ‘Sorry, I was being polite,’ Perry conceded sweetly. ‘Do you prefer “bend us over and ass-fuck us on terms”?’

  As Anderson’s eyes widened, Mirren fought to contain a smile. She’d seen Perry’s innocent, Latin charm work in the past, lulling the opposition into a false sense of security before she dealt a killer blow.

  Mirren shot her a look that told her to ease off. It wasn’t time for hostilities yet. She still had a deep sense that she owed Pictor a measure of loyalty. The first two of Mirren’s bestselling Clansman novels had been made into films by a Pictor team, with Mirren as writer. The epic tales of a warrior in ancient Scotland had been phenomenal hits, surpassing expectations and selling across the globe. But Mirren wanted more than a writing credit. When she’d boldly told them she wanted to produce the third, they’d taken a chance on her and it had paid off. Number three was a hit, and the two that had come afterwards, with Mirren at the helm, had continued to break records. The box office grew 20 per cent with every movie; the merchandising added the cherry on top, making the studio billions and putting Mirren into the exclusive club of the very richest and most powerful producer-directors. And that was on top of the global sales she achieved with the books on which the movies were based. Clansman was an international phenomenon, a world-beating brand, and it was all hers, thanks to her unusual combination of skills: creativity, a razor-sharp business brain and balls of steel. Not to mention a small, hand-picked team who were unfailingly loyal.

  The edge of her Aspinal moleskin notebook glowed, telling her that the screen was lighting up on the iPhone that was tucked underneath it. She surreptitiously checked it and immediately decided it was time to leave this lot to duke it out.

  ‘Ladies and gentlem
en, I’m afraid I have another appointment. In my absence, Perry has full authority to speak for me.’

  The dark eyes of her lawyer gave her a glance that was a mixture of pride, thanks and conspiracy, with just a hint of surprise.

  Mirren had never bailed out on a business meeting as important as this one before. Of course, they all understood. That was the thing about grief. Eventually, life was supposed to get back to normal, but it never did.

  Mirren grabbed her jacket, a pale cream Donna Karan blazer that dressed up black tailored trousers and a matching cashmere vest. The standard uniform of black was particularly striking against her pale complexion and the waves of red hair that a side plait was struggling to contain. Newspaper articles often referred to her as a classic beauty. Her straight nose, wide-set eyes and beautifully carved cheekbones gave her a striking profile that had seen her compared to everyone from Nicole Kidman to Grace Kelly to a younger Meryl Streep. Mirren was happy to take the compliments.

  It took twenty minutes in light, mid-afternoon traffic to reach the Pacific Coast Highway, the sound of the country-music channel drowning out the soft purr of her silver Mercedes-AMG. The rasping tones of Blake Shelton faded out, and the DJ announced a retro track was up next. The opening bars of Martina McBride’s ‘A Broken Wing’ blasted from the speakers. It used to be one of her favourite songs, but that was before. Before her heart was broken, before she learned to cry.

  Mirren flicked a button on the steering wheel, changing the channel to a pop station, and despite the tightness that had enveloped her chest, she smiled as she recognized the tune.

  ‘Not Giving You Back’ by South City, a boy band that had sold more records in the US than any other act last year, a five-piece that was now rivalling One Direction for world domination.

  The lead singer’s voice was as smooth and soulful as it got, a testimony – Mirren knew – to a mother who had been a Motown backing singer for two decades. But it was the second voice on the harmonies that invoked a swell of something good in her heart.

  She had no idea where Logan Gore got his voice from, since she couldn’t hold a note and neither could his father.

  She slowed behind a vintage Ferrari as she approached the gates to Malibu Colony, then sped up again as the security guard waved her on, aware that several CCTV cameras had tracked her arrival. She hated the intrusion of the surveillance, but it did provide a certain level of comfort. Living in the Colony, one of the most expensive areas in the country, on a beachfront street that was populated by movie stars, producers, IT legends and a couple of big-spending rappers, it was inevitable that security would sit somewhere between ‘overcautious’ and ‘paranoid’.

  Some had moved here for the ego trip. Some for the investment. But Mirren had arrived more than a decade before looking for solitude, peace, a safe haven for the children and direct access to golden sands so private that she often felt like she was the only person on earth.

  In a time of intrusive social media, compulsory networking and pervasive press scrutiny, that was, for her, the best feeling in the world.

  Of course, back then, they’d been a family. Jack and Mirren, and Chloe and Logan. True, Jack had spent most of their years together out on location, producing and directing some of the biggest movies of the last couple of decades, but when he was home, her whole world was under that roof. Chloe and Logan were great kids: fun, crazy company. They’d always thought that Chloe’s insatiable thirst for adventure and excitement would take her into the business or onto the stage, while Logan’s shy, self-effacing charm would sit well behind the scenes. How wrong they had been. Logan found a passion for singing, and what began with jamming sessions in the garage with some friends had led to South City and posters on the walls of teenage girls all over America. And Chloe? That thirst for adventure took her to toilet floors, crack dens, rehab and the mortuary. Dead at eighteen.

  The thought made another piece of Mirren’s heart shatter, but she couldn’t indulge her pain now. Later. But not now.

  Pulling into the drive of her white colonial-style home, she took a deep breath. And another. OK, smile on, head up. Strong.

  Logan was sitting at the dining table in the kitchen, a semicircular booth that looked like it belonged in a 1950s diner. Every detail of the room had been designed by Mirren with a family in mind. A perfect family. The one she’d dreamed of having since she was a little girl, bringing herself up on a tough Glasgow housing estate.

  A movie reel on fast forward played through her mind.

  Arriving in LA with Davie and Zander, inseparable friends since the night they saw her, twelve years old, sitting in the street late at night. Back then, they were the only two people she loved in the world. They had nothing but each other, and for a while that seemed like it was enough.

  The images skipped through time.

  A few years later, picking up the Oscar for the movie that had brought them to LA, the moment that pain and betrayal had forced them to walk away from each other.

  Fast-forward to a few years later still.

  Logan and his big sister, Chloe, only a year between them, making potato prints at the table. The two of them doing homework there. The pubescent years when the only communication was a sneer and an irritated sigh. Then the laughs came back and the three of them, four if Jack was home, would have home-made burgers on a Friday night and sit there for hours, just being the family that belonged there.

  ‘Hey, Mom. You OK?’ Her boy. Logan Gore. Eighteen now and six feet tall, and, according to the fan sites, 170 pounds of blond, ripped, six-pack muscular perfection. Mirren didn’t care if it showed bias for her to agree.

  Leaning down to hug him, she lingered a couple of seconds. Sometimes the human contact made it just a little bit more bearable.

  ‘I am, honey. How about you? Dad not here yet?’ she asked, already knowing the answer. There had been no sign of a midlife-crisis vehicle in the drive. God knows what it would be this month. So far, Jack had gone through a Ferrari, a Maserati, a McLaren P1 and – oh dear God, make it stop – a pimped-up Escalade.

  To think, for nineteen years of marriage, she’d been under the illusion that uber-producer Jack Gore was the coolest man on the planet. It had only taken about five minutes to realize that he was far from it, right around the time she discovered he had inserted his dick in a twenty-two-year-old starlet and then followed his raging hard-on out the door.

  Clichéd as it sounded, it was for the best. The relationship with the actress, Mercedes Dance, had only lasted as long as it took for the paternity test to confirm that the baby she was carrying wasn’t Jack’s. Bizarrely, Mirren felt sorry for him. Back in Cliché-Land, there was no fool like a fifty-something guy who was stupid enough to believe for a second that a hot young babe was attracted to his personality.

  Logan jumped up when the doorbell rang, towering over her as he hugged her on the way to answer it. It had been one of the boundaries she’d set when her relationship with Jack had returned to civil ground. He could come over anytime, but no keys, and there had to be an arrangement or a call first. He lost the right to wander in and out of this house in the divorce settlement. She’d taken nothing else. Didn’t need his cash, his pensions or their other home in Aspen. The Colony house was all she wanted, and it was a fair price to pay for almost twenty years of devotion and two incredible kids.

  The noise of his cowboy boots resonated with every step across the marble tiles. Dear Lord, cowboy boots. Black. Silver tips. With dark jeans and a grey retro Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. And . . . no. It couldn’t be. But yet . . . Yes, that was some kind of tattoo that appeared to be protruding from the bottom of one of his sleeves. Well, hello, rock phase, we’ve been expecting you.

  The urge to laugh was almost insurmountable, but Mirren fought to keep her face straight, knowing that the least sign of amusement, the tiniest morsel of disparagement would incur a reaction of indignant petulance, and God knows, she didn’t need that today.

  ‘Hey, babe. You look
good,’ he said as he dipped his head to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘You too,’ she managed, not trusting herself to say any more. The truth was, he did actually look pretty good; he just didn’t look like Jack. Sure, he still had the whole Liam Neeson, ruggedly handsome thing going on. A couple of inches taller than his six-foot son, he had the athletic body of a guy who was vain enough to make fitness a priority in his work-life balance. But then, that was easy when your wife was taking care of every detail of the family, so that you could spend your life going from film-set location to film-set location, where you trained daily with a personal fitness expert and had the caterers prepare every meal to the exact specifications of your personal nutritionist.

  Did she sound bitter? She knew she truly wasn’t. Losing Jack had been a drop in the ocean of incidentals compared to the tsunami of pain that still ebbed and flowed, engulfing her and then retreating, then returning, until she felt unable to take her next breath.

  Having Logan home from his endless touring for a few weeks helped. Especially today.

  Pulling open the rich oak Meneghini Arredamenti fridge, Mirren stacked three loaded cake plates along one arm like the professional waitress she once was. Twenty-three years later, she still had the skills.

  Turning, she handed one to Logan and one to Jack, before adding the forks she’d already left out on the sparkling white marble countertop. Everything had been prepared this morning at 3 a.m., when sleep had eluded her.

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’ The forced cheeriness in her voice would have been almost believable if it hadn’t been for the tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. Enough. She had to hold it together, for her, for Logan, for Chloe. Hell, even for Jack.

  Mirren led the way out through the back door, down the path and past the white wooden fence at the end of the yard that led directly to the beach. Due to environmental damage, the coastline was eroding. Just like her family.

  The hot sand collected between her bare toes, but she didn’t register the discomfort, only stopping when they were twenty or so feet from the water’s edge. Mirren sat down, automatically crossing her legs, one man on either side, looking out into the glistening waves.