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  Mellie unfurled her legs from under her and stood, her spiked heels and black leather trousers giving her a look that sat somewhere between Robocop and an occupation that demanded the use of a safe word. ‘Look, gents, much as this is fun, we have a show to put out in less than an hour.’

  Heading for the door, clipboard in hand, she didn’t wait for a reply before adding, ‘If I could just ask we keep our main man in one piece, that would be lovely. He’s not much, but he’s all we’ve got.’

  Davie winked as she passed him and took the break as his cue to get up too.

  ‘Al, I’m gonna leave this to you. Just have to go meet tonight’s guests.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, trusting Al to have his back. There was no way Al Wolfe was going to let anything happen to the guy who made him a couple of million a year.

  Heading down the corridor, he pretended to be fixated on checking his phone as he walked. Much easier than having to greet everyone who passed by, trying to catch his eye, looking for the validation of an acknowledgement from the boss. The only exception was when he passed Lauren Finney’s dressing room, where he knocked on the door, popped his head in and said hi. Lauren was surrounded by make-up artists working on her hair and face, but she still grinned and blew him a kiss.

  Outside the door of dressing room 2, he paused, something niggling.

  It took Davie a few moments to recognize the sensation. Anxiety? No. Fear? Nope. It was . . . nerves. He was actually nervous. Not a full-scale, shaking, want-to-throw-up kind of deal, just a mild tremor of apprehension.

  He knocked, making the ‘South City’ sign on the door tremble. A chorus of invitations beckoned him in.

  Of course, his eyes went to Mirren first, making the tingling sensation creep a little further up the intensity scale. In blue jeans and a white skinny polo-neck sweater, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, she looked a decade younger than her forty-one years.

  Forty-one. That made him forty-two. Nearly thirty years they’d known each other.

  Clichéd, maybe, but who would have thought this was where they’d end up?

  Their childhood homes were a few thousand miles, and light years, away from here. Smack in the middle of a rough council estate in the East End of Glasgow, they’d grown up in the same pebble-dashed terrace of five houses.

  Davie lived on one end of the terrace with his mum, Ena, a grafter who worked three jobs to support them. Zander lived on the other end, with his dad, Jono, and his mum, Maggie. Jono Leith was the local hard man, a heavy-drinking, vicious bastard who attacked first, asked questions later.

  Davie’s teeth clenched at the memory of the man and the knowledge of the effect he would have on their lives. But that was later, many years after he first saw Mirren, age twelve, sitting outside her house in the middle of the terrace, smoking a cigarette, trying to block out the noise of her mother having sex inside.

  Every night, from the bedroom window of his house two doors away, he’d see her there, until he finally plucked up the courage to speak to her.

  They soon became inseparable. Zander. Mirren. Davie. The three of them against the world. They had no money, no prospects, nowhere to go and nowhere to be, but it didn’t matter. Zander, his best mate, was the one who got the girls, while Davie was the one they all wanted as a cute, funny friend. Except Mirren.

  When they were sixteen, he discovered that for some inexplicable, fan-fucking-tastic reason, she’d fallen in love with him.

  That would have been enough for him. Life complete. Davie and Mirren. They could have got a house on the estate and had kids, and he’d have been happy just to have her, just to breathe the same air every day and sleep beside her at night.

  But it didn’t play out that way.

  Jono Leith, Zander’s dad, had fucked up their lives, changing everything, destroying what they all had. They were forced to find new lives, here in LA, and while success had come to all three of them, their relationships were collateral damage.

  For twenty years, Mirren, Zander and Davie had no contact with each other, their ties too much of a reminder of what it had cost them to get there. They lived in the same city, moved in the same circles, but always managed to avoid being in the same company, mutually understanding that their relationships belonged in another place and time. It was only when Sarah started digging into their past last year that the three of them had been forced to re-establish contact, brutally aware that what happened back then, before they left Scotland, could destroy everything they had now.

  They’d stopped that happening. Only just. But now they were back in touch, they hadn’t quite figured out the new rules. They were friends, but they had a history that could never be told. They were a family that had been ripped apart and were slowly rebuilding the bricks in their wall, laying foundations, testing for weaknesses, finding strengths, taking it slow, easing into each other again.

  He wasn’t the same person as that little curly-haired guy with a cheeky grin, and Mirren was no longer the angry, neglected teenager desperate to escape her life.

  They were no longer in love.

  There was no ‘Davie and Mirren’.

  And he wasn’t sure where that left them.

  ‘Hi,’ she smiled, rising to greet him. As she hugged him tightly, every trace of the apprehension he’d felt earlier dissipated. Behind her, an obscenely good-looking guy rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Hey, Davie. Thanks so much for having us on the show.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, grinning at Logan Gore. ‘I think the thanks should be going in the opposite direction. Really appreciate you doing this. I mean, clearly you need to get your band some more publicity,’ he joked. ‘I saw those sales figures today.’

  Logan’s smile was tempered with some humility. ‘Yeah, well, you know . . . we try.’

  From the right side of Davie’s vision he saw a flying object approach and ducked out of the way just in time.

  South City’s lead singer, Jonell, put his hands up in surrender. ‘Hey, man, sorry. Just sending my boy some C,’ he said, gesturing to the can of OJ that Logan had somehow caught.

  ‘No worries. I’m just a bit jumpy about things flying in my direction,’ Davie said, only half kidding.

  ‘Shit, sorry. Heard about that whole blood thing. Scary vibe, man.’ Jonell was the son of a Motown backing singer, and could flip from the sweetness of Smokey to the depths of Marvin.

  Logan was on harmonies, male-model good-looking and the all-American jock. Ringo, on drums, was delighting his parents, who saw his success as a fitting tribute to the fact that he was conceived to the soundtrack of Sergeant Pepper. They’d felt the names John, Paul and George were just too mainstream.

  Lincoln on guitar and D’Arby on keyboard were two school mates who looked great and had the moves and the voices to complete the line-up.

  America’s teen generation had adored South City since they’d exploded onto the charts four years before, thanks to a talent show not unlike the one Davie produced. They’d long passed the talk-show circuit now that they regularly put 50,000 jean-covered teenage buttocks on seats in arenas, but over dinner at Mirren’s a few weeks before, Davie had cheekily asked Logan to come on the show and was stunned and delighted when he agreed.

  ‘You look great,’ he told Mirren, realizing his arm was still sitting around her shoulders. How did that feel? Odd. But strangely comfortable. In his life, he’d loved three people. Perhaps four. His mum and Mirren were definites. He’d thought he was in love with Jenny Rico when they first got married, but looking back, there was every possibility that was lust, with a bit of ‘Can’t believe I landed her’ thrown in. And now Sarah. There was definitely love there. He just wasn’t sure yet how deep it went or how far it would take them.

  A shout from South City’s stylist summoned Logan, leaving Mirren and Davie alone.

  ‘So how’re things going?’ Mirren asked. ‘Is all OK?’

  He immediately flipped into automatic superficial mode. ‘Yeah, all’s great. Ratin
gs on both shows are blowing everyone else out the water, so we’re riding high.’

  A flicker of something crossed Mirren’s face. What? Disappointment? Annoyance?

  ‘I meant, is all OK with you? Have you seen Zander? Have you guys talked?’

  Davie sighed. Typical Mirren. No time for bullshit or spin; just fire right to the heart.

  ‘No, not really. Just both been too busy to hang out.’

  Mirren looked thoughtful. ‘You know, you really should, Davie,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve all got a lot of stuff to work through, and avoiding it won’t help.’

  ‘I hear you. It’s just been . . . busy.’ Even to him it sounded lame, but Mirren knew him well enough not to press the point. Mirren and Zander had come back into his life and he was grateful for it, but that brought with it a whole load of stuff he’d rather leave buried. Avoidance. Spin. Superficiality. Those were far easier to deal with than probing a hornets’ nest of past horrors with a stick.

  ‘Can we have coffee later?’ he asked. ‘After the show?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve promised to head out with the guys. I’m way too old and uncool, but I think they’ve invited me out of sympathy. You’re very welcome to join us?’ Mirren’s self-deprecation was accompanied by a rueful smile.

  Davie immediately did the analysis in his head. Hitting the town with South City guaranteed column inches, and millions of Twitter and Instagram hits. Fantastic publicity for the show and therefore a no-brainer. ‘Sure, sounds great. I’d better get back before Mellie goes on the warpath.’

  Yet he was still standing there. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to take his hand away. There was something in just being with her that was almost magnetic. Fuck, this was bizarre. He wasn’t twelve again. He was an adult. A player. A success. And his girlfriend was sitting down the corridor.

  Mirren stretched up onto her toes and kissed his cheek. ‘Cool. Catch you later. I’ll give you a shout when I know where they’re dragging me to.’

  The walk back to his dressing room passed in a blur. As he opened the door, he was so distracted that it took him a moment to realize the others were still there.

  Sarah was now over at the coffee table with Mike and Al, all of them huddled round her iPad, and all of them turned to stare at him, the tension palpable.

  ‘What? What’s up? You lot look like someone has died . . .’ A pause. ‘Oh fuck, don’t tell me we’ve killed another guest . . .’

  He was only half joking.

  Sarah was the first to speak. ‘Think you need to have a look at this.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Al countered blithely.

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. Of course he does,’ Sarah argued. It was an incongruous sight – a twenty-six-year-old woman, in LA less than six months, taking on a guy who terrified almost everyone around him. And winning.

  Davie crossed the room. ‘OK, shoot. What is it?’

  Sarah tilted the iPad so he could see it, then pressed ‘play’ on a YouTube video.

  The next thirty seconds weren’t a huge surprise.

  Davie, coming out of the studio last week, smiling at the waiting crowd. Signing autographs. Posing for photos. Working his way towards the car that was waiting at the kerb. The camera moving closer now, the person behind it obviously heading in Davie’s direction. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Now ten. The sound of breathing providing a steady beat of a soundtrack.

  Five feet. Davie starts to turn to face the camera, but before his full face comes into focus, a cloud of red crosses the image, splatters across him; he recoils; his hands fly to his face, mouth open in a twisted scream and . . . freeze.

  The image holds right there. Davie, covered in blood, looking like a modern-day interpretation of Edvard Munch’s Scream.

  Then the letters appear, one by one on the screen, like they are being typed by a two-fingered harbinger of foreboding.

  D.A.V.I.E. J.O.H.N.S.T.O.N. W.I.L.L. D.I.E.

  12.

  ‘Calling All Hearts’ – DJ Cassidy, featuring Jessie J and Robin Thicke

  Mirren

  The reaction that South City got wherever they went was almost biblical, with adoring crowds amassing, then parting like the Red Sea as security cleared a path for the present-day prophets.

  Tonight, on Davie’s show, the audience had gone wild as soon as South City took to the stage. Now, as they made their way through the tribe of fans to LIX, the trendiest nightclub on Sunset, Mirren kept her head down and went with the flow, conscious of the hands of one of the security staff on her shoulders. This was a zoo. Crazy. Chaos. She had no idea how these boys – sorry, young men – coped with this on a daily basis.

  As soon as they were inside, Logan turned to check she was OK. ‘I’m fine,’ she shouted over the noise of the club. ‘Just way too old for this.’

  Logan winked, then moved with the mass as they were herded to the VIP area. As soon as the thud of the techno bass permeated her body, making it seem like it was vibrating from the inside out, she realized this was a mistake. What was she doing here? She hated clubs, hated the vibe and hated the reminder that she’d spent way too much time in them, searching for Chloe, pulling her out of toilets and dragging her to the nearest ER to have her stomach pumped or her airways cleared of vomit.

  She’d only come tonight because her boy asked her and it was an excuse to spend more time with him. And yes, there was a part of her that wanted, needed to watch over him, despite the fact that she told herself a hundred times a day that he wasn’t Chloe. He was a different person, a stronger personality, more grounded, balanced, too smart to go down the road that killed his sister.

  Yet she felt better just being here, seeing that he was OK. Somehow in LA it was harder than when he was on the road, travelling across the globe, playing gigs. Chloe had died right here in the City of Angels, only minutes from Mirren’s home, and yet she hadn’t been able to protect her.

  She pulled out a phone and sent a text to the only person who would understand.

  ‘Hey, are you around? I’m in LIX with Logan. Music loud. Skirts short. Too old for this. Come save me.’

  The VIP area already had a few people in it. Mirren recognized a couple of Clippers sitting with a Laker and several stunning women. Obviously sporting rivalry was left at the club door.

  At another table, a female rapper Mirren had seen on one of the video channels was oiled up and twerking her naked ass at the camera. Mirren didn’t judge. As long as these girls were doing it on their own terms, then she had no right to criticize.

  Silver champagne buckets loaded with Cristal and trays of tequila shooters appeared on the table, along with trays of soft drinks, a nod to the fact that none of the band was yet twenty-one. Technically, they were allowed to be here as long as they didn’t drink alcohol, a situation that seemed so strange to Mirren, who came from a background where kids could drink at eighteen. Somehow it seemed more honest. The South City guys would make a pretence of sticking to soft drinks while a few of them were downing shots slipped into their Red Bulls. As long as the appearances of compliance with the law were upheld, no one would question them.

  The security team peeled off into the background, seeking out corners from which to watch their charges, never too far away to intervene if a situation got out of hand.

  The LIX employees on the VIP door would make sure it didn’t. This was the reason the biggest names came here. Unlike some of the other clubs, where the VIP section was just a roped-off area, here it was a separate room, one floor higher than the rest of the club. With its mirrored walls, glossy steel tables and huge white leather sofas, it was classy and spacious, but the real draw was the huge balcony that looked over the body of the club, complete with a spiral staircase that led directly down to one of the four dance floors. At the bottom, three guards made sure no one attempted to rise to a level to which they weren’t entitled.

  There was the rub. The guys on the dance floor wanted to experience the giddy entitlement of the VIP
area. The guys in the VIP area wanted to be on the dance floor. The self-satisfaction of being given access to the top level soon wore off when they realized there was no one up there to impress.

  Mirren happily found herself in a corner with Deeko, the band’s manager. His track record spoke for itself. He’d turned this young group of kids into international superstars, created the icons of a generation. Yet Mirren found it difficult to take him seriously given that he was pushing thirty yet still wore a baseball cap backwards. It was the small things.

  Deeko’s assistant, Ashika, apologetically pulled him away to speak to him, and Mirren scanned the room looking to pinpoint Logan. Then stopped. Held her breath. Logan was deep in conversation with a stunning girl with alabaster skin, her hair a mass of long red waves, her doe eyes huge and her lips wide in smile. It was like any one of a million memories of her children deep in discussion. Of course, it wasn’t Chloe, and as she studied her for a few more seconds, she could see that they looked very different. This girl was rounder in the face, her expression open and warm. Chloe’s features had been sharper, more classic. Why wasn’t she here? She should be standing with her brother now, loving this, enjoying the lives they’d built. When she’d watched her children interacting, fighting, arguing, playing, chatting, she’d never realized those moments would have a finite number. If she had, she would have stopped what she was doing and watched, savouring every second, capturing every nuance and word. If only.

  Released by Ashika, Deeko turned back to Mirren. ‘I need to shoot. Good talking to you.’

  Still rattled by the flashback, Mirren had to make a conscious effort to smile. ‘You too. Deeko, who is that Logan is talking to?’

  Deeko’s eyes followed her gaze. ‘Lauren Finney. Man, that girl is talented. Woulda signed her in a heartbeat, but she’s all wrapped up.’

  ‘She’s a singer?’

  ‘Yeah. Won American Stars year before last. Presenting it this year. Gonna be huge. Joni Mitchell, man. Next Joni Mitchell.’