Breaking Hollywood (12 page)

He immediately flipped into automatic superficial mode. ‘Yeah, all’s great. Ratings 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.

‘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.’

Rihanna’s new track blasted through the speakers and several of the people at South City’s huge table jumped to their feet and made their way out onto the balcony and down the glass
staircase, Logan included. Mirren slipped onto the balcony to watch the reaction. Down below, a thousand kids were dancing, but in an incredible wave of synchronicity, their heads turned upwards,
they spotted the South City boys making their way down to the dance floor, and the volume of their cheers almost drowned out the music.

An hour later, text unanswered, she decided to head off. It was sweet that Logan had wanted her to come along, but it was time to let him be.

‘If you’re asking, I’ll dance with you, but it won’t be pretty.’ A voice from behind her but close to her ear doled out the generous warning. At the same time, a
nucleus of the revellers down below spotted the new arrival above them and the attention switched from the South City boys on the dance floor to the superspy above them.

It was testimony to great marketing and a fucked-up reputation that the under-thirty audience still thought Zander Leith was one of the coolest men on the planet.

Mirren didn’t disagree. Especially tonight. He was tanned, and the stubble suited him. You could count the layers of his six-pack under his plain black V-neck T-shirt, and biceps the size
of half-melons protruded from the sleeves. This was the kind of shape he got into every time he was filming, and it was what kept the twenty- to fifty-year-old women, normally a low demographic on
thrillers, flocking to the cinema to see the latest in the Seb Dunhill franchise.

‘What are you, the nightclub superhero, riding to the rescue?’ she asked, laughing, voice raised to be heard over the music rising from below. ‘I didn’t think you’d
be around. Just texted in hope.’

‘I was heading back from a late-night shoot up at the Bowl. Apparently, terrorists didn’t like the act there tonight. Ninety ninja warriors invaded it on the orders of a crazed
dictator.’

‘Did you save the day?’

‘Of course. California and several other states are only still here thanks to my heroism,’ Zander replied, enjoying the joke. She knew he felt it was the eternal juxtaposition
– in the movie world, he was the all-encompassing hero who could disarm a terrorist group of their nuclear weapons, while in real life he wouldn’t be trusted to disarm a defunct smoke
alarm.

‘Thanks for coming. Just felt like some company. Are you OK being here?’

Zander nodded, smiling. ‘Yeah. But if you see me storming the bar, you might want to intervene.’

Mirren knew that being around alcohol was tough for him, but he’d told her many times that the only way to get over that was to face it. Tonight, he could consider it faced.

‘Will do, but I might need to call Hollie for reinforcements. She not around tonight?’ Mirren asked, then went on without waiting for an answer, ‘You know, I really like that
girl, Zander.
Really
like her . . .’ Her grin and the accompanying wink made her message clear, but she clarified it just to be sure. ‘I think you two would be great
together.’

Zander’s slow smile and shake of the head made it clear he thought differently. ‘I’m way too much of a fuck-up for her. Have you seen how together I am?’

‘I think she could handle it,’ Mirren countered, enjoying playing Cupid.

Zander was still shaking his head. ‘Maybe. But I love her way too much to saddle her with a guy like me.’ His discomfort led to a swift deflection and change of subject.
‘Anyway, so how come a respected professional like Mirren McLean is hanging out in this den of debauchery?’ he teased.

Mirren gestured down to the dance floor. ‘Logan dragged me. I think it was out of sympathy. I’ve become the sad old lady following her kid around.’

Zander removed the soda from her hand and took a sip. ‘On your own? That is pretty sad.’