Breaking Hollywood (13 page)

She took her glass back off him. ‘Close to desperate,’ she deadpanned, realizing that she was actually starting to enjoy herself. She and Zander had slipped back into the whole
brother-sister vibe they’d had when they were teenagers. Easy. Uncomplicated. That hadn’t happened with Davie yet, but maybe it would come with time. They couldn’t expect to undo
twenty years of estrangement in a few months.

‘Logan was on Davie’s show tonight, so we headed here afterwards. Davie was supposed to come with us, but he bailed. Said something had come up.’

The phone in her pocket buzzed. Probably Davie, saying he was on his way.

Excellent. Perhaps seeing Zander would help them begin to get their relationship sorted. It was time to put everything that happened behind them and move on, figure out a new basis for being
back in each other’s lives.

For her own sanity, Mirren knew it was the only way. She’d paid her dues, had her drama, endured more heartache than most people dealt with in a lifetime.

From now on, she wanted a smooth, pain-free road.

Mirren squinted at the screen. Nope, not Davie. Sarah.

She opened the text.

‘Hi. Something’s come up that I need to speak to you about. Can we meet?’

A sinking feeling made Mirren’s thumb tremble very slightly as she replied.

‘Sure.’

‘Human’ – The Killers

Zander

He’d thought about making an excuse. Ignoring the text. Claiming a prior engagement. But the truth was, he didn’t want to go home. Sobriety he could just about
handle, but it was the boredom of sticking to non-threatening environments that was eating away at his soul.

No clubs. No bars. No hitting a hotel party and seeing where the night ended up. It was a foregone conclusion. If he hit any of his usual haunts, he’d end up wasted and horizontal in
$1,000-a-night hotel suite with a stripper called Heavenly. Or Destiny.

Instead, he’d been heading back to an empty apartment in Venice, alone. For an addict who craved distraction and excitement, that was hard. Almost unbearable. It was the same story every
night. He’d make a protein shake, then take the edge off the silence by opening the windows so he could hear the sounds of life, of music, of people walking along the boardwalk below.

There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t want a drink. Or a line. Or something that gave him a high. In the old days, he kept a bobblehead on the dashboard, a caricature of his
own image, available in the cheap souvenir stores along the Walk of Fame. His was the custom version – filled with coke and always ready to party.

Driving home, that thought had given way to a craving so strong he had reached for his cell phone – not to call a bar or a dealer. He’d flicked to his speed dial; his finger had
hovered over the number attached to the contact simply listed as ‘AG’. And at that exact moment the text from Mirren had arrived. It was like an intervention sponsored by Verizon.

He’d done a 180-degree turn on Melrose and headed to LIX. As he pulled up to the door in his Aston Martin, the valet stepped forward.

Zander didn’t complain. At LIX, the valets were all female, all banging and all dressed like extras in a Beyoncé video.

As he jumped out, the paparazzi bulbs had flashed and the crowd waiting in line had given him an enthusiastic welcome. The irony didn’t escape him. On the surface, he looked like the
luckiest guy in the world. In reality? He was just an addict who was grateful for the distraction.

Standing on the balcony, looking down on a thousand heaving, gyrating clubbers, the urge to drink, snort or shag had been pushed to one side by relief. Relief he’d managed to go another
day sober. Relief that he was still standing there when statistics would probably have him in jail or dead.

Once upon a time, this would have been his idea of heaven. Now it was only bearable because Mirren was here.

It seemed she could read his mind. After hanging out on the balcony for another hour or so, Mirren said, ‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but after dragging you here, I’m ready
to split. Is that OK?’

Zander nodded. The boys in the band were starting to pair off with girls, the entourage were getting drunker, and the security guys were beginning to get twitchy. Definitely time to bail
out.

‘Sure. I can drop you home. Could do with the drive.’ He wasn’t lying. There was no better feeling than driving the PCH late at night, when the traffic was so quiet you could
hear the waves of the Pacific crashing against the shore. He’d take Mirren home, maybe stay for a coffee, talk awhile. He had a 7 a.m. call the next day, only six hours from now, but he was
nowhere near sleep.

With a wave to Logan, and a warning to Deeko to take care of him, they headed downstairs towards the door. Just inside, the notoriously flamboyant, cross-dressing owner, Allan Stewart, spotted
them and stepped forward to bid them goodnight. He never missed an opportunity to press flesh with the great and the good, but was ultimately incredibly discreet. He knew when to shout it out and
when to cover it up. The husband of a globally famous reality star who joined him every week dressed in his wife’s clothes? All hushed up. The TV evangelist who claimed he was saving souls
while fucking three of his twenty-something disciples in the gents’ toilets? Not a word. The teen heart-throb who still wore his purity ring, only now he liked to wear it on the end of his
tiny cock while it was being sucked by his paunchy, middle-aged manager? Not even a whisper.

Platitudes over, Mirren and Zander headed to the door.

There, they stood to one side, to let an incoming crowd of miniskirt-clad girls and guys in Versace and Rocawear pass them.

‘Well, fuck me, if it isn’t the big shot with the big drug habit.’

Beside him, Zander felt Mirren tense. She hated confrontations, especially ones with an edge of menace. There were way too many memories waiting to be dredged up from that pool.

The rest of the crowd moved on past, but the one who was mouthing off stood his ground at the entrance, only feet away from Zander and Mirren.

Zander recognized him. Definitely did. Absolutely. He just wasn’t sure where it was from. He was lean but built, like he did more cardio than weights, and his hair was shaved into a short
buzz cut. He wore an Armani T-shirt, tight across the pecs and delts, jeans that could have been painted on and black leather boots, Italian style. His voice was pure East Coast and nasal, making
everything sound like the sneer it was meant to be.

Zander reached for Mirren’s hand, then pulled her behind him as he stepped forward. His voice was low and measured, but there was no mistaking the edge of warning. ‘Mate, I
don’t know what your problem is, but move on.’

He of the offensive gob acted like he hadn’t heard a word Zander had said.

‘But where would the fun in that be?’

The guy was so close to his face Zander could smell the halitosis. Moving forward, Zander’s body language hinted at the rage that was building inside him.

Before the fumes from the dude’s breath knocked him out, Zander issued another calm but deadly serious warning. ‘Mate, don’t do this. It won’t end well.’

‘Let’s go,’ Mirren begged him, pulling him towards the door, despite the fact that their new best friend was blocking their exit.

The guy’s attention switched to Mirren. He stepped towards her, face only inches from hers, but Mirren didn’t move, didn’t flinch backwards. Zander could have called that one.
He’d always thought Mirren was stronger than him and Davie combined.

‘Ah, Mirren McLean. Good company you’re keeping. I knew your daughter. Passing on the tips from your junkie girl to your junkie friend?’

Red mist. Brain disengaged. Zander didn’t even pause for breath. He launched himself across the hallway and had three jabs in before the guy fell backwards through the door, hitting the
deck to the soundtrack of screams from the waiting crowd.

The guy with the mouth was on the street, Zander was on top of him, and he wasn’t stopping. It took three of the muscle-bound door guys to pull him off, and even then he managed to get in
one last kick to the ribs of the bloodied punk.

That’s when déjà vu kicked in.

He’d seen that red-smeared face before.

Another flashback.

Around a year ago. He’d been wasted. Coming out of a club. A reality-TV guy. What was his name? Nope, he couldn’t remember. And he should. Because back then he’d punched that
guy out and he’d ended up spending the night in prison and the next three months in rehab.

It had almost cost him everything.

Now he’d done it again.

But right now, right there, standing with five broken knuckles and blood smeared on both his hands, it felt like it was worth it.

‘Only Women Bleed’ – Julie Covington

Sarah

When Mirren opened the door, Sarah’s first thought was that she looked tired.

‘Good morning. Come on in,’ she said, giving her a hug when she stepped forward.

Sarah liked the fact that there was none of that Hollywood air-kissing bullshit with Mirren. They’d met a few times over the last few months. On the first occasion, Mirren had thanked her
for burying the story that told the truth about their lives back in Scotland two decades ago. It hadn’t been mentioned since. It was almost as if it didn’t happen. But then, that was
the way the three of them – Mirren, Zander and Davie – had dealt with it for all these years. It didn’t happen. Total amnesia. Denial of the facts. It had been working for them so
far, so she could see why they preferred to keep it that way.

As she followed Mirren through to the kitchen, Sarah’s natural reporter’s scrutiny took in every detail. The house was magnificent. Gloss ebony floor, white walls, with a double
hand-carved oak staircase lining both walls, rising to an upper interior balcony. In the middle of the room at ground level, a huge mirrored console table supported a small garden of white flowers.
Simple but beautiful, classy and serene. It said more about Mirren than any industry bio. Sarah suddenly felt very underdressed in her cut-off jean shorts and white cotton tank.

For a moment, she wondered if there should be a little tug of jealousy here. Not for Mirren’s fame, or her wealth, or her success – because Sarah was only too aware of the price
she’d paid for it all. But this was her boyfriend’s first love, the woman he’d adored since he was a kid. No matter how hard Sarah tried, she couldn’t picture Mirren and
Davie together now. They’d both grown and changed. Maybe back in Glasgow, twenty years ago, they’d been compatible, but that time had passed. There was still love there, but Sarah was
sure it was entirely platonic on both sides. Wasn’t it?

‘Coffee?’

‘Please,’ Sarah replied, sliding into the semicircular dining booth and watching as Mirren pressed a few buttons on a machine that would have looked at home at NASA.

Thirty seconds later, a hot, frothy cappuccino was in front of her, and Mirren slipped into the leather seat.

‘How’s Zander doing?’ Sarah asked, and watched as Mirren winced.

‘Not great. It was a total mess. The police held him for twelve hours, but the Lomax lawyers got him out the next morning. Wes was not happy.’

That wasn’t exactly a surprise. Even after such a short time in LA, Sarah was familiar with the omnipotent Wes Lomax’s reputation. Sharp. Fierce. Brilliant. But not a man to be
crossed.

‘It honestly wasn’t Zander’s fault. The guy . . . What’s his name?’

‘Raymo Cash.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’m afraid so. Apparently he changed it from something completely ordinary when he moved here. Then he got the gig on
Making It
and it stuck.’

Sarah had been unable to resist researching the guy. The ultimate fame-seeker, he’d managed to score a part in a fly-on-the-wall series about waiters in West Hollywood trying to make it as
actors and used it to trawl every reality show he could muster ever since, his notoriety fuelled by a multitude of off-camera stunts. And of course, being punched out by Zander Leith. Twice.

‘Zander had no gripe with the guy. To be honest, I don’t even think he recognized him. But Ray . . .’ She looked at Sarah quizzically.

‘Raymo,’ Sarah confirmed.

‘He just kept spouting all this crap, determined to provoke a reaction. And then he said stuff about Chloe and Zander lost it. Reaction achieved.’

‘Understandable.’

Mirren smiled sadly. ‘Tell that to Wes Lomax and the cops. Anyway . . .’ Mirren shook the subject off. ‘I was a bit intrigued by your text. What’s come up? Is Davie
OK?’

Sarah took a deep breath, her stomach clenching with dread. Hadn’t this woman been through enough, and now she was about to land a whole big pile of crazy at her door?

‘Davie’s fine. OK, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out and I’m sorry.’

Two vertical lines of worry appeared in the space between Mirren’s eyebrows.

‘It’s your mother.’

‘Marilyn?’ Mirren replied, stating the obvious.

Sarah nodded. ‘My old editor called me from the
Daily Scot.
Said he’d heard through the grapevine that the moll of some shady character in Liverpool was saying she was your
mother. The guy was arrested on major organized-crime charges, and now the woman has disappeared. He wants me to look into it and do some digging at this end. They’ve got someone on it in the
UK too, but they haven’t found her yet.’

Mirren sighed as she closed her eyes and rested her head back against the cream leather.

Sarah let the silence sit. There was nothing else to add. That was all she had. Better to let Mirren process first before they could move on.

When Mirren finally spoke, the venom in her words was diluted by the sheer weariness of her tone. ‘I fucking hate that bitch.’

‘I can understand why,’ Sarah said softly. ‘So what do you want me to do? If I don’t take this on, they’ll put someone else on it.’

Mirren, eyes open now, took a sip of green tea from her oversized mug, while she stared straight ahead, thinking.