The catch, p.11
The Catch, page 11
Sure. When and where?
13
ZANDER
‘Human’ – The Killers
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 a $1,000-a-night hotel suite with a stripper called Starburst. Or Destiny. Or Bubbles. 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 Venice boardwalk below the apartment that he’d lived in since his early days in LA. There wasn’t a day went by that he didn’t want a drink. Or a line. Or something that gave him a high. In the old days, he’d 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’. Over the years, he’d blocked out the cost of his drug addiction, and the gutters that alcohol had landed him in. In the same way, the memory of her husband’s crushing handshake, and the thought that it could have a deeper meaning had long been wiped from his mind by the need for a fix of Adrianna. At that exact moment the text from Mirren had arrived. It was like a cosmic intervention and it had forced him to detour off his one way street to a bad decision.
He’d done a 180-degree turn on Melrose and headed to LiX. As he’d pulled up to the door in his Aston Martin, the valet stepped forward to greet him. At LiX, the valets were all female, all stunning and all dressed like extras in a Beyoncé video.
As he’d 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.
Now, 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. Mirren lived in Malibu and 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 a while. 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, 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 screwing three of his twenty-something disciples in the gents’ toilets. Not a word. The teen heart-throb who still wore his purity ring, despite regular threesomes with his driver and his paunchy, middle-aged manager? Hushed.
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 was having way too much fun goading them. ‘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, 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. Zander saw that the security team from the door had spotted the situation and were making their way towards them.
‘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, his force pushing the guy back past the security team 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. Although, 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 bruised knuckles and blood smeared on both his hands, it felt like it was worth it.
14
SARAH
‘Only Women Bleed’ – Julie Covington
When Mirren opened the door of her Malibu beach house, 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 hadn’t happened. But then, that was the way the three of them – Mirren, Zander and Davie – had dealt with it for all these years. Total amnesia. 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 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 because 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, thirty 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 semi-circular 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 get face time on several other trashy reality gigs, his notoriety fuelled by a multitude of off-camera stunts, including, of course, being punched out by Zander Leith. Twice now.
‘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 from a couple of scumballs touting a story 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. My editor wants me to look into it and do some digging at this end, find out if there’s any truth to it. They’ve got someone on it in the UK too, but they haven’t found her yet. They want to dig up a story, do the whole ‘famous writer has a gangster mother’ angle. They’re just looking for headlines to sell some papers, but he came to me with it and now I’m coming to you to give you a heads up and give you a chance to get ahead of it if it’s true.’
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 it 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.
‘You’re right.’ Calm. Matter-of-fact. ‘Thank you.’
‘When was the last time you had any contact with her?’
Mirren replaced her mug on the table and Sarah noticed that her hands were steady. There was a strength in this woman that came from somewhere deep in her core.
‘The last time I saw her was that night. She was sitting there, in her kitchen, splattered in Jono Leith’s blood.’ Mirren paused, still staring straight ahead, her voice low and calm as if she was reciting a story that had no emotional connection to her whatsoever. ‘Do you know what I remember so vividly? Her face had black mascara tracks down her cheeks. She was wearing a ridiculous baby-doll nightdress, pink, smeared with blood. But one of the straps had broken and her tit was hanging out. She didn’t even realise.’
Sarah wanted to reach over, to put her hand on Mirren’s, but she didn’t want to overstep the boundaries, didn’t know if the physical touch would be welcome.
Instead, she stayed silent. Just listened.
‘She left that night and I never saw her again. I heard she went down to Liverpool, hooked up with some dealer who was importing drugs and shipping them north, but that was it.’
‘You haven’t heard from her since?’
‘She wrote to me years ago. Sent the letter to my production office. I’m guessing she got the address online.’
Sarah’s eyes widened with surprise.
Mirren carried on without prompting. ‘She was demanding I send money to a PO box in Liverpool. Said I owed her that. That Davie, Zander and I had done well and she wanted a piece of it. I sealed the letter back up and returned it. There were a few phone calls to my office around then too, but they were all blocked by the switchboard. I told them Marilyn was dead and it was just some crazed fan. Didn’t hear anything else.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. To be honest, I hoped she really was dead. That’s the story I’d been telling everyone here for the last twenty years. Even my family. Granny died before you were born. Somehow it seemed better than “granny was a ruthless, self-centred slut who neglected her child for years because all she cared about was the monster she was sleeping with”.’
Mirren’s words were not new to Sarah. It was a story she’d learned a year ago, when she’d first come to LA in the hope of tracking down some scandal surrounding the back story of Scotland’s most famous Hollywood exports. Now she was adding a post-script to the tale. ‘She isn’t dead. I checked. I’m sorry. I actually saw her when I first started investigating your story. She was at the funeral of some big time hood in Glasgow. I only realised later who she was when I saw an old photo of Jono Leith with her, his wife and Davie’s mother. Davie told me who the three women were.’
Mirren’s jaw tightened, then she reached over, placed her hand on Sarah’s, initiating the physical contact Sarah had so badly wanted to offer.
‘Sarah, you know what my mother is capable of. She is an evil bitch who has no conscience, no values, no loyalty to anyone but herself. Her only obsessions are money and the men she loves. You say her husband—’
‘Boyfriend.’ Sarah interjected. ‘I don’t think they were married. Although, from what I’ve learned they’ve been together for many years.’
‘So you say he was arrested?’
Sarah’s talent for storing facts flipped the relevant details to the forefront of her mind.
‘Yes. He’s on remand, but the charges are comprehensive and the cops are pretty sure they’ll stick. Apparently he was caught in a massive cross-agency sting operation that was trailing the drugs from Algiers. They’d been after him for years and they’ve got no doubt he’ll go down.’
Mirren listened, absorbed. ‘Then she’ll have lost her source of income, her love and her obsession. That’s how it works. It’s all she cares about. When she was fucking Jono Leith, she thought about him from the minute she woke, pined for him when he wasn’t there, came alive when he was – all this despite the fact he was an evil bastard whose wife lived two houses along from us.’
Sarah couldn’t even begin to imagine what that had been like. Mirren’s mother and Zander’s dad, an affair that lasted more than a decade, one that came close to destroying them all.
‘Have you told Davie?’ Mirren asked.
‘No. I wanted to speak to you first. And to be honest, he’s got his own stuff going on just now – I didn’t want to freak him out.’
Mirren’s expression softened from steel to understanding. ‘I think that was the wise thing to do. This wouldn’t be good for him right now. For Zander either.’
