The catch, p.7
The Catch, page 7
Lainey nodded, her face a picture of mischief. ‘Of course, my darlin’. You know it relaxes me.’
Mellie sighed. ‘It’s what it’s doing for Davie I’m more concerned about.’
The answer, he knew, was absolutely nothing.
He wasn’t sure if he was delighted or horrified that for the first time in his life, something in his psyche had blocked him from sexual attraction to other women now that he’d met someone he’d truly fallen in love with.
Still, he went with the joke, enjoying the banter with Lainey. ‘That’s the kind of relaxation that beats yoga.’
‘Urgh, you two are, like, so gross,’ Princess spat, without even breaking her focus on the cell phone in front of her. Davie wondered for a moment if he’d ever had a conversation with her in which she’d actually put that damn phone down long enough to look him in the eye. Nope, not as far as he could remember. But then, this Bitch, with a capital ‘B’, knew her stuff. She’d no doubt uploaded a dozen selfies in the last ten minutes, gained a few hundred more followers from around the globe and boosted her record sales by thousands.
Who was the loser here, then?
‘OK, people, here we go. Floor, get some energy in the audience. Titles roll. Panel, stand by. And three, two, one… Lauren, we’re on you.’
On stage, just a spotlight, illuminating the porcelain skin and tumbling red waves of Lauren Finney, winner the year before last and this season’s host. It had been Davie’s idea to give her the gig this year. It made perfect sense. The girl was talented, beautiful and, unlike the snide, obnoxious Princess beside him, she had a personality that the country had fallen in love with. On themed shows like tonight, she opened with a song, before digging into the three months of intense training she’d undergone to give her the skills she needed to steer the American Stars juggernaut. Davie had been by her side, mentoring her every step of the way. He had a soft spot for this kid and he wanted to make it happen for her.
In previous years, with different female stars, he’d no doubt contravened several rules regarding sex in the workplace. Not now. Lauren wasn’t that girl, and his relationship with Sarah had made him no longer that guy.
Giving Lauren the gig had definitely been a gamble, but one that paid off. It gave the show credibility. Lauren’s debut album had just gone platinum, proving that American Stars lived up to its name. What better way to remind everyone of that than to have Lauren here every week? Sure, it helped that what she lacked in presentation polish she made up for in overwhelming likeability. Although, as expected, Princess didn’t necessarily agree or appreciate the competition, as evidenced by the moans of ‘Fuck this shit’ beside him.
Mellie heard it too.
‘Pipe down there, Princess. Keep your evil for the contestants,’ she warned.
Davie wasn’t paying attention, too focused on the stage.
Lauren looked up, blue eyes wide and oozing pain as she picked out an A-minor chord on her guitar and then almost whispered the first line of ‘Cut You’, Jizzo Stacks’s biggest hit. Back in the 1980s, in Jizzo’s heavy-metal hands, it had been a furious, demonic threat to a lover. The ethereal beauty of Lauren’s incomparable voice transformed it, making it a haunting lament to lost love, the breaking of a heart that was now oozing blood, captivating a viewing audience of over 15 million.
For the first time ever, there wasn’t a sound in the audience. Not a murmur. Even Princess had hushed. The idea of having Carmella make a guest appearance tonight had been floated, but Davie had blocked it for two reasons. He wanted Carmella’s first public appearance to be back on his talk show. And tonight, he wanted all the focus to be on the young woman who was killing it on the stage right now.
Only when she sang the last line, one perfect tear dropping down her cheek, did the audience react. And what a reaction. Every single person was on their feet, crying, cheering, emotions raw and laid out for all to see.
Davie knew three things for sure. Tonight was going to be an incredible show.
Mellie would have captured every second of this performance and audience reaction so well that viewers across the nation would be weeping into their pizza.
And his people would have this on iTunes by midnight, where it would rise to number one within twenty-four hours. No doubt Jizzo was up there somewhere calling Davie all the fuckers under the sun for profiting from his death. But at the same time, he wouldn’t expect anything less.
The rest of the show was flawless.
There were eight acts left in the competition, and any one of them had the potential to make it. Tonight, each of them raised their game in an attempt to match Lauren’s impact. No one did, but their brilliant interpretations of Jizzo’s hits, interspersed with VTs of other stars paying tribute to the fallen rocker, made it the perfect blend of entertainment and emotion.
That was showbiz. A year ago, Jizzo was washed up, almost a joke, a has-been with a bad weave who was desperately holding on to a fanbase that had long ago swapped their leather trousers for pension plans and brochures for assisted-living facilities. Throw in a supermodel girlfriend, a hit reality show and behaviour that would get him arrested anywhere else in the world, and the result was the kind of homage that used to be reserved for state leaders and royalty.
As the closing titles rolled with the telephone numbers that gave the viewers the opportunity to play God and vote an act off (10 cents per call, standard network rates may apply), Davie exhaled, relaxing for the first time in almost a week.
He’d done it. They’d pulled it off.
Tonight had been a good night.
In the old days, he’d want to pick up a few girls and go indulge in some serious self-congratulation in a hotel suite that came with hot and cold running excess.
But not now. Tonight, he just wanted to head home, hook up with Sarah and then wake up tomorrow morning to the ratings figures and a top iTunes position for Lauren’s opening number.
It was all about the dollar, baby.
It took a couple of hours to debrief, wrap everything up, schmooze everyone who needed schmoozing and arrange a planning session for the next day.
It was almost midnight by the time he pushed through the studio doors onto the boardwalk. They’d made the decision to host the show in a lot that was accessible to the public, so that they could use the footage of the stars arriving and leaving as teasers for the shows. Only a few burly security guards and a stretch of yellow tape were restraining the small crowd, all of them holding out iPhones. God, he missed the simple days of relative obscurity and autograph books.
Nevertheless, he slipped straight into Tom Cruise mode, shaking hands, taking selfies and working his way along the line, lest someone put his refusal on Instagram and within five minutes the whole world thinks he’s a dick. Again.
‘Davie, we love you!’
‘Can you say, “Hi, Betty!”? My mom loves you.’
Yep, he still had it. His fans still adored him. Last year was a blip, but he was headed back to the top. No more crap, no more disasters, and one day – in a ghost-written memoir – he’d claim it made him a better person. He’d say it was a turning point – had to reach rock bottom to appreciate what mattered or similar shit. Meanwhile, life was getting real good again.
‘Davie…’
The voice. Male. Teenage.
His head raised to check it out and just before the point of eye contact with the young man, he saw a cloud of red coming towards him.
The recoil was automatic, as was the tight clench of his eyes as the scarlet liquid reached his face. He staggered backwards, waiting for the pain, but as the wet sticky substance ran down his hair, his face, his neck, there was only an intoxicating, metallic smell that seeped into his pores.
Davie recognised it immediately.
It was the smell of someone else’s blood.
8
MIRREN
‘Every Breath You Take’ – Sting
The Centurion Suite at the Staples Centre wasn’t their usual venue for Thursday-night dinner, but given this was the first South City concert in a three-night run, there was no way the two women, sitting anonymously at a corner table, would be anywhere else.
Lou Cole paused, a bread roll midway to her mouth. She prided herself on being the last person in Los Angeles who still consumed carbs on anything other than birthdays, Christmas or the discovery that your partner was cheating on you with a twenty-two-year-old waitress.
‘Honey, you really need to get laid. Seriously. It’s the only thing that will help at this point.’
Mirren tilted her head to one side, caught somewhere between amusement and outrage. ‘Then I think we can give thanks that you’re not a bereavement counsellor or there’d be a whole lot of shagging going on.’
‘You’re right. I think I missed my calling.’
Mirren couldn’t resist the urge to smile. Only friends who had been together for a lifetime could spark off each other like this.
She’d first met Lou Cole when she came to Hollywood in 1992. Back then, the only three people she knew in the whole of the US were Davie and Zander, who’d come over from Scotland with her, and Wes Lomax, who had ‘discovered’ them. Lomax had been on a golfing trip to St Andrews when Davie had persuaded the room-service waitress to let him take an order to Lomax’s room, allowing him to sneak Mirren’s first attempt at writing into the legendary producer’s room. Lomax had loved it, made the movie, called it The Brutal Circle and, goddammit, had it not won them an Oscar.
Welcome to the American dream. Come right on in.
Back then, Lou had been a feisty young journalist on the LA Times, a go-getting African American rebelling against the establishment and ambitious to the point of ruthless. It had paid off. Now she was the editor of the industry newspaper the Hollywood Post, a weekly publication that contained every industry move, play and piece of gossip. The stars came to her with exclusives, chose her centre pages to break stories or get ahead of scandals. In a time when the press were viewed as somewhere between rodents and serial killers on the Hollywood scale, Lou Cole still commended respect, largely because she was a force of nature with integrity, brains and the ear of every important player within a fifty mile radius of the Walk of Fame. Back in the early days, the two women would share tubs of ice cream sitting on Santa Monica Beach late at night. Lou would dream of a Pulitzer and Mirren would dream of writing bestselling novels. The Pulitzer hadn’t materialized, but sheer graft had taken Lou to the top, while Mirren’s Clansman novels had delivered stellar success that led to movie-world glory. Now, they had the money and sway to get them the best tables in Craig’s and Spago, but although the locations had changed, their friendship had not. They’d been together through every crazy twist and turn that life had thrown at them.
Lou had never married, but there had been a couple of long-term relationships that perished because they always came second place to her career. She had been Chloe’s godmother, was a second mom to Logan and came close to punching out Jack Gore when he’d betrayed Mirren. She was the secret-keeper in Mirren’s life, the person who knew everything. Almost everything. Mirren had never told her the real reason that she, Davie and Zander had come off that stage at the Oscars over twenty years ago and gone their separate ways, with no contact until events of recent months brought them back together. She’d never told her the truth about her life back in Scotland.
One day, she’d tell her everything. But not yet.
As if she’d tuned into Mirren’s thoughts, Lou wiped hot mustard from her bottom lip and asked, ‘So how’s the big childhood-friends reunion thing working out?’
‘It’s…’ Mirren paused, searching for the words. ‘It’s… Weird. Davie and I have had dinner a couple of times, it feels easy and familiar and then I remember that we’re not sixteen any more and he’s not Davie Johnston from two houses away. It’s like I don’t know him, yet there’s a love there. It’s like having a piece of me back and trying to work out where it fits.’ Lou nodded as she bit down on another fry. ‘Very poetic, my friend. And what about my favourite sex god? Tell me you’ve got naked with him. You’ll go right up in my estimations.’
‘Sorry.’ Mirren shook her head, grinning. ‘I know you don’t get this, because you have no emotional depth and you’re sex-obsessed…’
‘All true,’ Lou agreed.
‘But Zander and I grew up with a brother-sister vibe and that’s exactly how it still feels.’
‘What a waste.’
‘See previous comment about shallow and sex-driven. Anyway, he came over on Chloe’s birthday and hung out with Logan and me.’
‘Where was Fucker Gore?’
Mirren raised an eyebrow in mock rebuke. While she’d lost all her animosity against her arrogant asshole of an ex-husband, put all her negative feelings to one side for Logan’s sake, Lou fully intended to bear the grudge on her friend’s behalf until the end of time.
‘Who knows?’ Mirren shrugged. ‘He came over for an hour or so, then bailed out.’
Lou pursed her lips, an expression Mirren had seen a million times before. There wasn’t a Hollywood innuendo, flirtation or an attraction that Lou didn’t know about – ergo, it made perfect sense that she’d have the details on what Jack was up to. Usually, Mirren didn’t want to know, but something in Lou’s wide-eyed expression made her curious.
‘OK, spill. Who is it?’
‘I heard he’s sending large bouquets to Carmella Cass. Daily.’ It took Mirren a moment to process. ‘The model from Davie’s show? Whose boyfriend… What’s his name?’
‘Jizzo,’ Lou added.
‘Yeah, Jizzo. He passed away last week?’
It was phrased as a question because it just seemed too bizarre to comprehend.
Lou took a sip of beer – another rebellious throwback to her uncouth youth – as she nodded. ‘Yup. Seems like Fucker Gore is lining himself up as a replacement already. Although, in the scumbag’s defence, apparently he’s been hitting on her for a while. Didn’t take him long to move on once he found out he wasn’t Mercedes Dance’s baby daddy, right?’
‘Ah, suddenly, the rock T-shirts and tattoos make sense,’ Mirren nodded, laughing at the ridiculousness of it.
‘A tattoo? No. Fricking. Way,’ Lou shrieked, finding it equally hilarious.
‘Way,’ Mirren added, the giggles contagious. Both women were wiping tears away, when, like an ascending ringtone, the volume of the buzz in the room got louder. Mirren soon spotted why.
Tonight there was a very different crowd to the one that usually congregated in the Staples Centre for Lakers and Clippers games. At this moment, there were almost 20,000 in the stadium, taking it to full capacity, and the majority were teenage girls, most of whom had pleaded, badgered or blackmailed their parents into buying them tickets and bringing them to see the boys whose posters adorned their walls.
Located on level B, the Centurion Suite was available to those with American Express Centurion cards, the world-renowned, invitation-only black card that opened a world of spending and came with no credit limit. It was reported that the average income of a black-card holder was $1.3 million, with assets of over $16 million. And small change.
In the lounge, the black-card holders mingled with the fans who owned premier seating tickets, usually corporate big shots and those who liked to pay a premium to enjoy dinner and seats with the best view in the house.
But right now, none of the young girls in their designer clothes were looking at the buffet or at the parents who’d forked out $500 a head to get them here. Every single one of them was watching the tall guy striding across the room, tailed by two black-suited security guards, both former Navy Seals. A hundred smart phones were raised in unison and video buttons hurriedly pressed by trembling fingers. Logan Gore kissed both women on the cheek before slipping in beside his mother.
‘This is so typical of you two,’ he grumbled, feigning irritation. ‘I give you backstage passes and where are you? Up here, having food and ignoring your poor, neglected, insecure son.’
Mirren laughed, gesturing around the room, marvelling at how grounded he was despite living in this overbearing bubble of adoration. ‘Yes, I can see why you feel that you’re lacking in attention.’
Chairs started creaking as girls rose to their feet. Logan and Mirren both knew what that meant. In about ten seconds they’d start circling him, asking for autographs and selfies while promising a lifetime of devotion.
One of the security guys cleared his throat and Logan sighed. ‘Gotta go. Just wanted to say hello. Are you gonna watch from your booth?’
Mirren nodded. ‘We’d only get in the way backstage. And this way I get to see what everyone else does. I kind of like that.’
Lou leaned over. ‘And you’d better dedicate a song to me, as we both know I’m your favourite woman on God’s earth.’
‘I will, Aunt Lou,’ Logan agreed. ‘But only 'cause I’m scared of you.’
‘Excellent,’ Lou beamed. ‘I like it when I instil dread and fear.’
Mirren smiled. These two had always had a special camaraderie and she loved that Logan had someone else who cared for him almost as much as she did.
Watching him leave, a swell of pride caught in her throat, and right behind it a wave of sadness. It was just the two of them now. This time last year, they’d been a family. Now they were a duo.
Spotting the emotional ricochet on her face, Lou reached over and put her hand on Mirren’s, saying softly, ‘No, no, no, no, don’t, baby. Don’t let it take this moment.’
Mirren nodded, grateful, and shook off the melancholy. That’s how it worked. The wave of sadness ambushed you when you were down, but also when you were happy and least expecting it, taking the brief moments of joy and turning them into moments of regret and longing for the girl who was no longer here and the family unit that was long gone.
