by Shari King
Under a scratched surface, Sarah could see he was a scumbag, one who, it seemed, disappeared off the face of the earth right after a fraud charge was dropped due to several witnesses falling victim to an amnesia epidemic. It was a pattern. He’d been arrested many times, often held on remand, but never convicted. So on the face of it, Jono Leith was a man with a relatively unblemished record. No press cuttings, nothing online, the invisible man.
Sarah had read everything there was to read on Zander’s history too and there was no mention of anything that would raise an eyebrow. According to every bio, he grew up with his mum, Maggie, and dad, John, and lived with them until he was discovered by Wes Lomax at nineteen. That’s where any mention of his family ended. No interviews, no ‘proud parent’ pieces. Just a statement early in his career, around the time of the Oscar win, saying that his family were private people and had no wish to be in the limelight. Nowadays, there would be internet chatter, gossip-mag profiles and tweets from half of Glasgow declaring they knew the Leiths. But it seemed like a new chapter on Zander had opened when he headed to Hollywood and the previous one had been well and truly closed.
All Sarah needed was a crowbar. But in the meantime, a sighting of the elusive Jono Leith would be a start.
As the priest wound up proceedings, Della made a break from the front pew and threw herself across the coffin. The older members of the audience shuffled in discomfort, while the younger ones were no doubt itching to get their phones out and get this on YouTube.
Sarah took advantage of the spectacle to slip downstairs and head outside first, positioning herself to the left of the doors, where she would have a perfect view of the emerging faces.
A photograph she’d stared at for ten minutes this morning was pulled to the forefront of her mind. Simon had photocopied an image he’d ‘borrowed’ from the archives of Jono Leith, standing in a group shot at the funeral of Jono’s mother. He was flanked by women on both sides, his wife to his right, two others, perhaps his sisters, to his left. In front of them were three kids, and straight away the eye was drawn to the tallest. Even then, aged about twelve, Zander was a striking boy, already over five and a half feet, the hair dropped in front of his eyes unable to mask a haunted stare and the firm, angry set of his mouth.
Sarah pulled her coat tighter around her neck to try to block the icy breeze that was cutting her in two. Who could have known what was in front of that kid? Stardom. Success. Rehab. Fame. A sexual prowess that was legendary. He’d even fucked Lila Day, the showbiz reporter on her paper, during a press junket for his last movie. Thankfully, he didn’t return her calls, which gave Lila an axe to grind and made her willing to share his contact details as soon as Sarah had bribed her with a bottle of champagne and a new D&G scarf.
It was a long shot that had the potential to leave her screwed professionally and in debt to Visa and Mastercard, but that wasn’t stopping her. The calls she’d put in to Davie, Zander and Mirren had delivered only a tiny glimmer of hope. No answer or reply from Mirren’s people, nothing from Zander, just a blanket acknowledgement from Davie’s PA, Jorja, with a vague promise to get back to her.
The mourners were starting to file out now, the women dabbing at their eyes, the men itching for a drink, but first there was the serious business of being seen to pay respects to the dearly departed.
Della took her place, last in the line-up, the grand finale. Despite the freezing temperature, she discarded her coat, determined that something as trifling as hypothermia would not prevent her from giving her public an eyeful of the Hervé Léger bodycon that was struggling to constrain her assets. Sarah didn’t know him well, but from their handful of meetings, she had a feeling Manny Murphy would have laughed his decrepit arse off at the spectacle.
So captivated was she by the soap opera unfolding in front of her that she didn’t spot him at first. The man was standing back from the others, the tall, ageing frame she’d noticed in the church now straightened, head up. This guy was in his fifties, too young to be Jono Leith. There was no resemblance either: the nose too straight, the eyes further apart, the jawline too square.
But it was the woman by his side that had Sarah transfixed. Mid-height, perhaps five foot five, her white hair swept back in a perfect elegant chignon, an expensive-looking coat, almost certainly cashmere. There was something in her bearing, a regal posture, a serene expression that made her stand a million miles of class and style apart from the others.
Sarah locked eyes on her and experienced an almost immediate wave of recognition.
Jono Leith may be long dead and gone. But Sarah would stake her career, her lawyer boyfriend and her colleague’s new D&G scarf that she was looking at Zander Leith’s mother.
Politeness and the wish to avoid drawing attention to herself cost valuable minutes as she worked through the crowd. Damn, if only she’d worn heels so she could keep the target in her sight every step of the way. By the time she got to the spot where the woman had been standing, she was gone. Frantically scanning the crowd again, it was a few seconds before she spotted the back of the white coiffure dipping as the woman climbed into the back of a black limo. Two choices: let it go or run across the grass and throw herself in front of the car. Even for Sarah, there was a limit
She watched until the back bumper disappeared through the ornate gates. Sarah cursed under her breath. She’d just lost her best lead so far. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
11.
‘Superstition’ – Stevie Wonder
‘How the fuck could you let this happen? Do you know what this will do to our brand?’ Jenny screamed.
Not their family. Or their marriage. Or his career. Their brand. Plural. God bless Hollywood.
Davie had thought that the fact that Jenny was shooting on location in Vancouver would have given her a bit of space to take on board what had happened, calm down and help him work out a plan to deal with all this in a mature, strategic manner.
The proof that he had never understood women was that he had clearly got that wrong on all counts. She and Darcy had arrived an hour ago, both of them all rock chick chic and long flowing hair, which did nothing to detract from the fact that his wife was incandescent with rage. And that was just a warm-up.
One of Davie’s four cell phones, the solid-gold iPhone he reserved for the press, buzzed incessantly. Jenny picked it up from the antique Nepalese meditation table and threw it at the glass wall which gave a view over Hollywood that represented the fact that the golden couple reigned over the City of Angels.
Past tense.
He flicked the phone onto silent and attempted to deflect his wife’s ire.
‘I didn’t see you worrying about our brand when you were fucking your pal over there,’ he spat.
‘Really? Is that the best you can do? Urgh, what a dick.’
Jenny’s poster-girl face was contorted in disgust. Over in the corner, Darcy Jay’s lips held a hint of amusement. Davie fought not to react. A murder charge was the last thing he needed to add to his list of great decisions right now.
The fallout had been brutal. Forty-eight hours of solid abuse and bombardment on all fronts.
Three days ago, he’d been one of the biggest names in town; wannabes would beg, steal and blow-job to get five minutes in his presence. Since the scandal broke, his stylist had emailed to say he was no longer available, his trainer had quit, and even his assistant, Jorja, had taken her copy of their non-disclosure agreement and disappeared into the sunset. It was a bad day when the nobodies in this town cut off ties. Even the pizza delivery service wouldn’t return his calls. He was toxic.
There had been a few who had hedged their bets, sending supportive texts and private messages, but not a single one had come out to defend him in public. Not that there was much to defend, but the gesture would have been nice. Traitorous fucks. Even the car crash that was Lana Delasso didn’t use the drama as an excuse to suck up to him, and in this town she only just won a popularity contest with genital warts.
Ivanka teetered into the room. ‘Mr Davie, that was the gatehouse – Mr Woolfe is here.’ Her accent was so thick he had to concentrate to decipher her words. ‘They’ve let him in and he’s on his way up. And he’s asking if you are watching Hollywood Today.’
Despite wanting to do nothing less, he flicked on the TV and went straight to his DVR. The lunchtime bulletin was on series link so that he never missed a mention of his name. Might be time to rethink that decision.
He fast-forwarded through the lead story – breaking news about a former NBA star getting dragged out of a crack den by a private SWAT team hired by his soap-star wife – then stopped breathing as his face filled the screen.
Was it wrong that even today he was instinctively insulted by the fact that he didn’t get top billing? What did ten guys in blackout gear storming the gates of a Hollywood Hills mansion have that he didn’t?
The shot cut back to the studio, to an anorexic presenter whose brilliant-white, veneered smile was wider than her thighs. Flicking a waist-length mane of jet-black hair that had only last month been on the head of a fourteen-year-old factory worker in Bangladesh, she delivered the segment in the manner of a pageant queen being asked her opinion on saving the rainforest.
‘And here’s what Family Three leading lady Vala Diaz had to say to those gorgeous ladies on The View today about the wide-reaching repercussions of this shocking situation.’
The image changed to one of Tilly Cantor sitting on the couch of The View, speaking in her trademark tone: breathy with an edge of Republican superiority.
‘Vala, I know you’re not here to talk about this today, but I couldn’t let you go without asking you about the latest controversy surrounding producer Davie Johnston and poor teenager Sky Nixon. We hear she’s still in a coma, and obviously we’ve all seen those heartbreaking images of the fans holding a vigil outside the hospital where she lies fighting for her life, but what’s been the impact on your show? How are Davie Johnston’s children, Bella and Bray, holding up?’
Beads of sweat burst onto Davie’s forehead. Holding up?
Holding up? They’re fricking seven! As long as they’ve got their iPads and a supply of candy, all’s right in their world.
The thoughts ricocheting off the inside of his skull skidded to a halt as Vala opened her beautiful mouth.
‘Well, I think it’s just a tragic situation for everyone involved and my heart goes out to darling Sky.’
Davie’s thoughts kick-started again. Darling Sky? The one and only time they’d been in the same room, Vala had threatened to impale her on an ice sculpture because she was all over Davie like a fungal infection.
‘I don’t know Davie very well, as obviously I only work with his children, who are adorable by the way…’
The audience murmured their approval of her sentiment.
‘…but I do know that as a cast we are coming together to protect those innocent children and we will continue to do so for as long as they need us.’
Over in the corner, Darcy broke off from stroking Jenny’s hair to speak to Davie for the first time. ‘Next time you bang her, you might want to introduce the concept of a gag.’
Davie ignored her, about to flick the TV off when the next segment caused whole-body paralysis.
‘And it’s been a week for scandalous happenings among Hollywood royalty, as a name that will be very familiar to Mr Johnston steals some headlines of her own. We still have no word on the whereabouts of Mirren McLean, Johnston’s former film-making partner and lifelong friend. As we reported two days ago, a car belonging to Ms McLean’s husband, Jack Gore, was found wrecked at the bottom of Trancas Canyon. Police have reported that as far as they are aware, no crime has been committed; however, they are still searching the area. This morning, her husband refused to comment on rumours that his close relationship with co-star Mercedes Dance has been a source of marital problems.’
Oh fuck no. Mirren. He must have called her a hundred times in the last two days and mentally branded her every bitch under the sun for refusing to pick up or call back.
His mind went on overdrive as a dozen scenarios played out in his head, none of them good. His knees almost buckled and he had to grab the table to support him. This shit shouldn’t happen, and if it did, he should be able to deal with it. He’d dealt with every situation in his life and survived. Every trauma. Every drama. He’d written every cliché into his shows. Go big or go home. Swing for the fences. If this was a movie, it would be his Braveheart moment. Conquer or die trying.
But right now, he needed someone else’s oxygen. He needed Mirren. Needed her.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
The vibe in the room changed suddenly as Al strode in and threw his hands up in outrage.
‘Are you fucking ready to deal with this?’
Al’s voice. Every hitman in every blockbuster of the last twenty years had imitated Al Woolfe when they were delivering their final words to their victim. Goodnight, sucker. His voice was low and deadly, at odds with a stature that was whippet-thin and a pallor that belonged to an accountant who avoided daylight hours.
But it wasn’t his voice that chilled Davie right now; it was what he was saying.
Was he ready to deal with this? For years they’d been a team. What happened to ‘we’? What happened to ‘us’? It was the way it worked in this business. Everyone claimed credit when the going was good, denied culpability when it all went to shit.
We had a hit show.
Your show tanked.
But for now, they were still in it together. They had to be.
‘You need to pull this off,’ Al told him. There it was again. Singular. But the warning was unnecessary. Twenty years in the business had left a muscle memory that caused a snap in Davie’s psyche.
What was it they said? You found out who your friends were when the chips were down?
Right now they were scattered all over the floor and he was getting a harsh reality check.
Exit one friend, so fast the sparks were coming off his Gucci loafers. The ones purchased with Davie’s 10 per cent.
Fuelled by desperation, demanding inspiration, Davie wasn’t letting go.
‘You have to help fix this, Al. We’re a team, right?’
Al didn’t even try to hide his discomfort or distaste. Oh, the irony. Yesterday, he’d have given his grandmother up for Davie Johnston, but now, he’d happily hand him over to any other agent in town. He peeled Davie off his torso and reclaimed his personal space.
‘OK, the guys are outside, every reporter in town is there, and we’ve got them cordoned by the guest house. Camera crews are ready. Security is tight. Ready to be humble?’
‘Yeah, Al, about that, I—’
‘Your opinion ain’t required, Davie. Just get out there and grovel.’
Davie nodded like a school kid trying to please the priest by telling him that he did three decades of the rosary every night.
But hang on.
Suddenly Al was giving him points on performance? Davie was the talent. He was Mr Public. Davie was the one who got 90 per cent because he was the one out there. When cameras were rolling, he called the shots.
And right now, his shots had to be on target.
Jenny and Darcy said nothing as he checked his hair in the Rennie Mackintosh mirror above the travertine mantel, dusted on some loose powder to counteract the shine and added a subtle coat of mascara. Waterproof. Just in case.
Walking behind Al, and followed by a tribe of publicists from CSA, they headed out of the glass doors and crossed the lawn, which was so vast Rod Stewart had once asked him why he hadn’t remodelled it into a football pitch.
As they approached the ornamental meditation garden, between the yoga deck and the maze, he could hear the buzz of expectation. It was unusual to hold a press conference at a star’s home, but they were using every trick in the book to ensure a mass turnout. If the wolves didn’t come out of journalistic interest, they’d come for a view of the si
xteen-car garage that hosted some of the rarest specimens in the country.
The flashbulbs popped like strobe lights from the second he came into view, mounted the small stage that had been hurriedly purpose-built for this morning and took his place behind the microphone at centre stage.
Like a synchronized dance, the crowd hushed at once, each of them pressing record on their handheld audio devices and cameras.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.’
Watching the polished greeting, taking in the relaxed posture and the trademark cheeky grin, not a single person there would have guessed that fifteen minutes before, he’d almost been on his knees.
‘Obviously, my name has been in the headlines over the last couple of days and for once I’m thinking that’s not a good thing . . .’
The self-deprecating humour earned him an automatic murmur of amusement.
‘I just want to set the record straight and let you know the truth behind what happened. That was me on that tape - I won’t deny it. But what you didn’t hear was that my words were being recorded as part of a cameo stunt we were going to set up, a satirical piece about the rumours that all reality shows are scripted. I’m sorry that Rainbow Nixon used that tape out of context. I’m sorry that she chose to release it at a time that was so sensitive for her daughter and her family. I have no idea why that happened. I can assure you, quite categorically and absolutely, that I did not have any part in Sky Nixon’s decision to take drugs. I can only hope now that Rainbow, with her own extensive experience of addiction, will be there for her daughter and focus on the truth and yes – reality of the situation.’
