by Shari King
‘Yeah, she called me,’ Mirren confirmed.
‘I told her you were too smart to let her anywhere near you,’ Zander said confidently.
The awkward pause told them he was wrong.
‘It’s a long story, but she worked out the truth. Or at least what she thinks is the truth. But it’s not going any further. She still doesn’t know where Jono is, had no proof of what happened, nothing to go on. And even if she did, I believe her when she says she wouldn’t use it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . . because I trust her. And she’s quit her job. Moved here.’
The three of them took a moment to digest this.
‘Are you sure, Davie?’
‘Yeah. I really am. Danger over. Trust me.’
‘We always did,’ Mirren answered truthfully.
Another pause.
‘Is he still there?’ Zander asked, each word excruciating to spit out.
Davie picked up a stone and threw it at the shoreline, making it skim across the surface exactly as Zander had done a few weeks before.
‘Yeah. I was talking to my mum about it last week. Turns out she knew all along. Saw us that night. So she’s never moved house, never will, just stayed there all this time protecting me. Protecting all of us. I own the house now, bought it for her years ago because she insisted on staying there. Now I know why. She was worried someone might move the hut. She had to watch over it. Look, this isn’t perfect, but we’ve lived with it this long and we’ll just have to go on, trust that it will be OK.’
‘Might be easier now that we’re in each other’s lives again,’ Mirren told them, and Zander gave in to his urge to throw his arm around her and give her a hug. She was the strongest woman he’d ever known. They’d be fine. It took him a moment to recognize the emotion, and eventually he realized it was confidence. Confidence in the future. For the first time in perhaps his whole life, he felt sure that everything was going to be OK.
‘How is your mum?’ he asked Davie, noticing for the first time that they were dressed the same: both in shirts, his white, Davie’s pale blue, both in the same shade of jeans, both in bare feet. There was a synergy to it. Sitting on either side of Mirren, they looked like bookends.
‘Yeah, she’s good. But I have to tell you something else. And I’m sorry, Zander – so sorry if this hurts you.’
‘Oh bugger, and it was all going so well,’ Zander murmured, trying to ease the sudden tension with a joke.
‘She told me that . . . that . . . Oh fuck. Right. The reason that we stayed where we stayed? The reason that she never found someone else to share her life with, the reason that she was so fucking stoic and strong and she never complained…’
‘Was?’ Zander asked, fairly sure the answer wasn’t going to be something trite and amusing.
Davie’s lips were moving, but he could barely hear his own words.
‘Jono was my dad too. We’re brothers, Zander.’ For a moment Zander couldn’t decipher what he’d said.
Brothers? How could that be? But then, why would it not? Loyalty was never Jono’s strong point, but control was. It would be totally in character for him to make someone pregnant, then arrange for them to be close by so he could keep an eye on things. Suddenly Zander remembered the presents for Davie’s birthday, Christmas – Walkmans, computer games, brilliant stuff, all overly generous for a neighbour’s kid. Zander hadn’t given it a second thought back then. Now he did and it all made perfect sense.
‘Mate, say something,’ Davie begged. ‘I just need to know whether or not to start running.’
Typical Davie – defusing everything with a nervous laugh.
And it always worked.
Zander held out his hand – to his brother.
‘All I can say is you might have got the brains, but thank God I got the looks.’
Epilogue
‘Sunshine On Leith’ – the Proclaimers
Los Angeles, 2 March 2014
Helicopters circled the skies above the Dolby Theatre, just high enough so as not to breach the no-fly zone, which would interfere with the sound systems of the eighty-two film crews that lined the red carpet below. The presenters in their tuxedos and ballgowns put as much effort into their appearance as the stars whom they tried to corral into their spaces for a sixty-second sound bite.
The Oscars were late this year, delayed by a week so they didn’t clash with the 2014 Winter Olympics. No one minded. It gave the beautiful people another seven days of sweating, pummelling, injecting and plucking themselves to perfection. Davie Johnston was the first to arrive, co-presenting with Ellen DeGeneres. The thing with someone like Davie was that you could never keep him down for long. As long as he was making money for this town, he was good for business. And he was. His latest production, Beauty and the Beats, had been a monster hit, knocking Lana Delasso’s show out of the number-three slot. Poor Lana – overtaken by a show with a shit title. He’d pondered changing it, but the network had loved it so he had let them run with it. You had to know when to pick your battles. Lana had lost hers. The cameras had followed her to Brazil, where she got ass implants, then married the doctor who’d inserted them. To her horror, one of them had ruptured, so she was now lopsided, and the doctor had released a sex tape, pocketed the cash and scarpered back to Rio de Janeiro. Davie had of course sympathized with her . . . but only in public. In private, he’d sent her a picture of Kim Kardashian’s butt and a $50 voucher for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.
Even that story hadn’t knocked the other reality-TV scandal off the front pages. Sky Nixon, aided by her mother, Rainbow, had been caught attempting to blackmail a New York politician after a sordid threesome involving Sky and her mother. Turns out Daddy was filming the whole thing via a hidden camera in the chandelier. Rainbow was most furious because she said she had the worst angles. Anyone who’d, rightfully, doubted Davie now believed he was innocent. He wasn’t going to try to convince them otherwise.
Davie waved over at his soon-to-be-ex wife. Jenny Rico and Darcy Jay were officially a couple now, both blissfully happy and sharing parenting of the kids with Davie. Rumour had it he was in a new relationship, but this time around, he said he was keeping it all to himself. Although one Scottish reporter did have the exclusive.
Mirren McLean was the next to step out of the limo. Dressed in a blush Dior sheath, overlaid with hand-sewn crystals, her hair swept back like a Roman goddess, she looked absolutely stunning. She was nominated for Best Screenplay, Best Director and Best Movie tonight for the last Clansman. She was the favourite to win all three, despite saying that not even the triple win would come close to the joy she felt on launching Chloe’s Care, a drop-in centre for teens with substance issues.
Right behind her was Lex Callaghan and his beautiful wife, Cara, dressed in vintage Chanel. All three greeted each other with genuine warmth and the cameras went wild, especially when they posed one either side of Lex. It was an image that would flood the media around the world the next day. Pure Hollywood. Lucky guy.
Jack Gore wandered over. Single again, it had smashed the headlines when Mercedes Dance had taken a DNA test that proved within a margin of 99.9 per cent that Jack Gore was not the father. Mirren posed happily with him. The official line was that they remained great friends for the sake of their son, Logan, who was currently on tour with his band and selling out 50,000-seat stadiums across Europe.
And finally, last to arrive, as only the stragglers on the red carpet remained, was Zander Leith. And boy, was he worth waiting for. Dressed in a Guilloti tux, flecks of grey hair at the temples, he had never looked more dashing. On his arm, his assistant, Hollie, looking like a curvy babe and beaming with confidence. There had been rumours that their relationship was more than professional. Neither party would confirm or deny.
Four hours, fifty-seven minutes later, Mirren McLean took to the stage, graciously received her Oscar for Best Original Screenplay and smiled. It was unusual for a sequel to win it, but the box office agr
eed that it was the best of a brilliant series.
‘I’d like to dedicate this to my daughter, Chloe. The world was a brighter place when she was in it and I will never stop missing her every moment of every day.’
The cameras panned to the audience. Nicole Kidman. Jennifer Garner. Gossip columnist Lou Cole. Tears running down their cheeks.
‘I’d like to thank my son, Logan, for being just the coolest, best-looking guy on earth.’ Laughter through the tears now.
‘Finally, I’d like to thank my other family. The one I chose for myself. This is also for Davie Johnston and Zander Leith.’
And the applause thundered on.
Acknowledgements
From Ross
To the three wonderful women in my life, Brianna, my mum Isabel, and sister Elaine. You all know how much you mean to me.
Jim, Hollie, Euan and all the brilliant Ross and King Clans.
To those people who believed in me from back in the day . . .
Roddy Hood, Eric Simpson, Richard Park, Rod Natkiel. For inspiration, Paul Cooney, Jack McLaughlin, Sheila Duffy.
The gang of brothers led by my brother from another mother, Allan Stewart, Paul Coia, Gary Hely, Lance Tankard, Julian Stone, Jim Piddock, Kenny MacKenzie and Adrian Woolfe.
Those who’ve ‘managed’ me, Jan Kennedy, Jill Shirley and David Meehan.
For making work a better place, Emma Gormley, Sue Walton, Neil Thompson, Helen Warner, Steve Gee, Dan Brown, Donald Martin and Duncan Leven.
I miss you, Hal Fishman and Jeremy Beadle.
For being great pals, Gary Barlow, Lorraine Kelly, Sue Barker and Julie McGarvey.
Sarah Cairns and all the staff at the Mandarin Oriental, Hyde Park, London. I’m a ‘Fan’.
To YOU reading now for supporting my career in radio, TV, theatre, film and now in print!
From Shari
My life is blessed with three incredible guys. John Low and our small blokes are everything.
Deadlines would never have been met without the friendship (and unpaid chauffeur services) of some very special people: Jan and Paul Johnston, Lyndsay Macalister and Neil Wilson, Pauline and Kevin Feeney, Gillian Miller and Barry Murphy and my irrepressibly spectacular step-daughter, Gemma Low.
To the sisterhood, Frankie, Janice, Linda, Wendy, Pamela, Isobel, Sylvia, Mitch, Carmen, Lennox, Emma, Hazel, Doreen, Mel and Fairy Crean.
And the menfolk, Gary Bock & Mike Bitner
To Cyril and Lilian McWilliam, Brian and Kate Rodden, John and Lynne Wilson, Diane and Billy McLean
To my family – Sadie, Rosina and all the Hills, the Murphys, the Lows, the LeCombers and the branches that make our very large tree.
To the unflappable Rebecca Ritchie at Curtis Brown, and Eloise Wood at Macmillan
Thank you once again to the journalists, booksellers and bloggers and readers who have shown stellar support over the years.
And from us both . . .
As always, a million thanks to our agent, the fabulous Sheila Crowley, who championed Shari King from the start.
And to the utterly magnificent Wayne Brookes for his enthusiasm and belief. We heart you. We do. xxxx
Special Note
This novel is pure fiction, although we have included some famous names, places, events and used artistic license to change a few details along the way.
In 1993, the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay was won by Neil Jordan for the outstanding The Crying Game.
Our fictional hero, Davie, does not of course have rivalry with the very real and very successful Ryan Seacrest.
Similarly, he has never met Simon Cowell.
And we’re fairly sure that even if our characters existed, Gerry Butler and Ewan McGregor would still win more column inches.
Love,
Shari King xx
