‘I get it,’ Sarah assured her.

  ‘So is it OK with you if we keep this between us for now? I’m not asking you to lie, and obviously if you feel you have to tell Davie at some point…’

  ‘Then I will. But not yet. I don’t want to worry him when this could all turn out to be just rumour and nonsense.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve got a private investigator that I trust. He’s worked for me before. He used to go find Chloe when she went AWOL and bring her home, and then I used him again when Jack was off screwing around. I’ll bring him in on this and see if he can track Marilyn down.’

  ‘You want him to go to the UK?’ Sarah asked, confused, before continuing, ‘Because I’ve got some people over there I worked with who would be far more familiar with that world. They’d have a better chance of finding her.’

  Mirren shook her head. ‘I think it’s too late for that. Something happened lately that made me uneasy. I thought I was imagining things, just still a bit off balance. But now it all makes perfect sense.’

  ‘It does?’

  Mirren exhaled slowly. ‘My mother would do anything for money. And I have plenty of it. If her partner has been arrested, she’ll come for it. In a way I always expected it. Not just for money, but for revenge too.’

  ‘Against you?’ Sarah didn’t understand. ‘But it was Jono who attacked you that day.’

  Mirren sighed. ‘She never blamed him. Even after she’d killed him, she still thought it was my fault.’

  ‘So you think she’ll come here?’

  Mirren cut her off. ‘Maybe. A couple of weeks ago I saw someone on the beach, someone who reminded me so much of her. I tried to tell myself I was wrong. Now, I don’t think I was. I think my mother is already here.’

  15

  No one understands how it feels when everything is taken away. Everything.

  It’s like a blade has ripped through your flesh, gouged it wide open, then reached in and torn out the very part of you that makes you who you are.

  I know.

  I’m still bleeding from that open wound and there’s no way to stop it. It’ll kill me. I know that too.

  But not yet.

  I have to make it right first. Isn’t that what love is? A promise that you’ll never let go, never give up, will right the wrongs that have been committed against you and the person you’re bound to forever? Even when you can no longer touch them, feel them next to you, hold them at night.

  Even when that person is gone, the love is still there, and so is that obligation.

  So I’m not ready to die yet.

  Not until I’ve made them understand what they took from me. Not until I’ve made them see how it feels to be me.

  Not until I’ve made them bleed.

  16

  DAVIE

  ‘Man in the Mirror’ – Michael Jackson

  ‘Daddy, she’s got my phone,’ Bray raged, his face red with fury as he pointed at the device in his sister’s hands. ‘Give it back, you little shit.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey… That’s enough,’ Davie warned him. ‘And stop with the language. Don’t speak to your sister like that.’

  Bray rounded on him. ‘No wonder Darcy says she’ll kick your ass.’

  And there it was. It had been a whole, oh, ten minutes or so since the kids had tried to play one parenting set off against another. Not that it bothered Davie. Water off a daddy duck’s back. But then, it could be worse. There was a legendary story about the child star whose mother sent him to his room for misbehaving.

  ‘My room?’ he sneered. ‘They’re all my rooms.’

  For now, it was all about pacifying and keeping it real in a world that couldn’t be more surreal.

  ‘I’m sure one day she will. But for now, watch your language, son.’

  ‘Or what?’ Bray fronted up to him, while his twin sister, Bella, watched with amusement.

  ‘Or I’ll give your courtside ticket to the Clippers game to Justin Bieber. Don’t make me do it.’

  As if by magic, Bray clamped his mouth shut, and Davie fought down the urge to laugh. It was hard being eight. Especially when you were already a household name across the country, thanks to lead roles in Family Three, the sitcom his children, red-haired twins Bella and Bray, had starred in since they were three.

  These two were fast becoming the Mary-Kate and Ashley of their generation. They lived in an adult world, were schooled on set, recognized everywhere they went. They had a manager and an agent, a publicist and – no shit – a brand manager. Yep, his kids were a brand. A brand that came with a USP – they’d made gingers cool.

  How had that happened? How had he taken his eye off the ball for so long he didn’t notice that his kids had become brands?

  The truth was, his eye had never been on the parental ball in the first place. It had seemed like a great idea at the time. The showbiz family. He was Mr TV. Jenny was an A-list actor. And their kids were stars of one of the top rated sitcoms on network television. From the outside, it had been the perfect Hollywood family. Now it was the perfect Hollywood divorce, with two precocious eight year olds with mouths like sailors.

  It mortified him now to admit it, but the kids had always been Jenny’s department. He’d been too busy out there, making a buck, building his own brand, to build a relationship with them. He was trying to make up for it now. Since the divorce, and since Jenny had gone off to shack up with the woman who was apparently threatening to kick his ass, he’d been trying to make up for lost time. It wasn’t easy, but at least the kids knew he was making an effort. That had to count for something, right?

  There was a knock at the door; then their male nanny appeared. Yep, a male nanny. Another statement in the world of Jenny and Darcy, another attempt to squeeze his balls until he squealed. Shallow as it was, it worked. Davie tried not to mind that it was pretty obvious the kids preferred Zac to him. Zac was twenty-four, he was cool, he hung out with them all day, played football with Bray, had mani-pedis with Bella, and according to them both, he just knew ‘stuff’. Jenny and Darcy had employed him four months ago after interviewing a dozen candidates from the childcare agency. It was Zac’s job to get the kids where they were supposed to be, organize their schedule, oversee their schooling, mediate with the on-set studio rep and make sure all their needs were catered for. So far it was working out great. Davie wasn’t sure whether that pleased him or irritated him.

  ‘Right, guys, time to get going. Got all your stuff?’ Zac asked, looking around for anything that had been left behind. ‘Davie, see you later, bud.’ OK, it was official – Zac irritated him. Bud? This guy didn’t lack confidence, that was for sure.

  ‘Dad, promise you won’t give my ticket to Justin Bieber?’ Bray asked, suitably chastised.

  ‘I promise. See you Monday night for the game, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ He put his hand up for a knuckle-bump and Davie matched it, before hugging Bella. At least that bit came naturally now. He didn’t have the answers to all this fatherhood stuff and he was pretty sure he was fucking up on a regular basis, but at least he was trying and spending time with them. It was progress.

  He waved as he watched them head down the driveway, then wandered into the kitchen, where Alina was singing along to Carrie Underwood while she sliced fruit on the granite worktop. He considered it a blessing that he’d got custody of Alina in the divorce. The Russian housekeeper, 38-23-38, peroxide-blonde hair, lived in tiny skirts and six-inch mules, loved country music, cleaning, cooking and her Ukrainian husband and Davie’s gardener, Drago. They’d both been with Davie for over a decade and they ran his home like clockwork. If only he could have someone to do that for the other areas in his life.

  ‘Alina, I’m off. Get me on my cell if you need me.’ She barely looked up. What she lacked in warmth and conversation, she made up for in loyalty and domestic skills. It was a fair trade.

  Traffic was light, so it took him twenty minutes in the Bugatti Veyron to reach the studio. He parked in one half of his double space – the other half being reserved for the portable canopy that kept the Bugatti shielded from the sun. It wouldn’t do to burn one’s arse on one’s monogrammed leather seats.

  It was Tuesday, so that meant a solid twelve hours at the studio in rehearsals for tonight’s American Stars. Last week’s ratings had been the highest ever, and baby, it felt good. It made the ridiculous hours and the stresses of juggling two primetime shows, plus production on another three worthwhile. Beauty and the Beats was off air at the moment but he was making a financial killing on the reruns. He was going to have to make a decision on that show’s future pretty soon, but it wasn’t looking great now that the Beats himself was only playing for an audience in the rock stadium in the sky.

  In the office, Mellie was waiting for him, expression thunderous. ‘Where the fuck have you been? Everyone is waiting and Princess is about to throw a diva strop that will take out everyone within spitting distance.’

  ‘Morning, darling,’ he replied in a sing-song voice. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  ‘You are such an asshole,’ Mellie replied, rolling her eyes, unable to mask completely the smile that was playing at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘So what’s up with the problem Princess today?’ Davie asked, taking the double-shot latte that had materialized right next to him in the hand of Debs, the latest in his long line of assistants, with a quick ‘thanks’.

  ‘Mr Johnston, Carmella Cass has called four times for you.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll get back to her.’

  He returned his attention to Mellie and waited for the update.

  She led with, ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  ‘Lauren?’

  ‘And that cutting insight is why you’re the boss,’ Mellie teased. ‘She says she’s had enough of Lauren getting all the attention when she is – and I quote – “a two-bit slut with a voice like shit going down a drain”. She’s refusing to go on set if Lauren sings the opening number again tonight.’

  Davie didn’t even realise that he was running his hand through his hair. It was his automatic reaction in times of stress, irritation and unreasonable megastars. Especially ones he had no intention of humouring. Lauren was his biggest find, a girl who’d wandered into auditions a couple of years ago with only a guitar to her name. His show had made her a star and there was no limit to what she could and would achieve now. She was sweet, talented and – a fucking miracle in this industry – still completely unaffected by the tsunami of fame that had crashed over her. Princess was a stage-school brat, from wealthy parents who’d bought her way through every stage of the music industry, creating a spoilt monster on the way. She was only here because she was big right now, but it was a stardom that wouldn’t last because she was a performer, not an artist. When it came to which side Davie was going to back here, there was no contest.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her dressing room, but she’s refusing to come out until she’s spoken to you. I hope you’re feeling bulletproof.’

  ‘Always,’ Davie replied, before heading off down the corridor. This shouldn’t be his battle to fight. Princess had managers, agents, lackeys for everything from putting on her shoes to carrying her gum. Surely her people should just call his people and sort it out?

  But that wasn’t how she operated. This was the third time she’d refused to go on set. There wasn’t going to be a fourth.

  Besides, if she played hardball, he still had the ultimate revenge – he could put her on stage and cut the auto-tune halfway through her performance. The whole world would then see that she couldn’t hold a note in one of her blinged-up boots. At the door of Princess’s dressing room, his brain was assaulted by the volume of the track blasting from inside. He recognized it immediately. Princess’s latest song, ‘Take Me Now, Boy’. Nothing like a bit of unsubtle product placement. She’d been bugging him to give her a performance slot for the last three weeks, but he just wasn’t sure the explicit lyrics and the pelvic thrusts from the song’s video were primetime family viewing. If he’d learned anything last year, it was that there were limits to how far he could go with the viewing public before their backlash whipped you like a twenty-foot tail on a pissed-off alligator. He didn’t feel like being a casualty this week.

  Nevertheless, he was aware of what she brought to the show.

  The unpredictability and sheer viciousness that enticed the viewers and gave him something to play off. For once, he could be the good guy.

  He knocked on the door. No answer. Hardly a surprise. There was no way anything could be heard over the music. Irritation rose to the top of his emotional pile. He had a show to run and no time for this shit. He pushed open the door and marched inside, then immediately wished that he hadn’t.

  Princess’s dressing room had been designed to her exact specifications. All four walls were mirrored and in the middle was a circular sofa, purple leather, surrounding a low glass table that was littered with cigarettes and bottles of Grey Goose.

  Along one wall, a dressing area that Pop Bitch Barbie would be proud of, given that it contained every cosmetic, accessory and hair device currently available in the free world.

  At the back of the room was a sound system with a mixing desk, and to the right, a day bed, with huge leather arms and purple silk upholstery.

  That’s where Princess was now, sitting cross-legged, eyes closed. Davie’s first thought would have been meditation. Then yoga. Perhaps even some other kind of spiritual ritual. Yep, that would have been his first thought, if she hadn’t been completely naked, except for two chains, which travelled from hoops pierced through her nipples down to a third hoop in her belly button.

  Thus Davie’s first thought was that he wished he could rewind time and leave this for Mellie to sort out.

  In an unusual occurrence, words failed him. Her eyes were still closed, so he realised he had two choices: retreat and pretend he’d never been there or—

  He didn’t get to number two. The track ended and she opened her eyes, showing no surprise at all that he was standing there. She unfurled her legs and then slipped her feet into the ten-inch steel-spike-heeled stilettos on the floor in front of her, rose up and wordlessly crossed the room to the bar in the corner. There, she poured two shots of Jack Daniel’s, before strutting towards him and handing half of her contraband to him. Davie took the drink, still saying nothing, transfixed by the sight of her. Standing in heels, her thighs were rock hard, her legs beautifully toned. Her hips were wide, her waist whip thin, her breasts high and full. This girl was all curves and generous proportions – not the ultra-thin model types of his past, or a naturally slender frame like Sarah. Her peroxide-blonde hair didn’t match her olive skin tone, her hairless body looked odd on such a voluptuous shape and yet it all somehow worked to make her about as sexy as it got. And he had absolutely no doubt that she knew it.

  Eyeing him with a look that sat somewhere between defiance and supreme confidence, Princess knocked back her drink and then dropped the glass onto the deep pile of the cream carpet. Still silent, their gazes locked, her hand went to his groin and she traced one long glitter-pink nail up the zip of his trousers. Davie didn’t know if he was feeling fear, pleasure or pain, but he knew it was excruciating. Her nail was tracing its way back down when she finally spoke.

  ‘I thought that maybe you needed to see the full range of my talents.’

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck. This wasn’t good.

  Klaxons sounded in Davie’s head. This was a bad move.

  Repeat: Bad move. Yet the button of his trousers appeared suddenly to be undone.

  Evacuate the building. Time to go. Do not stop to collect valuables, friends or morals.

  Now his zipper had somehow slid to the bottom. Emergency situation. Risk to life. Evacuate immediately. An electric shock as a hand slipped inside his crotch. Evacuate. Evacuate immediately. Get out now, people. Davie!

  Somehow, by some fucked-up osmosis or conscience, he heard that last mental scream in Sarah’s voice.

  He took a step backwards, desperate for breathing space. It was far enough to remove the fingers from his nethers.

  Move forward. Move back. Move forward knowing that she was the ultimate manipulator who was doing this only for her own professional advancement and to play with his head. Move back knowing that he was in a relationship with a woman he truly wanted to be with. Move back. Definitely back. Preferably with his tackle intact.

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  Man, who sent the cavalry? He spun round to see Mellie, in the doorway, one hand on her hip, looking like she’d just walked in on them doing nothing more startling than chatting about library books.

  ‘Nice chains,’ she told Princess. ‘Remind me to yank them one day. Davie, can I have a word?’

  ‘Erm, yeah, sure.’

  ‘Excellent. Princess, they need you on set. Much as I like the look you’re going for, I’m not sure it’ll work with our core audience.’

  ‘Shame,’ Princess jibed back dryly. ‘I think I’m rocking it.’

  ‘As you would,’ Mellie countered. ‘Davie?’

  Turning on her heel, she left the room and Davie followed her, ignoring Princess’s satisfied grin. His thought processes immediately went to juvenile self-defence. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He hadn’t touched her. There had been no sexual contact on his part. I did not have sexual relations with that woman.

  Would he have?

  Fuck, did he almost totally betray Sarah? Cue self-flagellation and condemnation.

  How could he have done that? He’d been faithful to her every moment since they’d met, and OK, so they hadn’t had much time for each other lately, but did that really mean he couldn’t keep it in his pants when a naked twenty-one- year-old hot babe was trying to drag it out?