‘Mr Leith, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’

  She couldn’t have made the suggestion any more salacious if she’d written it on a thong and delivered it with her teeth. Now she was blatantly staring at him, showing absolutely no acknowledgement or embarrassment that he was as close to naked as it got without a full frontal. Her gaze lingered on the wide, carved shoulders, the beautifully defined pecs, then paused in the groove between every single bump of his perfectly formed abs, stopping to linger on the point on his lower torso where a deep V-shape from one side his pelvis to the other disappeared at the middle point under the waistband of his shorts.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m good. I’m just going to catch some sleep.’

  ‘No problem,’ she replied, the tightness of her mouth suggesting that it was indeed a problem.

  She backed out of the door and Zander stood for a moment, head facing upwards, eyes closed. That old feeling was making every synapse in his brain, every nerve in his body scream for something to numb the pain.

  Endless therapists and addiction experts had probed him for details of how and when this started. He’d never told them. What was he going to say? That when he was a kid, he’d sneak booze into his bedroom and drink until he couldn’t hear his pissed-up father shouting that he was going to kill his fucker of a son? Or his mother, crying as she said another decade of the rosary and prayed to Our Lady for the husband she adored, her tears running over the latest set of bruises he’d just delivered? Or that he drank in the good times back then too? When he and Davie and Mirren would spend night after night sitting on a bedroom floor with a bottle of cider, Simple Minds blaring in the background, smoking cigarettes they’d pilfered from a parent’s fag packet?

  He’d drunk when he was terrified, when he was down, when he was up. But after the night his father was killed, he drank to forget. Because no one should have to remember what happened in the hours before Jono Leith was murdered, or the hours after his rancid soul had left his body.

  Only six people knew the truth. Zander. Mirren. Marilyn. Davie. Davie’s mother, Ena. Sarah.

  Sarah had only discovered the truth the year before, after some serious journalistic digging, but the others had lived with it for a lifetime and they’d managed to do that without using anything to block it out.

  Zander couldn’t. Hadn’t.

  But now there was no choice, because the alternative was a dark road that he would have to walk alone. His life was better than it had ever been. He’d reconnected with Mirren. His relationship with Davie hadn’t settled yet, but it would. His career was riding high and materially he had everything he could possibly want. He couldn’t fuck this up. Adrianna Guilloti and her messed-up mind games were not going to take this away from him.

  Fuck, he really needed a drink.

  But his last thought, as he climbed into bed and fell into a welcome sleep, was that he wasn’t going to have one.

  It was still dark when he woke and for a moment he was disorientated. His senses kicked in. Noise. Movement. A plane. Horizontal. A cover. Bed. A body next to his. Adrianna.

  No, back.

  He squinted open his eyes and was met with darkness. Groping around with his free hand, the one that wasn’t trapped under the person sleeping beside him, he located the button on the headboard that switched on the bedside lamp, then turned to see the stirring form of the flight attendant, her shoulders naked, and from what he could feel in the places where their bodies touched, she was wearing underwear but not much more.

  He pulled his arm away and sat up, the fear rising as he recognized the repetition of a thousand other mornings when he’d woken up in bed with someone he didn’t remember going to sleep with. Hang on. No. He hadn’t had a drink. There had been no drugs. He’d gone to bed alone. Which means she must have slipped in here during the night. He didn’t know whether it was cute or a violation of his human rights.

  He watched as the movement woke her and she opened her eyes, squinting against the light.

  ‘Ah, Mr Leith. I think we’ll be landing soon,’ she said with a cheeky grin. Reaching over to where he’d left his cigarettes and lighter, she took two out of the packet, lit them at the same time and then handed one over to him. He was pretty sure they were now breaking a federal law, but he decided that was the least of his worries.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, gesturing to her form under the bed sheet. ‘I was bored, and you looked so comfortable.’ As excuses went, it wouldn’t win any awards, but she had a glint in her eye and a cheeky grin that made him smile.

  ‘Look, if you want to report me to my bosses, go ahead. I wouldn’t blame you.’

  She took a puff on her cigarette and then flicked the ash into a water glass on the bedside table.

  Zander put his head back and closed his eyes again for a few seconds. Why did things like this happen to him? Why? Was a normal life really too much to ask for?

  ‘So,’ she checked her watch, ‘it’s half an hour until landing and I can get up, bring you some breakfast and look suitably repentant about my boldness…’

  It was impossible not to look at her when she spoke, and even harder not to laugh.

  ‘Or I can stay here and give you the in-flight safety briefing you missed at the start.’

  Again, the cheeky smile made it perfectly clear which option she would prefer. The choice wasn’t too difficult. In his head, the image of Adrianna walking away with her husband, leaving him a free man. A free man with a gorgeous woman lying next to him in bed.

  No debate. He leaned towards her, kissed her, and within seconds his Adrianna Guilotti’s were, like his relationship, tossed to the side.

  The in-flight cardio workout was intense, highly pleasurable and mostly silent until a thump announced their arrival on the ground at Van Nuys airport.

  Wendy from Nebraska popped her head up from under the cover. ‘Welcome to LA,’ she said, with a grin. ‘I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight.’

  When the door opened, Zander turned to say goodbye, his hair still wet from the rapid shower he’d taken while the jet taxied to the gate.

  She’d put her number into his phone under the name ‘Wendy’. He’d said he would call.

  Maybe he would, he decided. An uncomplicated relationship. Wasn’t it about time he gave one of those a try?

  Hollie was standing leaning against her Durango on the tarmac, chewing gum and looking about as impressed as she should be after her boss had gone missing. She’d had to pull every trick in the PA’s book to track down where he was, cited a national emergency to get details of his homeward flight and skipped out on a long-awaited date to come and collect him.

  ‘You look like crap and you’d better have bought me a present,’ she told him, bypassing niceties. ‘But hey, you look sober, so there is indeed a God.’

  Zander turned to wave goodbye to Wendy.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t,’ Hollie murmured, making it clear that she knew he most certainly did.

  As soon as they got in the car, before her foot hit the gas, she started with the interrogation, the one born of security, not curiosity.

  ‘OK, so did she have a phone, and could you have been filmed at any time?’

  Zander rolled his eyes, totally familiar with the questions which had come straight from the security chief at Lomax Films, designed to protect all stars from blackmail, scandal and media shit-storms.

  He cast his mind back. When he woke, he’d been under the covers and still had his shorts on – all good. After that, he’d certainly have noticed if she broke off to take a selfie.

  ‘No, and no.’

  That was enough for Hollie to get the car moving, but there were still more questions to answer as she drove.

  ‘Was there anyone else involved or present other than yourself and Miss Shag Air?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did you notice any electrical items or suspicious devices that could have been used to film your… Performance?’

  ‘Apart from the CNN live-broadcast crew in the corner, no.’

  ‘Don’t get smart or I swear to God I’ll hit Rodeo Drive with your credit card tomorrow.’

  ‘Feel free. You deserve it.’

  ‘And did you take any substances or alcohol prohibited by your current contract with Lomax Films? Incidentally, if you say, “yes,” I’ll beat you around the head.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Excellent. Last question. Given that you’ve just renewed your membership to the mile-high club, do I take it things with your very married fashion boss are over?’

  Zander stared straight ahead, the word ‘Over’ touching a raw nerve. ‘I told her I wanted her to leave her husband.’

  ‘Oh dear Christ, you didn’t,’ Hollie exclaimed, taking her eyes off the road to look at his stony face. ‘Oh dear Christ, you did. And she turned you down.’

  Hollie’s eyes were wide as he nodded ruefully. ‘Yep. And now’s the time you tell me what a dick I’ve been,’ he said, resigned to the truth.

  ‘Zander, I’ve been with you for ten years. You’ve made so many fuck-ups that on your scale of dickdom, this barely makes a spike.’

  He appreciated the effort to make him laugh, especially as it worked.

  ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘having an affair with a married woman wasn’t smart. Having an affair with the wife of a highly shady, multi-millionaire property mogul, even less smart. But hey, things happen. You felt something for someone; they didn’t feel it back. So the inflight entertainment was, what, revenge?’

  He shook his head. ‘A distraction that was offered – I didn’t ask.’

  She knew him well enough to believe that was true. Zander rarely instigated new encounters, but as with all his vices, he just had a hard time saying no.

  ‘Fair enough, but maybe you don’t need any more distractions. The suits have just given the all clear to resume filming. You’re in a good place with your sobriety. The only dark cloud is this relationship and the fact that her husband could have you taken out with one phone call…’

  That was framed as a joke, but it was a bit too close to the truth to make him laugh.

  ‘Maybe…’ she paused for a second, then continued, ‘Maybe it’s time to move on.’

  As they drove the rest of the way to Venice in comfortable silence, her decisive manner sparked a tiny seed of resolve in him.

  Time to move on. Everything else was good.

  For once, he wasn’t fucking up and wasted. He could handle normal life like a normal person. And normal people made mistakes and moved on.

  No drama.

  ‘OK, I’m just going to come in and pick up your mail and erase the death threat I left on your answering machine when you ran off last week,’ Hollie informed him, laughing.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what he would do without this girl. Crumble, was the obvious answer.

  Thirty minutes later, they turned off the Speedway to his home.

  It wasn’t the most obvious place for one of the most successful actors in the world to live. Most of the A-list pitched their heated swimming pools in the Hills, Bel Air or maybe Santa Monica or Malibu. Those areas held no appeal to Zander. He still lived in the same green wooden apartment block he’d moved into when he first arrived in LA. The back of the block overlooked the car park, but it was the front that had him sold. There was only a walkway between his apartment and the Venice sands, allowing him to open the balcony doors of his third-floor home and let the sound of the ocean be the back-drop to his time there. His only concession to fame and money had been to buy the other apartment on the same floor and knock them into one, giving him a loft-style arrangement with a glass wall and a balcony spanning the whole of the sea-front view.

  He gestured ‘hi’ to the two homeless guys who lived in the car park outside his home. They’d have missed the food parcel he left for them every couple of days. He’d make it up to them tomorrow.

  He waved again to the building caretaker who sat in the glass-partitioned office on the ground floor, then headed up the stairs behind Hollie, his travel bag thrown casually over his shoulder.

  ‘So can we make a deal?’ she asked as they reached his landing.

  ‘Shoot,’ he replied, as she used her key to open the door.

  ‘Oh, don’t tempt me,’ she joked. ‘If only that time in juvy didn’t stop me getting a gun licence. Anyway, the deal is, no more disapp—’ She stopped mid-sentence, froze, causing him to almost walk into the back of her.

  For once, she said nothing, just stood there, her mouth open with shock.

  ‘Holls, are you—’ Zander’s words went the same way as his assistant’s – lost in a sea of incomprehension.

  He scanned the room once, twice, trying desperately to force the sight in front of him to make some kind of logical sense.

  It didn’t.

  Every piece of furniture was upside down, every fabric was sliced, every dish broken, every glass smashed. It looked like a scene depicting the aftermath of an apocalyptic tornado.

  He stepped forward, dazed, but Hollie darted her arm out to stop him.

  ‘Don’t touch anything until the cops get here.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Zander, who the fuck would do this to you?’

  27

  SARAH

  ‘Something Inside So Strong’ – Labi Siffre

  The roof garden in West Hollywood’s Soho House was busy, as it always was on a Thursday lunchtime. It wasn’t Sarah’s favourite place to dine in LA – too full of Brits with mockney accents using clichéd tripe. ‘I’m in a weird headspace.’ ‘I’m percolating ideas.’

  It was almost like there was some kind of competition to see how many wanky clichés they could fit in one sentence.

  However, it did have a few compensations. The roof garden was a stunning work of topiary bliss. Wooden slatted floors, hanging triffids and meandering plants on terracotta pots were scattered throughout a terrace that came with incredible views of the Hills.

  There was also an emotional connection. This was where she’d first met Davie last year. He’d been wasted after celebrating his tenth wedding anniversary to a woman who hated his guts and was only stringing the marriage out so that she could get a better financial settlement after ten years together. Davie realised it the night of the party, and filed for divorce the next morning, less than seventy-two hours before the actual day of their anniversary.

  Was it really only last year? It felt so much longer. It amused her that she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Back then, she’d been over here on a week-long holiday from the Daily Scot, after a conversation with a dying Glasgow crime lord, Manny Murphy, had thrown up the possibility of a connection between the actor, Zander Leith and Jono Leith, one of his crew in their younger days. ‘A mad bastard’ he’d called Jono, before going on to say how he’d just disappeared off the face of the earth one day.

  It was the name that struck her as unusual. Leith.

  ‘Don’t suppose he was any relation to Zander Leith?’ she’d asked, feeling totally ridiculous for even vocalizing such a ludicrous question. Of course he wasn’t related. Zander Leith was one of Glasgow’s most famous exports, the guy who’d gone off to Hollywood with his buddies Mirren McLean and Davie Johnston, where they’d won Oscars and were now three of the most powerful players in the industry. Surely she’d have heard if Zander’s dad was a lowlife criminal?

  ‘Zander…’ Manny’s tongue had rolled the name around for a few moments, while a red rash of embarrassment crept up her neck. ‘You mean the bloke in the films?’

  Sarah hadn’t even filled the pause with an answer.

  ‘Aye, hen, that’s him. Back then he was just wee Sandy. And aye, Jono was his old man.’

  His answer had astounded her. And she’d been even more intrigued after she did some research and discovered that Jono Leith had gone to ground back in 1989 and never resurfaced. Her interest had been piqued again when she’d realised that the three friends who had gone to Hollywood hadn’t appeared together in a show, interview or event for the last two decades. Obviously there had been a falling-out, but why?

  It had been enough for her to beg Ed McCallum for a week off and head for LA. It had taken longer than a week, but eventually she’d discovered the truth and realised that, like Jono, it should stay buried. His remains were still deep in the garden of Davie’s old house in Glasgow, steeped in cement hurriedly procured from a local DIY store by traumatised teenagers Davie and Zander, because Mirren—

  ‘Hi!’

  Sarah’s attention was snapped back to the present by Mirren’s voice beside her.

  ‘Mirren, hi! Thanks for coming.’ She stood up to kiss the woman on both cheeks before Mirren took the seat across the table.

  Not that she was being critical, but Sarah couldn’t help but notice that Mirren looked tired and pale. It wasn’t a surprise, really. The woman had been through so much in the last year and yet she was still standing. Sarah felt an inkling of sorrow that she could potentially add to those woes. Not today, though. She’d thought long and hard about how to play this and she just hoped she could pull it off. It would all depend on whether Mirren bought in to her story.

  The waiter was at their side in seconds with menus and water. Sarah waited until he was gone before opening with. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m great, thanks.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but Sarah didn’t take her lie personally. The two women barely knew each other, and although they did share a couple of mighty large secrets, they hadn’t yet established the kind of friendship that led to shared confidences and authentic feelings.

  To any other diners they’d have looked like two friends out for a casual lunch. They swapped small talk before ordering, then carried on exchanging stories, mostly amusing ones about Davie, until Sarah’s chestnut ravioli and Mirren’s Jidori chicken arrived. Only when the first morsel had been speared did Sarah move the conversation on to the reason they were here.

  ‘Any word from Brad Bernson?’