Right on cue, Logan reached up into the overhead locker and brought down a laptop and headphones, then booted up the laptop and slipped the headphones round his neck while it was loading.

  One of the four flight attendants passed through the cabin with a tray of food and snacks, all of which were pre-arranged according to the band members’ preferences. The South City rider could be a book chapter on its own, and no detail was overlooked. What these guys wanted, the universe duly delivered.

  ‘Good evening,’ the flight attendant greeted her, before her gaze went straight to the most important person at the table. ‘Hi, Logan. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Just water and a couple of bananas, thanks.’

  Only when she’d passed them over did she almost grudgingly turn to Sarah, making a half-hearted effort to make her smile look genuine.

  ‘Anything for you?’

  ‘Coke, please. And one of those muffins.’

  ‘Here you go. Full dinner service will commence as soon as soon as we’re in the air, Logan.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ he said, as she moved further down the aisle. At the same moment, there was a burst of activity at the back of the plane and Sarah looked to see Jonell, his bodyguard, his assistant and Deeko come on board. Despite Jonell’s obvious resistance, Deeko directed him into the back booth and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  Sarah turned back and caught Logan’s eye and a flicker of what? Sadness? Annoyance?

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked, while her inner voice screamed, What the hell is all that about?

  Logan smiled casually. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.’

  It most certainly didn’t look like nothing from where she was sitting.

  They were heading back down the East Coast, so they’d be in the air for a couple of hours. That had to be enough time to get some kind of insight.

  The head of security moved through the plane checking everyone was accounted for and there were no unexpected guests. When he returned to the front, he nodded to the head flight attendant, differentiated by the smart jacket over the standard blouse and neck scarf, who then disappeared into the cockpit.

  They’d be taking off soon and this was looking good. Logan on one side of the table, Sarah on the other, a couple of hours in a confined space. She saw Logan’s eyes dart to the side, a question written on his face, until Eli slid in beside her, pushed a red wash bag across the table.

  ‘Your toiletries, Logan.’

  There was no mistaking the subtle but definite exhalation of relief. Sarah’s story senses began to tingle. He was having that reaction over shower gel and shampoo? Seemed highly unlikely. Eli got back up and headed to the rear of the jet, while Logan pulled the bag down onto the seat next to him.

  Sarah just had to be patient. He was bound to nod off at some point. And as soon as his eyes were closed, all she had to do was find out what kind of baggage he was actually carrying.

  33

  Sometimes it’s like an actual physical pain.

  Loss. Hurt. Alone. Forgotten.

  People hit you with fucked-up clichés. Time heals. Life goes on.

  I want to take them, holding them by the back of the neck, and slam their faces into a wall until there’s only pulp and bone, and then ask them if time fucking heals. Move on, you faceless cunt, move on. And stop bleeding on my fucking floor.

  Today I’m OK.

  Today I’m on track.

  Knowing what’s ahead helps. Gives me something to hang on to.

  Time doesn’t heal – you have to heal yourself. And if someone takes something away from you, the only person who can right the wrong is you, no matter how long it takes.

  I’m patient.

  I’ve waited.

  I’ll wait longer.

  Because I know. Time will heal.

  The faceless cunt will bleed on the floor.

  And I’ll move on.

  34

  MIRREN

  ‘Trouble’ – Ray LaMontagne

  On the outside, her appearance said, ‘Cosmopolitan, wealthy, successful businesswoman.’ On the inside, her feelings said, ‘I’d rather have my internal organs removed with a blunt scalpel than go through with this today.’

  The Mercedes-AMG’s computer told her it was a balmy 75 degrees as she signalled left, steering off Wilshire and onto North Robertson Boulevard. She was driving more slowly than necessary, reluctant to reach the destination and conscious of the pounding pain in her right temple. It had been there for days now. In fact, she could pinpoint the rough time it flared – somewhere between punching Davie and getting home a few nights ago.

  Just thinking about that conversation made her gut twist. What the hell was wrong with him? How could he do that to her? She wanted to cut the shadow of Jack Gore from her life and move on, and yet now, thanks to her former love, she was going to have to see bloody billboards of her ex-husband when she was driving down Sunset. What a fricking farce.

  Davie had always been impulsive, thoughtless, short-sighted when it came to other people’s feelings, but it came from a place of innocence and immaturity. Well, not now. The man was forty-bloody-two – those excuses no longer stood.

  Yet, somehow, looking back on that conversation, what really hurt her wasn’t that Jack wanted to do a show, that he’d shacked up with some twenty-five-year-old model, that he didn’t have the decency to let his son know… Nope, none of that. What hurt her most was that Davie had kept it from her. She didn’t believe for a second that he hadn’t considered her thoughts on this – he’d just chosen not to let anything get in the way of making this show. The profit was more important to him than she was. And that – after everything they’d been through – stung more than anything else.

  The flash and ring of her in-car communications system flagged up an incoming call. She checked the screen on the dash. Mike Feechan. Oh sweet joy, this day was just getting better and better.

  Since their night together and subsequent meeting, he’d called and he’d texted. She’d ignored both. If her life was a movie, sleeping with Mike would be a scene that was left on the cutting-room floor. Mistake. Physically enjoyable at the time, but an error nonetheless. And if he thought the fact that they’d hooked up would make her roll over and surrender on the deal, he was very much mistaken. Wasn’t gonna happen.

  As she pulled into the kerb outside The Ivy, she could already see that the restaurant had delivered on the request she’d made when she’d asked Perry to book the table. Behind the kerbside white picket fence, at the most prominent table, sat Wes Lomax, in full view of the paparazzi parked on the opposite side of the street. Mirren knew they’d be itching to find out who he was meeting. She was also aware, without a doubt, that Wes would know exactly what she was up to. He was a master at playing this game.

  The valet opened her car door, handed over a ticket and then stood to the side before taking her place in the driver’s seat and driving the car off to park it. Across the road, the back doors of three black SUVs suddenly opened, and the vehicles vomited out a collective flash mob of paparazzi, who’d spotted her through the blacked-out windows and put two and two together. This was an unexpected couple. Wes Lomax. Mirren McLean. She could see how the speculation would play out, could predict the chain of thoughts on the grapevine. Wes and Mirren? Definitely not a romance. Wes Lomax liked them younger, subservient and double-jointed – which was why two twenty-three-year-old former members of an Eastern European Olympic gymnastic squad were right now happily ensconced in his home, lying partially naked on his sofa, practising English by watching Friends reruns and porn. Could that be any more wrong?

  Besides, rumour had it that Mirren and Zander Leith had a thing going. In fact, there were many stories and rumours, some with no basis in fact.

  They grew up together back in Glasgow and had been friends, like, forever.

  Nope, I don’t think so. I heard they split and she was seeing Davie Johnston.

  The guy off American Stars?

  Yep. My friend’s cousin is married to a publicist who knows an actress who’s sleeping with a guy who was having dinner in some flash Beverly Hills restaurant last week and he, like, totally, was eating her face and then they had a fight and she emptied a glass of wine over his head. That totally happened.

  Mmmm. OK. So if they’re not a couple, then it must be work.

  Oh my God, did you, like, ever see The Brutal Circle? She wrote that movie and it was, like, epic. Best movie ever. I saw it sixteen times in college.

  Yeah, and that was a Lomax movie. OMG, that’s it! They’re going to make another movie together. Bet it’s one of those ones with the Scottish guy. You know, in the skirt. The Clansman? Yeah, that’s it!

  It so is…. National Enquirer? I’ve heard first-hand that Mirren McLean and Wes Lomax are gonna make a new movie together. It’s about a guy in a skirt… No, not a cross-dresser.

  Yep, that’s how it would undoubtedly play out. She was counting on it.

  Shoulders back, posture impeccable thanks to years of Pilates, Mirren widened her smile as she reached the table.

  ‘Wes! So great to see you.’

  ‘Mirren McLean, it’s been too long. Darling, you look terrific,’ he said, loud enough to be heard in neighbouring zip codes.

  Hugs over, she slid into the seat nearest him, so that they were sitting at right angles. It made it much more likely that the paps would get them both in the frame if they were huddled close together. Sitting across from each other ran the risk that one or the other could be cut out of the shot.

  As Mirren placed her phone and Aspinal Manhattan clutch on the table, a waiter appeared to take their drinks orders. It was on the tip of her tongue to request her usual still water, room temperature, no ice, when she suddenly changed her mind.

  ‘Wes, after twenty years, I think this little get-together should be celebrated.’

  Of course, he sussed that out immediately, and his cheeky grin told her he liked her style. ‘Champagne, darling?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  The waiter retreated to the bar, leaving menus for their perusal. They both ignored them, having no need to check what was available. This was Hollywood. Everyone had a lunchtime dish that their nutritionist, dietician, personal trainer, shrink or life coach approved of, and they didn’t vary from that choice. Ordering off menu wasn’t so much a regular occurrence as a national sport.

  Wes leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. He was looking good, Mirren decided. Obviously whatever he was doing with the Olympic gymnasts was working for him. At sixty-something, he had the physique of a man who still trained on a daily basis. He hadn’t succumbed to cosmetic tweaks or obvious hair dye, so he had that slightly older, natural, George Clooney-esque thing going on. And of course, he still had that twinkle of raucous mischief in his eye.

  ‘So. Twenty-odd years. You don’t write, you don’t call…’ he chided her.

  Mirren laughed, maintaining a façade that bore no relation to how she was actually feeling. Outside, carefree and jovial. Inside, head pounding a little harder. ‘I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. I got sidetracked along the way,’ she answered with mock apology. ‘Forgive me?’

  Wes cracked another grin, this one a slight leer. ‘Forgiven. But only because you’re beautiful.’

  Mirren gave him a look of reproach. ‘Wes, add up your girlfriends’ ages and you might get into my ballpark. I’m way too old for you, and you’re way too old for me.’

  His roar of laughter could be heard across the street. More fodder for the grapevine.

  ‘OK, so what are they holding back on?’

  Mirren knew exactly what he was asking, but she decided to string it along. ‘Who and what?’

  The waiter appeared with their drinks and they paused the conversation until he’d departed.

  ‘Cheers,’ Wes toasted, clinking his glass against hers. The click of the paps’ shutters was frantic. Champagne at lunchtime. That very rarely happened outside of Charlie Sheen’s house. The rumour that she and Wes both had alcohol issues would be a footnote on the Enquirer piece.

  Wes cut back to the conversation. ‘OK, here’s how I see it, and tell me if I’m close.’

  Mirren would bet her AMG that he’d read the situation pretty much perfectly.

  ‘Despite many attempts on my part, you haven’t sat down with me in over twenty years. So I’m guessing that means Pictor are holding back or attempting to change the terms of your deal. It wouldn’t be at your instigation, because you’re too loyal for that.’

  So far, so perceptive. Mirren took a sip of champagne and continued to listen.

  ‘I’m thinking it’s either production budget or merchandise.’ He pondered that for a few seconds before making his choice. ‘Production budget. They’re hurting and they want to take 5 per cent off the last movie’s costs.’

  ‘Merchandise,’ Mirren said with a grin.

  ‘Damn! Must be losing my touch.’

  ‘Never,’ Mirren countered.

  ‘OK, so they want to up their cut of the merch profit and you’re resisting. They won’t budge, so you decide to go for a high-profile lunch with the rival that will scare the shit out of them on two counts: one, they’ll know I want Clansman at Lomax, and two, we have history, so you’re more likely to move to me. They’ll think I’m attempting to poach you and capitulate on the terms.’

  Mirren realised that she’d been absolutely right to do this. He got it. He was actually enjoying it. The champagne bubbles soothed her pounding head just a little.

  ‘Doing good so far,’ Mirren cajoled.

  ‘But the truth is that you have absolutely no intention of coming to Lomax at all.’

  ‘None,’ Mirren agreed.

  ‘And you knew that I’d already have this sussed before we sat down.’

  ‘I did.’

  Wes roared with laughter again. ‘I’d swap my girlfriends for you anytime. Just say the word.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Mirren told him, going for somewhere between charming and amusing. ‘But now that I’m here and we both know where we stand, I wouldn’t mind having lunch with an old mentor, if that’s OK with you?’

  Wes raised his glass in toast once again. ‘That’s fine with me, honey. But let me tell you, I do want you back at Lomax and I want the future Clansman movies there. I’ve waited a long time for it, and I’ve been patient because I know that loyalty is important to you. But if you ever genuinely want to think about leaving that crowd of incompetents at Pictor, I’ll be waiting at the bank.’

  ‘Thanks, Wes. I appreciate that.’

  The waiter returned to take their order – two ten-ounce Kobe New York strip steaks, both medium rare, broccoli, spinach and sauce on the side.

  They passed the next hour with industry gossip and Wes’s recklessly indiscreet insider stories about things that were going on in the town. The action star who still hadn’t left his wife despite the fact that he’d been having an affair with his male manager for over five years now. The ageing actress who was currently in a Beverly Hills clinic having the butt implants she’d had inserted in the Dominican Republic removed because one had exploded. The British ex-soccer player who was screwing at least six of the moms on his kid’s little league team bench.

  Outrageous, but in Wes’s twisted hands, utterly hilarious.

  They’d switched from champagne to coffees when Wes’s face had a glimmer of sadness. ‘You know, I’m sure glad I was mostly right about why you wanted to see me today. It did cross my mind that you might want to plead Zander’s case.’

  ‘Plead Zander’s case for what?’ she asked, puzzled.

  Before he could answer, her phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. Her hand moved to switch it off when she noticed the name of the sender.

  Brad Bernson.

  ‘Excuse me a second, Wes. I need to check this.’

  ‘No worries. I’m just heading to the washroom.’

  As soon as he’d left the table, she held up her phone, opened the text.

  Confirmed. Marilyn McLean entered the US on 10 January 2014. Flew London Heathrow to LAX. Hired black GMC at airport. Present whereabouts unknown. Request permission to recruit additional investigators to track.

  Her stomach threatened to collapse and her hands automatically began to shake.

  Breathe. She had to breathe. Had to make her fingers work.

  Do what you need to do. Any cost. Find her now.

  Her trembling thumb pressed ‘send’. Her instincts had been spot on. The woman on the beach when they were commemorating Chloe’s birthday. The wave of utter dread that came upon her when Sarah mentioned her name. A sick, niggling feeling that was there every time she pictured her mother’s face. It wasn’t the face of now. It was Marilyn’s face from twenty years ago. Now? Mirren had no idea what she looked like. She could be sitting at a nearby table on The Ivy’s patio and Mirren would be entirely oblivious. Instinctively, she scanned the other diners, then exhaled. All too young, too male or too famous. Thank God. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there somewhere, across the street perhaps, just watching, waiting. Oh fuck, Logan!

  Mirren immediately forwarded the text to Sarah with a supplementary;

  Watch over my boy – alert the band’s security.

  She’d call her as soon as she got out of here too. In fact, she wanted to get out of here now. The job was done. Mission accomplished. The news would undoubtedly already have reached Pictor that Mirren was being courted by Wes Lomax. Wes was taking his time getting back to the table and she could see him stopping to shake hands with half the diners at the inside tables. She summoned the waiter and hurriedly paid the bill. There was no way she was letting him pick up the check. This was her deal, and there was every chance the cash benefit of today’s lunch was going to have many more zeros than the cost of two steaks. Although in truth, she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about percentages and profit right now. All she cared about was getting the hell out of there so she could think.