Puritanical Middle America, the god-fearing lot who kept a Bible on the nightstand and a rifle under the bed, didn’t approve. So tonight was about softening the backlash and letting the world see that all parties were cool with the new arrangement.

  Sure, it was also for killer ratings, but in truth, he’d been equally as crap in their ten-year marriage as Jenny, so he owed her this favour. And even if he didn’t, she had him by the balls over access to the kids, so right now he’d strut across the stage wearing bells dangling from the very same balls if it was part of the deal.

  Darcy and Jenny waved at the audience, then settled on the cream leather sofa, close enough to suggest intimacy for the voyeurs, but conscious to ensure their body language towards Davie was open and friendly.

  It was a consummate performance. An onlooker would never guess that his ex-wife thought he was a dickhead and her partner didn’t disagree.

  In reality, relations between them were about as taught as the faces in a Beverly Hills post-surgery recovery room. He was the first to admit he’d been a poor father to their twins, Bella and Bray, eight-year-old stars of the weekly sitcom Family Three. When they’d all lived under one roof, he’d made no time for them, was barely part of their lives. But he was trying to make it up to them now.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he gushed, inciting another rousing cheer from the audience.

  As soon as the two women sat down, he cut right to the chase. ‘So shall we clear up a few of the details about the journey to this point?’ He had to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes. Why did everything have to be a bloody journey? It wasn’t a two-day road trip with a stop off at a spa. The truth was that their perfect Hollywood marriage had been a sham for years.

  But instead of saying any of this, he found himself nodding as Jenny and Darcy gave the world an elaborately manufactured, agreed version of events. Jenny’s marriage to Davie had been wonderful, but when she found herself attracted to Darcy, her co-star on Streets of Power, they’d all sat down, discussed it maturely and decided to follow their hearts. No, there had never been a moment of animosity; yes, the children had fully adapted to their new life, and, of course, they were going to be co-parents and best friends forever.

  That one earned more enthusiastic audience approval. ‘Jesus, Davie, can you stop this Mills and Boon shit before I vomit?’ Mellie said in his ear. For a split second Davie considered telling the truth. Yep, that would send tomorrow’s catch-up figures into the fricking stratosphere. Here were Darcy and Jenny, flaunting their new-found devotion and carefully omitting the fact that they’d first hooked up more than seven years ago, when the three of them got wasted on the opening night of Streets of Power and then went on to spend the next twelve hours indulging in three-way hedonism at Chateau Marmont. Between orgasms, he thought he’d died and gone to porn heaven that night. Instead, he’d boarded the train to Splitsville.

  But hey, he wasn’t bitter.

  He’d kept the $40-million Bel Air home, the cars, more money than he could spend in a lifetime and… His eyes drifted to the auburn-haired babe right beside camera 2. The ‘journey’ via Splitsville had also led him to Sarah Mckenzie. A Scottish journalist. A fierce brain. And his official ‘monogamous friends with benefits’ relationship.

  ‘OK, Davie, wind it up. Two minutes to ad break, and we’ll have to bring Jizzo on while we’re off air. The fucker is so wasted he can barely walk straight.’

  The audience took Davie’s smile to be just a warm, tender reaction to Jenny and Darcy’s well-rehearsed bullshit. Their benevolence might waver if they knew he was actually close to punching the air with delight. Yes! Jizzo plus wasted equalled TV sensation. Look, he’d never professed to own a space on the moral high ground.

  He signalled to Jenny that it was time to go for the big ending and she caught it immediately. They may have hated each other’s guts by the end of the marriage, but they could always read what the other one was thinking.

  ‘I just want to thank Davie,’ Jenny was saying now, facing the audience while gesturing in his direction. He’d specifically insisted that the front row be filled with gorgeous creatures, and two of them cooed, ‘Aaaaah,’ as Jenny spoke. Davie really hoped Jenny was watching them, and not noticing Sarah making retching gestures twenty feet to the left.

  ‘He absolutely accepted my decision and my sexuality…’ Oh dear god, she was turning on the tears, the movie-star sobs that made her utterly mesmerizing as a single drop ran down her ski-slope cheekbone. ‘… and he’s just been the best friend and the best father ever.’ She looked at Darcy, then back at her ex-husband. ‘We love him. And we know he loves us too.’

  What a pile of crap. Davie leaned over and put his hand on hers as he nodded. ‘I always will, babe. We’re family. All three of us. And on that happy note –’ he looked straight down camera 2 ‘– stay with us. We’ll be right back.’

  Cain and his band burst into song, the lights went up, and – always aware that someone might have smuggled a phone past security – the star ex-couple kept huge grins on their faces as they hugged goodbye.

  Only when Jenny was in close did she whisper in his ear, ‘Your girlfriend’s a bitch.’ Ah, so she’d seen Sarah’s nauseated verdict on proceedings.

  Gently, he broke away, his smile still beaming. ‘We always did have so much in common.’ Then turning to Darcy, ‘Bye, honey. It’s been a blast.’

  His mischievous gloat was cut short by a commotion in the wings. Jizzo Stacks was singing ‘Delilah’ as he careered off the set partition, a song that gave a better reflection of his age than his much-lifted face.

  Over twenty visits to the cosmetic surgeon’s table, daily gym workouts and a 1980s rock weave had left him looking slightly weird, but a good two decades younger than his sixty-year-old self. Then there were the vitamin shots, the only legal drugs in a cocktail of steroids (for his workouts), blow (to relax), amphetamines (to get his rocks off) and coke (to get high). The man was a walking pharmacy, but at least he was walking with a supermodel by his side. Carmella Cass, six feet tall, tumbling blonde waves, Sports Illustrated cover girl three years in a row and, according to endless polls in men’s mags - the owner of the best pair of natural breasts in North America. The woman was glorious, the Elle Macpherson of the new millennium, with a beach body that somehow developed despite the fact she grew up on Cheetos in a trailer park in Detroit. Davie was never sure if their coupling was real or just a great premise for a TV show. The nation was split in its opinion on the romance-showmance debate, but millions still tuned in weekly to watch an incredibly wealthy man, who should be counting down to retirement, drink tequila shots from a glass wedged in his twenty-five-year-old girlfriend’s cleavage.

  ‘Davie baby!’ Jizzo roared when he set eyes on the man who was technically his boss. Lurching forward, he was only saved from performing a Jack Daniel’s touchdown by the quick reflexes of two floor managers and Mellie, who was currently holding him up by the weave.

  ‘If this comes off, I swear to God I’ll have nightmares for life,’ she muttered. ‘OK, get him on the sofa.’

  The liquor had been removed, and the founding member of Leather Pants Anonymous had been parked, cowhide first, on the sofa, when Carmella wandered on to join him.

  ‘Sorry – had to pee,’ she announced, immediately drawing everyone within earshot’s attention to the white denim daisy dukes that barely covered her butt cheeks. Making eye contact, Davie could see she was pretty wasted too, but Carmella covered it well – her speech was lucid, her eyes bright, and she was only slightly on the frenetic side of animated.

  Perfect. He and Mellie had already discussed the subjects he planned to cover tonight – Jizzo and Carmella’s relationship, sex and, of course, their show. He also had a dozen questions prepared in his mind if the interview dried up, but with the two of them this well-oiled, there was no chance of that happening.

  He just wanted them to be their normal wild selves, and let a couple of bombshells slip, and they’d be viral on social media within the hour. #heresdaviejohnston #jizzostacks #itakemyteethoutbeforesex

  The ludicrous thought made Davie smile… then peer at Jizzo’s teeth.

  Mellie was making her way back to the gallery now, while cueing up the second half of the show. ‘OK, people, ten seconds to the kind of carnage that could end our careers. Six, five, four…’

  Davie adjusted his shirt collar again, thanked the make-up girl – what was her name? Zoe? Zane? Zelda? Christ, he was fairly sure they’d hooked up a few years ago when she’d first arrived to work for him – and decided on his opening line. The key was to ask a perfectly innocent question, but one that he knew Jizzo would give an outrageous answer to.

  He decided to ask Jizzo to share his favourite thing about Carmella.

  Any other guy would look at his partner lovingly, before going for eyes, soul or heart. That’s because any other guy would lie through his teeth. But not Jizzo. Davie knew he’d had way too many drinks from the liquor bottle of truth.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Davie saw the make-up girl – Zoe, Zelda, Zane – glance at Jizzo and then root herself to the spot. The audience saw her reaction as well. Thankfully, they were too far away to realise that the reason for it was the tiny ring of white powder round Jizzo’s right nostril.

  Instantly, Davie was out his chair, leaning over, disguising his actions as a man-hug while using the cuff of his shirt to dust off the evidence from the guest’s nasal cavity.

  ‘Davie, what the fuck?’ Mellie roared, before continuing, ‘Two, one… And we’re back. I think I’ve just aged ten fricking years.’

  Davie zoned her out as he made the intros, with Jizzo leaning over to give him a high five and Carmella blowing him a kiss, before waving at the audience. Every man out there sat a little higher in his chair, puffed his chest out a little more and wished he’d stuck with that band he’d joined at school.

  ‘Guys, you know I love you both,’ Davie started, eliciting another kiss from Carmella. ‘And the show is great.’

  ‘Yeah!’ yelled Jizzo, punching the air, while nodding to an invisible beat from inside his head.

  ‘Oh my God, we, like, love doing it.’ Carmella leaned forward, her breasts threatening to escape the white tank she clearly wore with no bra.

  ‘I think the most fascinating thing for us viewers…’ Davie went on, completely ignoring the fact that he was more than just a ‘viewer’. As creator and producer, the royalties from this month’s Beauty and the Beats alone would allow him to buy a new beach house in Hawaii. ‘… is the incredible connection and love between the two of you. Jizzo, I know it’s a tough choice, but what do you adore most about the beautiful Carmella?’

  Fist pump over, the rock god stared at the white crocodile cowboy boots – with disguised lifts – that protruded from the bottoms of his black leather jeans.

  Davie paused to let him answer, aware that the substances coursing through his veins were probably causing the pharmaceutical equivalent of a satellite delay.

  Only when the silence became uncomfortable did Davie cajole, ‘So come on, Jizzo, don’t be coy here.’

  Still nothing.

  Had he fallen asleep? Oh fuck, he had. He was actually sleeping.

  In the gallery, Mellie spotted it too. ‘Holy shit, what’s with this guy? Cut to Carmella. Cut to Carmella! Davie, you have to pull this back!’ she barked.

  Davie was about to do exactly as she asked when Jizzo’s head slumped to the side. Was this a wind-up? He wanted outrageous; he wanted wild; he wanted action that the whole world would be talking about the next day.

  At no point did he want to see a guest pass out on the sofa. Aware that he was live and he’d be judged by the actions he took in the next moment, he ignored Mellie and instead leaned over and touched Jizzo’s arm. ‘Hey, man, are you OK?’ That was it. Tender. Caring. Human. Real. If tomorrow’s press used any of those adjectives, he’d be happy. They were definitely preferable to ‘heartless bastard’.

  Jizzo didn’t move for a few seconds, not even a flicker; then events took a turn that Davie struggled to process.

  Jizzo’s whole body sagged to the side; his mouth fell open; his eyes stayed shut.

  ‘Wake him up! wake him up,’ Mellie was hissing now.

  But Davie wasn’t listening. He’d seen this before, knew what it looked like, even though it was so out of context he just couldn’t absorb it.

  For once, the consummate performer forgot where he was. His next urgent words went out to the watching world and would be repeated in articles, in videos, in conversations for hours, days, weeks and months to come.

  ‘Get medics in here now. I think Jizzo just died.’

  3

  MIRREN MCLEAN

  ‘Wish You Were Here’ – Pink Floyd

  Mirren McLean glanced around the antique burr-walnut board-room table and realised that all eyes were on her. It was the movie-industry equivalent of the Last Supper. Twelve suits, at least half of them playing the role of Judas, all waiting expectantly for an answer to a question that she wasn’t even sure she remembered.

  Focus. Come on, focus.

  She pulled back into the moment. Contracts. That’s what they’d been talking about. OK, contracts. Renewals.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, with all due respect, I believe you people are tasked with negotiating and shaping the deal, then giving me the relevant information to make informed decisions. I don’t yet feel I have that.’ Direct words, spoken calmly. Tantrums and diva strops had never been her thing.

  Two of the assembled started to speak over each other and she put her hand up to shush them both.

  ‘Perry, you shoot first. Summarize it for us,’ she said, nodding to Perry Scholl, the lawyer she’d recruited out of a tiny office in Santa Monica to negotiate the very first Clansman deal a decade before. Several movies later, the partnership had reaped unprecedented profit, and the arrangement had been a fruitful one for both sides.

  Perry put down her Mont Blanc pen – a Christmas gift from Mirren after Clansman 3 broke box-office records – and exhaled. ‘OK, so the situation is this. Pictor want to do a deal for the next two Clansman movies, but they want to squeeze us on terms—’

  ‘I hardly think “squeezing” is an apt description,’ interjected Euan Stoker, the newly appointed chief legal suit for Pictor. There had been a top-level clear-out at the studio only a few months before and the new head guy, an all-out corporate action man called Mike Feechan, had brought in his own people to several of the top posts.

  ‘Sorry, I was being polite,’ Perry conceded sweetly. ‘Do you prefer “bend us over and fuck us on terms”?’

  As Stoker’s eyes widened, Mirren fought to contain a smile. She’d seen Perry’s innocent charm work in the past, lulling the opposition into a false sense of security before she dealt a killer blow.

  Mirren shot her a look that told her to ease off. It wasn’t time for hostilities yet. She still had a deep sense that she owed Pictor a measure of loyalty. The first two of Mirren’s bestselling Clansman novels had been made into films by a Pictor team, with Mirren as writer. The epic tales of a warrior in ancient Scotland had been phenomenal hits, surpassing expectations and selling across the globe. But Mirren wanted more than a writing credit. When she’d boldly told them she wanted to direct and produce the third, they’d taken a chance on her and it had paid off. The box office had grown 20 per cent with every movie; merchandise added the cherry on top, making the studio billions and putting Mirren into the exclusive club of the very richest and most powerful producer-directors. And that was on top of the global sales she achieved with the books on which the movies were based. Clansman was an international phenomenon, a world-beating brand, and it was all hers, thanks to her unusual combination of skills: creativity, a razor-sharp business brain and balls of steel. Not to mention a small, hand-picked team who were unfailingly loyal.

  The edge of her Aspinal of London moleskin notebook glowed, telling her that the screen was lighting up on the iPhone that was tucked underneath it. She surreptitiously checked it and saw that it was an alarm she’d set earlier to remind her when this had taken enough of her day. It was time to leave this lot to duke it out.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I have another appointment. In my absence, Perry has full authority to speak for me.’ The dark eyes of her lawyer gave her a glance that was a mixture of pride, thanks and conspiracy, with just a hint of surprise.

  Mirren had never bailed out on a business meeting as important as this one before. Of course, they all understood. That was the thing about grief. About the need to be alone. About the feeling that time was too precious to waste it where you didn’t want to be. Eventually, life was supposed to get back to normal after a piece of your heart was crushed, but she knew now that it never would. All she could do was to spend as much time as possible in places she wanted to be, with people she wanted to be with, and that wasn’t here, in fraught negotiations about her future. Especially not today.

  Mirren grabbed her jacket, a pale cream Giorgio Armani blazer that dressed up black tailored trousers and a matching cashmere vest. The standard uniform of black was particularly striking against her pale complexion and the waves of red hair that a side plait was struggling to contain. Newspaper articles often referred to her as a classic beauty. Her straight nose, wide-set eyes and beautifully carved cheekbones gave her a striking profile that had seen her compared to everyone from Nicole Kidman to Grace Kelly to Meryl Streep. Mirren was happy to take the compliments.

  It took twenty minutes in light, mid-afternoon traffic to reach the Pacific Coast Highway, the sound of the country-music channel drowning out the soft purr of her silver Mercedes-AMG. The rasping tones of Blake Shelton faded out, and the DJ announced a retro track was up next. The opening bars of Martina McBride’s ‘A Broken Wing’ blasted from the speakers. It used to be one of her favourite songs, but that was before. Before her heart was broken, before she learned to cry.