‘So are we going to talk about us?’

  Zander’s shrug told Davie that he knew exactly what he was talking about. His response was classic underplayed Zander. He thought about it for a few moments, before asking, ‘Do you feel like you need to?’

  Good question. Davie wasn’t sure. As kids, living in the same street of terraced houses, they’d been best friends through choice, through mutual affection and a joint dissatisfaction with their lives. And all those years of hustling and grafting and achieving the impossible paled into insignificance when he’d found out last year that Jono Leith was not only Zander’s father but Davie’s too. His mum, Ena, had had a brief affair with him over four decades ago. That’s why she and Davie had lived in that terrace. So his dad, that arrogant, deluded, cruel, megalomaniac prick could see his lad growing up.

  The bottom line was that Davie loved Zander like a brother, before he knew he actually was.

  Davie shrugged. ‘Guess not. Didn’t matter for all those years. Doesn’t need to matter now.’

  ‘Good. Case closed.’

  Davie grinned. ‘Glad to see you’ve discovered a new level of emotional depth and spirituality.’ Amused sarcasm dripped from every word.

  Zander countered, ‘West of Scotland DNA. Can’t argue with genetics.’ The stereotype of the West of Scotland male who couldn’t find his emotions with a search team and a Sherpa was one they were both familiar with. Growing up, they’d been surrounded by men like that. Suppressed feelings. Brusque exteriors. Boys don’t cry.

  Zander stubbed out his cigarette on the wall, then tossed it into his empty bottle. ‘If it makes you feel any better, Mirren is fucked off with me too.’

  So he’d been right. And Zander was actually going to open up about it. Maybe they could do the brother thing after all. He tried not to seem too eager to dig in case it shut Zander down.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘She thinks I failed a drug test.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yep. But I’m clean. Was when I took the test too. Must have been messed up, so we’ve got people looking into it. In the meantime, they won’t insure me, Wes is being a dick and I’ve been fired.’

  ‘So it’s all going well?’

  ‘Great. Never better. Every day above the ground is a good one.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The two of them were grinning again. Ridiculous. The guy’s life was falling apart and yet, somehow, there was black humour there.

  ‘What about you?’ Zander asked. ‘All good? Apart from the whole “Mirren decking you” thing?’

  Davie nodded. ‘Sarah is on tour with the South City guys, so I haven’t had sex for weeks. My ex-wife is a lesbian and her partner hates my guts. My kids think I prefer Justin Bieber. And I’ve got some mad stalker who’s trying to freak me the fuck out. So yeah, all good.’

  Davie’s phone rang and he was about to flick it to voicemail when he spotted Mark Bock’s name on the caller id.

  He knew better than to ignore it. If Mark couldn’t find him there was every chance he’d round up a SWAT team and come looking.

  ‘Davie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We have a situation.’

  ‘Are the kids OK? Sarah?’ He felt his heart ramp up to palpitation mode.

  ‘They’re OK. Everyone is OK.’

  Davie didn’t get it. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s your house, Davie. Fire crews are there now. It’s not looking good.’

  38

  MIRREN

  ‘Love Me Again’ – John Newman

  The blinds in Mirren’s office were closed, which was a necessary discretion as she was standing in the middle of the room, on a white sheet, wearing a black balconette bra and a matching lace thong. Janet Reger. Her red waves were twisted up on top of her head and secured with a pen, chopsticks fashion, and her stylist, Maddie, was hollow-eyed, anxious and showing every stressed-out symptom of ‘Oscars’ madness month’.

  ‘OK, we’re down to the blush Dior sheath or the gold Chanel,’ confirmed Maddie, a blonde, bespectacled lesbian who had the face and body of a model and the creative brain of a true fashionista.

  Mirren looked at the two dresses hanging from hooks on the back of the office door. Over the years she’d had dozens of fittings here. She was so constrained on time it was far quicker for the stylist to bring the options to her, rather than visiting each fashion house in turn. This year, Chanel, Dior and every other major label had sent dresses over, because she was nominated. She couldn’t help thinking that she’d got the sympathy votes. Would her name be up there if the establishment weren’t making a show of support over her daughter’s death? Maybe. But maybe not.

  She’d get a better sense of it at the ceremony on the big night. In the meantime, she just had to get dressed and get out of here. None of this mattered. All that she cared about today was heading for the one event that did really matter to her: the opening of Chloe’s Care, the drop-in centre she’d funded to support troubled youths.

  ‘OK, let me try the blush one again. I think that was my favourite.’

  ‘I think so too,’ Maddie agreed. ‘Since the year that Charlize Theron won in gold, anyone else pales by comparison. No offence.’

  That’s why Mirren loved Maddie. Brutal honesty was refreshing. The fact that she had the balls to say what she thought reassured Mirren that she’d never go to an event looking like crap on Maddie’s watch.

  Maddie had just brought the dress over to the protective white floor sheet when the door burst open.

  ‘Really? Lunch with Lomax? That’s how we’re going to do this?’ Mike Feechan stormed in, paying absolutely no regard to the fact that she was standing there wearing less than a lingerie-store mannequin.

  Devlin, her assistant, ran in after him. ‘Sorry, Mirren, I couldn’t—’

  Mirren spoke with absolute calm and authority. ‘It’s fine, Devlin. Maddie, can you excuse us? If you leave both dresses, I’ll make my decision and let you know in the morning.’

  Maddie eyed the furious and pacing form of Mike Feechan. ‘You sure you want me to go?’ she asked.

  Mirren smiled. ‘Positive. And thank you.’

  Reluctantly, both Maddie and Devlin left the room and Mirren turned to face Mike, who was standing leaning on the front of her desk, arms folded, face furious, dressed appropriately for the occasion in a black open-neck shirt and black trousers.

  ‘Something you wanted to discuss?’ she asked, determined to show no embarrassment whatsoever about the fact that she was near to naked. She would not defer to him, nor would she let him intimidate her.

  In fact, he would have no effect on her at all. Other than… Oh wow. The tingles of attraction were unavoidable, as was the fact that just looking at his shoulders, his blazing eyes, his narrow hips, was causing a distinct reaction in every one of her erogenous zones.

  ‘Lomax? And of course it was as public as it could be, so you’re sending a message. Is that really the kind of game we’re playing here?’

  ‘I don’t play games,’ Mirren countered calmly. They both knew she was lying. ‘But you seem to forget – I’m not the one who wants to change terms. I’m not the one jeopardizing the relationship between our companies. That’s all on you. But if I decide to react to that, then I’ll damn well do it, and I’ll damn well do it in any way I please.’

  She should stop there. She knew she should. But she was just weary, totally pissed off. Zander. Davie. Mike. Jack. What was it with everyone letting her down and acting like assholes? No more. No bloody more. ‘If you have a problem with that, I really don’t care. Now get out of my office and next time you want to see me, call and make an appointment. I have better things to do with my time than this.’

  Now it was her blue eyes that were blazing, as she stood, arms folded, chin high, daring him to disobey her.

  He pushed himself off the desk. ‘I won’t be blackmailed – directly or indirectly,’ he said, quietly this time.

  ‘And neither will I.’ she retorted, words strong, definite.

  He headed towards the door, stopped halfway, turned to face her, stopped, stared.

  Several seconds passed. Neither moved; neither spoke, the challenge clear.

  His eyes lowered, took in the curves of her breasts, only half covered by the fine lace of her bra, the pale, beautiful contours of her body. Mirren let him look, didn’t say a word, until his eyes returned to hers.

  This was her game. Her play.

  She walked forward, reached up, curled her hands into his hair, pulled his head down until his lips pressed hard against hers.

  All bets were off. From defiance to urgency, from fury to frantic, it was suddenly a frenzy of lust and passion.

  Her hips were against his now, his hard-on pushing back against her stomach, making a ripple of sexual excitement run up her spine.

  Releasing his hair, and with impressive speed and dexterity, she flipped open the buttons on his shirt one by one and then pulled down each shoulder, exposing his hard, dark chest. The thick batch of hair proved that there was no male grooming here.

  ‘God, Mirren. I. Can’t. Get. Enough of you,’ he murmured huskily, setting off yet another wave of exquisite pleasure.

  Stretching round her, he cleared the desk behind her with one sweep of his hand, then back to her, kissing her, murmuring her name. They took turns to pleasure each other, to lick, to bite, to tease, hands in hair, lips pressed hard against each other, until they both came in a sweating, frantic, trembling crescendo.

  It took what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds until the tremors stopped, until he pulled her up, held her against his chest, both of them silent until eventually he spoke. ‘I don’t know how to do this,’ he told her. ‘I’m usually a dinner-and-a-movie kinda guy.’

  Mirren pulled back so she could look up at him. ‘I like dinner. And movies. But I don’t have room for them right now,’ she said honestly, perhaps a little sharply.

  Inside, she was groaning. And not in a good way. Multi-million-dollar deals and presentations to thousands? Not a problem. Intimacy with someone she hadn’t known for at least ten years? Might take her a while to catch up with that. She’d never had casual sex before. What was she supposed to do after it? To say?

  Damn, why couldn’t she pause this to go call Lou, find out what was normal? She resisted a sudden urge to laugh. My god, this was ridiculous. She was a forty-one-year-old woman and she ran the world, yet she didn’t have a clue what to say or do in this situation. It didn’t help that she was naked.

  Another thought. What if he thought she was having sex with him to manipulate him on the deal? She’d never slept with anyone in this town to get anything, and she wasn’t going to let him think otherwise.

  ‘Mike, I don’t want you to think this is about the deal, because it’s not.’

  A flicker of confusion, before he pulled back. ‘Seriously?’ Oh crap, she’d offended him. He bent down, picked up his trousers, his shirt, pulled both of them on, followed by his shoes, all of it in sharp, angry movements.

  She should say something, but everything that formulated in her head came out wrong.

  She hadn’t meant that to happen. It didn’t mean anything.

  Could they just forget it? She’d just been horny.

  Right place, right time.

  Everything sounded like a cliché, could be taken any one of several different ways, so instead of speaking, she grabbed a robe from the pile of clothes left by Maddie, pulled it on, said nothing.

  For a moment, she thought he was going to leave without another word, but as soon as he was dressed, he stepped towards her. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you. If this is just a fuck-buddy thing, then fine. I can do that. But don’t blow me off like that. I’m not yours to dismiss. And I didn’t for a moment think it was about the deal. I actually thought it was because you were into me.’

  With that, he turned, walked out, and whether or not the slam of the door was intentional, it still made her jump.

  Well, that went great.

  The clock over the door chimed and she realised she’d have to worry about it later. Nipping into her en-suite washroom, she had a quick shower, threw on the jeans and navy sweater she’d left there this morning and pulled her hair back, tying it with a band. No make-up necessary. On the way out, she ignored a loaded glance from Devlin. Oh, the sweet mortification. Ten years and she’d finally given him something to be shocked about.

  Later, as she pulled into an empty space on Sunset, directly outside Chloe’s Care, she decided it had been the right decision to avoid a high-profile opening. That wasn’t what the centre was about. If there were celebrities and press and a whole fanfare of attention, it would alienate the very people who wanted to use it. Instead, Mirren had been working with the other charities, foundations and street crews that looked out for the teenage homeless, addicts and club casualties, spreading the word that the centre would be opening. Chloe’s fame would do the rest. By the time she died, she was a regular in the tabloids and on the entertainment shows for all the wrong reasons. Everyone knew who she was. Everyone knew she was a druggie. Now everyone knew she was dead.

  Mirren just hoped that message struck home with some of the young people out there, and if it did, they now had somewhere to go for help. She’d been counting on Zander and Davie to come and support her, but that was a blowout now. Logan and Sarah were on tour. And Jack was being an arse. So that left Mirren and Lou. Right now, that felt like the story of her life.

  Mirren pulled up outside and took her phone from her bag. A text from Lou.

  Hi, babe. Running few mins late. Blame Brad Pitt. Go in without me. Be there soon.

  Leaving the car and crossing the sidewalk, Mirren’s stomach churned with nerves. It looked quiet. There didn’t seem to be many people milling around. Had she made a bad call building this? Would the kids she was trying to reach trust her? If not, they’d just have to work harder. Reach out. Her daughter deserved that. And nothing, no one was going to stop her making this the place it had to be. This was Chloe’s legacy. It was all she had left.

  Mirren pushed open the door and entered; the sight in front of her and the wall of sound made her stop dead in her tracks. In the main hall there were seats for fifty, and from here it looked like every one was taken, with another thirty or forty standing around the room in pairs and groups.

  There were young, old, every race, both male and female.

  It was a sea of people, some talking, some crying, some staring into space, some with their heads on the table, eyes closed. It didn’t matter what they were doing. All that mattered was that they were here.

  Mirren scanned the room, happy, relieved, moved, sad – but most importantly of all, completely unaware that one pair of eyes was watching her every move.

  39

  ZANDER

  ‘Make It Rain’ – Ed Sheeran

  The sweat was dripping down his back, his heart was thudding, his legs weak. He needed this to stop. Really, desperately needed this to stop. Slamming his hand on the button in front of him, Zander jumped off before the treadmill came to a standstill and placed two hands on the nearest wall, leaning forward, letting his lungs recover and his forehead be soothed by the cool surface.

  How many miles had he run in the last twelve hours? Too many to count. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think. The cravings were taking over and he couldn’t block them out. He just knew he had to keep busy, keep moving, not crack. He’d wanted to go with Davie to his house, some kind of fire the call had said, but Davie had blown him off. Didn’t want it turning into a media circus, he’d said. Zander got it. In this town, one celebrity was a story. Two together, especially at the scene of a drama, was a conspiracy tale that stayed in the headlines for months.

  Telling Davie about Mirren, opening the history of their friendships, picking the scars of their genetic connection, all of it combined had thrown Zander seriously off balance. As soon as his mind went back there, the anxiety welled, the fear made him tremble, the anger made him want to roar. And all of it made him want to be numb.

  The old Zander would be sitting in a bar right now, necking Jack Daniel’s and nipping to the toilets every half-hour to do a line. The old Zander would figure, Fuck it – they think I’m guilty, so I may as well be fucking guilty. The old Zander would wake up tomorrow in a hospital or a cell. Right now, all he could think about, all he wanted to be was the old Zander. He headed for the shower, then pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt. Maybe he’d head out on the board. See who was around. Man, he was going stir-crazy in here.

  This had to get better. Had to.

  ‘Zander?’

  Hollie had entered the bungalow without knocking, and as soon as he saw her face, he realised that things getting better wasn’t on the cards anytime soon.

  ‘Holls?’

  She stopped, stared at him, eyes wide with something that didn’t look good. Fear? Horror?

  ‘Holls, you’re freaking me out. What’s up?’

  ‘I… I…’

  ‘Aw, shit, the test?’ He finished towel-drying his hair, then chucked the towel back into the bathroom. ‘Look, Holls, I was clean. I don’t care what it says. I was clean. I’m still clean. I’ll do any other test they want me to do, and if they don’t believe it, we’ll sue. Either way, we’ll deal with it.’

  ‘It’s not the test.’

  For the first time, he stood still. Had he heard that right?

  ‘Not the test? So what is it?’

  Now he could see her face was pale, drained of colour, her brown hair still wet, her jeans and vest crushed as if she’d pulled them on quickly. This wasn’t how Hollie rolled. This couldn’t be good.

  ‘The flight,’ she stammered.

  ‘What flight?’

  ‘Back from London. The girl.’

  None of this was making sense. What girl?