The Rise: As seen on ITV - a gritty, glamorous thriller from Shari Low and TV's Ross King

By Shari Low and Ross King

The start of a thrilling and glamourous Hollywood series from million-copy bestselling author Shari Low and Strictly Come Dancing's Ross King ✨

When we bury our secrets, they always come back to haunt us...

Their rise was meteoric.
Only a few years before, they had been three friends from Glasgow, just trying to survive tough lives of danger and dysfunction.

But on one Hollywood evening in 1993, they were on the world’s biggest stage, accepting their Oscar in front of the watching world.

That night was the beginning of their careers. But it was also the end of their friendship.

Over the next twenty years, Mirren McLean would become one of the most powerful writers in the movie industry.

Zander Leith would break box-office records as cinema’s most in-demand action hero.

And Davie Johnson would rake in millions as producer of some of the biggest shows on TV.
For two decades they didn’t speak, driven apart by a horrific secret.
Until now…

Their past is coming back to bite them, and they have to decide whether to run, hide, or fight.

Because when you rise to the top, there’s always someone who wants to see you fall.

An exciting new glam thriller for the fans of Taylor Jenkins Reid, Liane Moriarty and Jo Spain

Previously published in the UK as TAKING HOLLYWOOD by Shari King.

Praise for The Hollywood Thriller Trilogy

‘Brilliant, a white-knuckle ride of a novel. Gripping and wildly glamorous - Tilly Bagshawe

‘It's a real slice of Hollywood and a brilliant read’ - Gerard Butler

‘A glam, edgy thriller, just the way I like them’ - Martina Cole

‘Sex, scandal and secrets galore’ - the late Jackie Collins

'A high-stakes thriller with a dark, moving story at its core. Page-turning entertainment at its very best' - TJ Emerson

‘It's a thriller that’s gritty, sexy and a sensational page turner. You won't be able to put it down. I loved it!’ - Lorraine Kelly

'I loved this Hollywood tale with deep Scottish roots. It’s dark, sinful, glittering and thrilling. An absolute adventure from the very first page'- Carmen Reid

'The mean streets of Glasgow meet the glitz of Hollywood. A riveting read!' - Evie Hunter

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Sep 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781804267684

Shari Low

Shari Low is the multi-million copy bestselling author of over 30 novels, including the #1 bestsellers One Day with You and One Midnight with You.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

THE 65TH ACADEMY AWARDS,

Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, Los Angeles,

29 March 1993

Lights.

The heat of the lights is as oppressive as the thick cloak of insecurity and desperation that shrouds the audience.

Billy Crystal steps to the podium, his laconic grin a teasing, gentle rebuke to a collection of egos teetering on the edge of explosion.

His fourth time in the role, Crystal introduces the presenter of the next category with an ease born of confidence and familiarity. Romcom queen, Lana Delasso, glides onto the stage, blonde hair an homage to her namesake and idol, Lana Turner. Her nomination in the category of Best Supporting Actress will be decided later and she’s done everything possible to win. Everything. In her fifties now, the best surgeons have ensured that she doesn’t look a day over thirty-five, her white, cobweb Versace gown, defying the rule that you should never show cleavage and legs at the same time. The physical reactions in the audience are instant and visceral: tight smiles of envy on bejewelled women coincide with ferocious erections under some of the $1,000 tuxedos sitting next to them.

Her words are white noise until they reach the point: ‘…. Best Original Screenplay.’

Behind her, on a thirty-foot screen, the nominations roll.

Husbands and Wives by Woody Allen. A smattering of applause, hesitations fuelled by the desire to come down on the right side of the moral judgement on Allen’s affair with Mia Farrow’s daughter. In Hollywood, picking sides has little to do with principles and everything to do with career enhancement.

Lorenzo’s Oil by George Miller and Nick Enright. More applause. Camera zooms to a row in which the suits are overshadowed by Susan Sarandon’s uncommon beauty.

Passion Fish by John Sayles. A movie that was released in only two theatres, grossing only a few tickets over $36,000 before its nomination.

Unforgiven by David Peoples. A crowd-pleaser. Directed and produced by Clint Eastwood, the audience of stars greets it with a show of worship reserved for work that has been touched by a deity.

The Brutal Circle by Davie Johnston, Zander Leith and Mirren McLean. An outsider. A harrowing story of a life born in violence, lived in violence, cut short by violence.

The big screen spans several seats, but all eyes are on the ebullient form of the producer, Wes Lomax, legendary head of Lomax Films, the studio responsible for more million-dollar-grossing movies in the last decade than any other.

The image returns to Lana Delasso, revelling in her moment. The same fingers that caressed a very married studio mogul only an hour before, now slide delicately along the folds of the gold envelope.

‘And the winner is…’

Pause.

‘The Brutal Circle by…’

Sycophantic cheers drown out the names; stars rise to their feet, determined to ensure that when Wes Lomax watches the playback, he will see them heralding his triumph.

In the chaos, the director in the gallery is a fraction late in switching to the three bodies that move towards the stage, all of them almost as unrecognizable as the extras hired to fill the seats vacated by stars drawn to the restrooms by the call of nature or the need for a line snorted off the top of a toilet. When the zoom lens on Camera 5 finally catches up with the winners, they are ascending the stairs to the stage.

Davie Johnston, at twenty-two the youngest winner of an award in that category in Academy history, strides forward with the surety of a man with an unblinking eye on his destination – the spotlight of an Academy award winner and membership of one of the most exalted, exclusive clubs in the world.

Behind him, Mirren McLean, in the only haute-couture dress she has ever touched, her wild mane of Titian curls tamed to match the elegance of the midnight-blue Dior gown. Unaccustomed to heels, she steps with care, her expression a mix of concentration and disbelief.

Finally, with a demeanour that suggests reluctance, Zander Leith. For every woman who tried to ignore her partner’s sexual interest in Lana Delasso, here is six feet two inches of payback. Wide shoulders, his square jaw set in a brooding grimace, he could be heading to a wake, not the spotlight of a winner.

When only a few feet separate them, Lana’s eyes meet his and she instinctively flinches as he responds to the flirtatious flutter of her lashes with almost visceral scorn, his disdain barely masked by his own thick, black lashes. Rebuffed.

While the outside remains a movie goddess, on the inside she is twelve again: the odd kid at school that even the trailer-park waifs avoid. The one that turned into the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, but still felt she had to respond to the summons to Wes Lomax’s yacht and service his lust and his ego to get his support for her own nomination.

Davie Johnston takes the Oscar and moves forward to the microphone.

‘I just want to say thank you—’

More applause. Most of the audience know of this trio, despite the fact that they are barely out of their teens. Wes Lomax has ensured that their story has saturated the Hollywood press in recent months. All three are credited as writers on the script, but Mirren steered the story behind the scenes, while the two men played leading roles in a movie that had blown up at the box office. The success was due, in part, to a publicity and distribution campaign usually reserved for A-list releases, and, in part, to the fact that it was a damn fine piece of cinema. It was a raw, hardcore two hours of urban menace that had a generation of American teens queuing for their Saturday-night thriller kicks. It hit $15 million on the balance sheets after the first month, then word of mouth set it on fire. It was now well on the way to Lomax’s $100million target.

This was the kind of American dream, the triumph of the underdog, the discovery of wonder that this city loved. Three childhood friends from Scotland, pals from a run-down housing estate who’d stuck together in poverty and disfunction, before going on to be the creative talents behind an outstanding script discovered by Wes Lomax when he took his annual golfing trip to the UK. It was beyond surprising that these kids had managed to get their work in front of Lomax. Even more so that he’d taken enough time off from screwing high-class escorts in the presidential suites of the best hotels in the UK to read it.

Now the audience in the red velvet chairs furrow their brows as they try to decipher Davie Johnston’s accent. This isn’t the Scottish burr of Sean Connery. Nor does it come close to the accents they heard from Davie and Zander in the movie. It is harder. More guttural. Like bullets being sprayed from a gun in a scene from Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino’s big hit of the previous year.

‘Thank you to the Academy. Thank you to all of you for letting us be part of this incredible world. And most of all, thank you to the brilliant Wes Lomax. We owe him everything.’

Camera 3 zooms in on Lomax and millions of people watch him nod, eyes glistening, a godfather acknowledging gratitude from his chosen family.

Davie bows to signal the end of his speech, then punches the Oscar into the air. Neither Mirren nor Zander step forward. Recovered from the sting of Zander’s rejection, Lana sweeps them off stage right into the unbridled chaos of runners, technicians, gophers and make-up artists brandishing thick brushes at agitated stars.

They are propelled into a press room, cameras flashing, journos screeching questions, all of which they answer with naive honesty. Barely a few years ago they were hanging out in cafés, pooling their money to buy chips. Now they are on Hollywood’s biggest stage and Davie Johnston isn’t even going to pretend for a second that he’s not loving it.

How are they enjoying Hollywood? Fine. Great. Aye, it’s, erm, amazing.

Are they here to stay? Dunno yet. It depends. Nothing decided.

Is their next project already underway? No plans yet. Nothing concrete. Just ideas.

Davie answers most of the questions, with an occasional contribution from Mirren.

Lou Cole, a young, sparky journalist on the LA Times, changes the pattern.

‘So, Zander, how does it feel to be called the new Hollywood heart-throb?’

His bashful grin is automatic, and conceals the fact that for the second time that night his eyes flicker with pure contempt.

‘I don’t think Tom Cruise has anything to worry about.’

Oblivious to the underlying sentiment, the press pack laugh, as Paula Leno, Lomax Films’ hard-ass head of publicity, sweetly but firmly calls an end to the photocall, determined to minimize the risk of a fuck-up and all too aware that the next winners will soon be arriving on the conveyor belt of achievement.

Finally alone, there is a pause as each of them absorbs the last ten incredible minutes of their lives. Davie is the first to react, throwing his arms around Mirren and squeezing her.

‘We did it. Shit, I don’t believe it.’ As always, his enthusiasm oozes from under his skin. It has been that way all their lives. Davie is the life force, the driven one, the chancer. Mirren is the voice of reason, the one with emotional intelligence, always in touch with how everyone else is feeling. And she knows there’s a problem here.

Over Davie’s shoulder her gaze has locked with Zander’s, dispelling all notion of celebration. She can see the storm that’s been brewing for far too long is about to roar with thunder. Davie doesn’t get the memo. His first burst of excitement over, he turns to the new Hollywood heart-throb. His lifelong friend, bonded as youngsters by a shared recognition that no one really gave a fuck, their symbiotic pairing paying no heed to the reality that in the gene pool of life, Zander got height and physical perfection, while Davie got the kind of non-threatening appeal that made women want to ruffle his hair and tell him about their last broken heart.

‘C’mon, man, that was incredible! Did you hear them? That was for us. That has to make everything worth it. C’mon, man…’

The desperate repetition isn’t lost on any of them. Mirren’s teeth clench together as she raises her chin in defiance. She knows there is no point looking for resolution and rapprochement with Zander, and she refuses to show weakness by trying.

Her instincts are right.

For the last photograph, Zander was asked to hold the Oscar to give the picture editors a range of different images to choose from. Now he tosses it to Davie like it is a can of Bud pulled from the fridge to wash down a burger.

‘Take it.’

Davie’s reflexes are just quick enough to save it from the floor.

‘You got what you wanted.’ Zander’s words are barely louder than a whisper, yet drown out all other sounds. ‘Now both of you can fuck off, and if I ever see you again, walk the other way.’

1

‘YOUNG AMERICANS’ – DAVID BOWIE

TWENTY YEARS LATER

Beverly Wilshire Hotel, 2013

By the pool of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, made famous by a cinda-fucking-rella movie about a hooker saved by a rich man, Davie Johnston has taken three cabanas – one for him, one on either side so he doesn’t get overheard or interrupted. He’s wearing linen trousers and shirt, open just low enough to reveal every perfect contour of his lasered torso. Clothes pale blue. Every time he wears blue, someone mentions that it brings out the colour in his eyes. Every time he replies, ‘Oh really? I didn’t realize.’ Then he goes home and orders ten more shirts, same shade.

As always, he’s combining business and pleasure, taking pitch meetings for the next big reality show. He already produces three of the top five in the ratings. He chose the Beverly Wilshire because it kills two birds with one stone. If a meeting goes exceptionally well, he’s only an elevator away from a California-king-size bed.

A couple sit down for the three-o’clock slot. It’s the first interview after lunch and he’s had two glasses of Pinot Noir. In this postcode that qualifies him for AA.

She’s a supermodel; he’s an ageing rock god, best hits behind him. They pitch the show. Fly on the wall. Beauty and the Beats. Great premise, shit title. They tell Davie every network has expressed interest in this show, but they want him to produce it because he’s ‘The Man’. They’re not lying about the second part.

The meeting goes well, like every other meeting in the industry. Both sides flatter the other. Both sides claim interest. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, one side refuses to take the next call.

Davie listens. Definitely has potential. They shake hands; he tells them he’ll be in touch. He will. His secretary will call on Monday and arrange a follow-up meeting. Only the supermodel. Room 567. With the California-king-size bed.

On the ground floor of the hotel, at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant, CUT, Mirren McLean is oblivious to her childhood friend’s presence upstairs. She is at her usual table, with her husband of nineteen years, producer-director Jack Gore, and their teenage children, Chloe and Logan.

If anyone added up the value of the diners in the room, it would hit the billions. People have no problem paying $150 for a Japanese 100 per cent Wagyu steak because this place is regarded as the best. And in Beverly Hills, it’s only the best that matters.

Jack has been on location for a few weeks, so Mirren is thrilled he’s back. Even happier because both her children are there. This is what life is about – family. Right now, she’s a mum and a wife, and that’s all she wants to be. Just a mum and a wife.

Paul Bonetti, the legendary producer, approaches her table. Shakes hands. She’s polite because she has manners, but she wants him gone so she can get back to her family. She likes to keep the two separate, but in this town, there’s no forgetting about business.

Bonetti smiles, like he’s her best friend. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased for you – still number one at the box office after three weeks,’ he says, attempting jovial and sincere, achieving latent fury and crippling envy. His leading men could act; he couldn’t. ‘Just hope I’m up against you next time around – make it a fair fight.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll take the top spot next time. It must be your turn,’ she says, wide grin, while the words ‘over my dead body’ explode in her head. She makes a mental note to bring forward the release date for the next Clansman movie to ensure it clashes with whatever action killfest he has coming out. Time to put him back in his place. If he wants to play that game, she’ll take the challenge.

She’ll win. Because she’s one of the biggest and ballsiest players in Hollywood.

And everyone in the room knows it.

On the seventh floor, room 731, Zander Leith is sitting in a solid-mahogany high-back seat. He’s already refused the director-style chair left by the company who organized the press junket, as this one forces him to sit up straight. It’s all about the angles.

His new movie, the sixth in the Dunhill franchise, playing a man who is a suave, deadly cross between a Bond and a Reacher, hits the cinemas in three weeks’ time. He’s now been in this airless room for seven hours, answering the same questions from TV and print journalists who all look different but act equally inane. Cute young women asking flirtatious questions. The enthusiastic newbies who want to be his best mate. The older, jaded ones who try to catch him out and twist his words.

Very occasionally, there’s someone who has well-researched questions that actually make him think – they’re the only ones that hit the pause button on the eradication of his will to live.

Next door, his hair and make-up team, publicist and manager sit ready to pounce when they are required.

One of them is required now. The journo in front of him, wearing the shortest of skirts, is giving him a glimpse of her Victoria’s Secret underwear. He knows the brand because he slept with a model who was wearing it on the catwalk only a month before.

The interview is coming to a close. Once upon a time, he would get someone else to do his bidding. Now, he just cuts to the quick. It’s speed-dating, movie-star 101.

He leans towards her. ‘Warren Beatty Suite. Seven p.m.?’ It’s a question to which they both know the answer.

She leaves satisfied that she got everything she came for. His publicist enters the room, turns to the sound guy.

‘Make sure that last exchange is deleted?’

He nods.

Of course he does.

Because no one ever says no in Hollywood.

2

DAVIE JOHNSTON

‘Got To Give It Up’ – Marvin Gaye

A few months later…

Bel Air, Los Angeles, 2013

It never crossed Davie Johnston’s mind to wonder when he’d stopped feeling lucky.

This life he’d created had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with smarts. Skills. Talent. It wasn’t a perfect existence, but as he drove his Bugatti Veyron through the landscaped gardens to the door of his $40-million baroque mansion in the exclusive enclave of Bel Air, he knew it was pretty damn close.

Drego, the Ukrainian gardener, was hosing down the play equipment custom-built for the seven-year-old Johnston twins, Bella and Bray. In this town, his red-haired, fair-skinned twins were a rarity, and it had served them well. Since they were three years old, they’d been in the cast of the hit sitcom Family Three. A week didn’t pass without a request for a family photo shoot from the celebrity mags, and every now and then he indulged them.

Not that he, or his kids, needed the publicity. Davie got enough of that presenting American Stars. It was still number one in the ratings, sitting above America’s Got Talent, American Idol and all the other shows that just couldn’t beat them.

He’d be signing his renewal contract for this season of American Stars any day now, and that would, once again, put Ryan Seacrest in his place too. The last decade had been a tussle for supremacy between them, a battle Davie was winning. Thirty million dollars for his last American Stars contract had made sure of that, not to mention the success of the reality shows he produced. Global profit on those had put him in the financial ‘fuck off’ stratosphere. He never had to ask the price of anything. But he did. Not because he perpetuated the ridiculous myth that Scots were tight with cash – in his experience, generosity was in their cultural DNA. He asked the price because he was smart. Scots invented the telephone, television and the steam engine. Davie invented the most watched shows on the planet.

He had American Stars. He had The Dream Machine, a sentimental slushfest that made dreams come true and left no heartstring untugged. And his other baby, Liking Lana – a car-crash docu-soap featuring the fucked-up life and family of tarnished has-been Lana Delasso – had finally topped Seacrest’s baby, Keeping Up With the Kardashians, last season.

He checked his limited-edition gold Panerai Kampfschwimmer watch – the case designed and made by Panerai, the movement by Rolex. It didn’t get any better, but it did cost $1 million. Two o’clock. The kids wouldn’t be back from the set for another hour. Time for a shower and to put a couple of calls in to the East Coast.

The second-season premiere of New York Nixons, his latest scripted reality hit, starring the extended family of rock legend, Jax Nixon, was due to air next week and Sky, the wayward daughter of Jax’s first wife, Rainbow, was due to stage an overdose in the next couple of days. Cue shock, outrage, sympathy and more free headlines than even the best publicist could drum up in a week.

That was Davie’s talent. He was adaptable. Saw opportunities. Ran with them. Strategized for success. When the acting jobs dried up a few years after they won the ‘Best Original Screenplay’ Oscar for The Brutal Circle, the movie that broke out Mirren as a writer, and Davie and Zander as actors, he’d gone right back to the drawing board. That’s when he’d spotted the potential in TV and then grafted, morphed, schmoozed to make an impact there. There was a whole new dawn of talent shows just waiting to happen. They’d already stormed the UK market. Davie had sought out Simon Cowell, the man behind them, asked questions, listened, learned. Then he’d developed his own concept, American Stars, a variation on the UK theme, and taken it to the American networks. They’d commissioned it as a summer filler. To their surprise, it had rocked the country. Massive ratings. Massive buzz.

Davie had hitched a ride on that bus of wannabes and it had brought him as much fame, glory and cash as any A-list actor. And when the era of the reality shows dawned, he was in pole position again, using his own cash to bankroll pilots that became syndicated shows that added more zeros to his bank account.

As he opened the front door, he could hear Drego’s wife, Alina, singing some unintelligible song in the kitchen. A Russian force of nature, she dressed like a Kardashian and loved country music. Thankfully, she cooked like a dream, and her OCD meant every corner of the house glistened.

Ignoring the temptation of the aromas emanating from the kitchen, he headed up the left-hand side of the sweeping double marble and glass staircase. No point eating now, especially when he’d skipped a gym session and headed home early. He’d pay for it tomorrow. Clay, his trainer, was a former middleweight champion on the US Olympic boxing team who abided by the only two rules Davie had set at the outset of their partnership: don’t hit the face and don’t kill me.

Crossing the upper hallway of his palatial home, he lifted his Prada T-shirt – blue, of course – over his head in readiness for the shower. Still moving, he opened the top button of his jeans with one hand, turned the doorknob of his bedroom with the other.

The brush of the white shagpile carpet muffled the sound of the door opening, giving him a couple of seconds to take in the scene in front of him before the occupants of the room registered his presence.

The curve of her back caught his eye first. How many times had he seen his wife’s silhouette on billboards and in magazines, and how many other men had fantasized about the perfection of her breasts, her ass, or the legs that went on forever?

Or the caramel waves that flowed down over her slender frame. Or the hazel eyes, with flecks of gold that changed colour in the light.

When he’d married Jenny Rico nearly ten years ago, he sometimes found himself lying awake at night just staring, almost unable to believe that he could touch that body whenever he wanted to.

Now, from his side view, he could see every contour of her shape as she knelt on the bed, legs open, eyes closed, her head thrown back as her hands caressed her breasts.

Lying beneath her, another shape, one that would confuse the TV addicts of the nation. On the screen, in the hugely popular cable cop show Streets of Power, these two people were partners, their relationship purely platonic.

At no point in the show was his wife being teased to orgasm by her slightly older, more experienced sidekick. The combination of genetics from her Gambian mother and Dutch father, had given her flawless bone structure and a waist-length curtain of ebony hair, Darcy Jay was as exquisite as the woman she was making love to.

A sound, once familiar, escaped from his wife’s throat and he paused out of courtesy and curiosity, realizing that she was just seconds from coming.

When her gasps stopped, she fell to the side, reaching over to cradle the face that had been checking out her Brazilian grooming schedule only seconds before.

‘I love you,’ she whispered tenderly, and despite himself, Davie winced aloud.

The two heads on the bed snapped round, his wife’s face creasing into something between quiet amusement and exasperation. Her companion preferred a more vocal demonstration of feeling.

‘Jesus, Davie, have you never heard of knocking? Or were you so busy getting your rocks off you forgot your manners?,’ Darcy demanded, before switching to a gloating tease of, ‘Or were you just making a wish that you could join in again?’

Davie threw his T-shirt in the direction of the bed as he crossed to his en suite, aware that there was more than an iota of truth in there.

What man wouldn’t want a hot threesome with Jenny Rico and her co-star, Darcy Jay? Numbers one and two, respectively, on People Magazine’s Most Beautiful Women list for the last three years in succession. In public, both straight, both gorgeous, both sexy as hell.

And both left him in the dust when they changed the terms of their original arrangement.

On the opening night of Streets of Power six years earlier, the three of them had ended up drinking late into the night in a bungalow at Chateau Marmont. Too many bottles of Dom Pérignon had led to clothes on the floor and a sexual experience that came pretty close to heaven. It wasn’t the first time he and Jenny had played around with a female friend, but as the weeks passed, the two women developed a relationship that went far deeper than getting messed up and indulging in some girl-on-girl for fun. And he was no longer invited to the party.

The transition had been tough, but when it came down to a choice between accepting their relationship or divorce, he’d chosen to go with the flow. Adapt. Hustle. Just like always. It was all about perceptions. Illusions. To outsiders, he lived a charmed existence with a stunning wife, regularly socializing with her best friend and TV partner, the stellar Darcy Jay.

The world would say that a guy didn’t get much luckier than that.

So, no, as the wet dream taking place on his bed proved, life wasn’t perfect. But as he told himself every day, it was pretty damn close.

All he had to do was keep it that way.

3

MIRREN MCLEAN

‘Make You Feel My Love’ – Adele

Malibu, Los Angeles, 2013

The slam of Mirren’s glass on the marble worktop made the assembled group of PR managers and lawyers blink.

‘I was under the misapprehension that keeping my daughter out of trouble and out of jail was what I paid you for.’ Her voice had dropped in tone to somewhere between serious and deadly, masking the inherent weariness that seeped through every fibre of her being. For a fleeting moment she wished that Jack were here, someone to have her back and share the worry, but that was just the exhaustion talking. He’d be on location in Istanbul for two more weeks, shooting a spy thriller with Mercedes Dance and Charles Power, the hottest on-screen couple in Hollywood. Besides, after nineteen years of blissful marriage to Jack Gore, much of it spent separated by the demands of their careers, she could handle this. Didn’t she always?

Chloe Gore, eighteen year old wild child, Hollywood brat, Californian beauty, her daughter, the one who shunned growth and development for repeating the mistakes of many yesterdays. Not even legally old enough to drink alcohol, yet despite Mirren’s desperate interventions, her daughter still managed to fill her days and nights with drinks, drugs and trouble.

That’s why Mirren knew that this meeting and the next few hours of activity were only delaying the inevitable. She was depressingly aware that later that day she’d sit in this kitchen again, in the home these people had contaminated time after time, and the questions would start swirling around her mind.

How had she let this happen? Where had she gone wrong? Was it something she’d done? A mistake she’d made? Had she not loved Chloe enough? Did her devotion to Jack somehow shut out her kids? Was she such a terrible mother? How could one child turn out so happy and another so damaged?

It happened so often it was becoming just another normal day, one that invariably started with the same 7 a.m. call.

‘Honey, she’s locked up again. Beverly Hills. DUI. Resisting arrest.’ Mirren’s best friend, Lou Cole, editor of the Hollywood Post, a beautiful black woman who – when it came to all things celebrity – had the encyclopaedic intelligence of Einstein.

A doyenne of the gossip columns, the twenty-five-year veteran of the LA press circuit had connections in every club, hotel concierge and gutter of the city. She’d been the second person Mirren had called when she’d heard Chloe’s car roaring down the driveway after she sneaked out at 3 a.m. The first had been Mirren’s security team, but they’d been too slow to catch her and Chloe had perfected a dozen ways to elude them over the years.

‘I’m sorry, hon,’ Lou said, sadly.

Mirren knew the sympathy was sincere. The two women had been friends for two decades, and right from the start their relationship had been a sisterhood. She’d been the first and only choice to be both Chloe and Logan’s godmother and she loved them both. Sometimes Mirren thought Chloe’s bond with Lou was closer than the mother-daughter ties that had been shredded by years of disappointment and defiance.

Two hours later, the depressingly regular war cabinet was in session in her kitchen, the anxieties of the publicists and lawyers clear in every nuance of their speech and actions. Chloe Gore had made them all plenty over the years. A dozen arrests, a couple of short-term sentences and more incidents requiring damage limitation than any of them could count.

Strategy agreed, they made their way to the courtroom for a 10 a.m. appearance. Mirren thought she caught a look of empathy as Judge Leighton Hamilton took his seat, and had a vague recollection of reading about a sting involving his teenage son, a tabloid magazine and a large bag of Colombian snow.

When Chloe shuffled in, she avoided eye contact, kept her gaze on the floor, her lids swollen and ringed with dark shadows. Mirren was desperate to reach out to her, to stroke her tangled hair, but there was little point. She’d tried the love-bomb approach and it had been every bit as unsuccessful as the harsh rejection of tough love she’d tried next.

As the case was set out by a couple of expensive lawyers in Armani, Mirren zoned out, wondering if the crowds had started to form outside yet. There would be the usual paps, and then there would be the idle curious with their camera phones at the ready. That was the problem. Everyone these days was a potential videographer. Telling stories all over town. Recording snapshots they might be able to flog for $100, or, if they got really lucky, $100,000. They would be out there. Waiting. Calling their friends.

Perhaps, just like last time, a rumour would already be sweeping the city, claiming that Chloe’s brother, Logan Gore, was inside supporting his sister, and a thousand teenage boy-band fans would be outside right now chanting his name. The noise of the gavel interrupted her thoughts and she listened as Lou leaned forward from the row behind. ‘Mandatory rehab. Under the circumstances, that was the best verdict we could have hoped for, darling.’

Only when she was being taken out of the courtroom, did Chloe raise her eyes to meet Mirren’s. The emptiness was harrowing. Nothing. Nothing there at all. Any sign of the little girl she’d adored had been snuffed out by her cocktail of choice: Xanax and coke.

‘Want me to come home with you?’ Lou offered.

Mirren shook her head, causing some of her curls to come free from the grip that held them in a loose chignon. Physically, twenty years in Hollywood had changed her very little. She was still as slender as she’d always been, with just a few crow’s feet belying the passage of the years. She put it down to yoga, SilkPeel and OXYjet facials, and the skills of Dr Romaine, the dermatologist who was on speed dial for half the stars in town. No trout pouts or G-forced faces there. Just small tweaks, natural work that gently took the years off without leaving a trace of a needle or laser.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I need to get organized. We start shooting next week on Clansman 5.’

Her other love. The Clansman. He’d come along right after the Oscar, when she realized that millions of American women got their rocks off at the thought of those mythical bare-chested, kilted heroes of Scottish historical fiction.

The Clansman had been her first novel, penned almost two decades before, when she’d cocooned herself in a tiny Santa Monica apartment during her first year in California. A bestseller, it demanded a sequel, then another. Ten years after she’d written the first book, Mirren wrote the screenplay and persuaded a small studio, Pictor, to buy it. That studio backed a winner. Clansman was now a brand that encompassed novels, merchandise and movies. On Clansman 2, Mirren had persuaded the growing studio to allow her to make her directorial debut and give her production credit. Now Mirren McLean was writer, director and producer on every movie in a series that was a global sensation.

She was now one of the top female earners in the town, rich in everything except maternal satisfaction.

As the courtroom began to clear, Lou leaned in and whispered in her ear, ‘Can I come and leer at Lex Callaghan’s pecs? C’mon, throw an old broad a bone. I can be there any day you like.’

Lex Callaghan. He’d been playing the Clansman since day one, and his fans were a legion that included her best friend.

Mirren’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lou, that’s a totally inappropriate thing to say. We’re in a court, for God’s sake. And he won’t be half naked until week two.’

It was impossible to resist. The humour of their friendship had got her through so many tough moments in the last two decades.

‘Miss McLean, there’s quite a crowd outside. My men will see you to your car.’

She smiled in thanks to the sergeant, a tall, handsome guy with the lean, muscular build of an NBA player, who looked much younger than his rank suggested. It wasn’t lost on her that this was the type of man she would want for her daughter. Strong, streetwise, employed, focused. Was it too much to ask?

As good as his word, the sergeant got her out of the building. There, they were joined by another four officers.

There was a myth that every officer in Beverly Hills was also a member of the Screen Actors Guild. Looking at these guys, Mirren would hedge her bets that it was only the three with the buffed fingernails.

They almost got to the car. Almost.

Later, she wouldn’t be able to remember the paparazzo’s face, only the voice.

The next morning, sitting back at that kitchen table, whisky in her glass, watching the sun come up over the city, the eternal reel of doubt over her skills as a mother and wife had been replaced by a recurring loop of the words she’d heard as she left court.

‘Mirren!’ a vaguely familiar photographer had shouted as she passed by. ‘Do you have any comment on the rumours that Jack is having an affair with Mercedes Dance?’

She hadn’t reacted, aware that it was a common ruse to get a reaction, one that would sell pictures to news desks across the country. An old trick. It meant nothing. Move on, people, nothing to see here.

But now, as dawn broke and she replaced the whisky with coffee, her gut clenched as the phone call she’d been expecting all night finally came.

‘Honey, it’s Lou…’

Chloe was locked up. Only an hour before, Logan had sent a text saying he was just about to go on stage in Miami. So there were only two things that Lou could have discovered that would warrant an early morning call and inject such dread and despair into her friend’s voice. One belonged in the past, had sat on her shoulder since long before Hollywood was her home, and could rip apart her life, her reputation, her career and everything she’d ever achieved. The other lived in the present and came with the prospect of slicing her heart in two. Every instinct told her heart to adopt the brace position.

‘I know,’ she replied. Calm. Serene. Resigned.

‘It’s Jack.’

‘I know.’

‘And Mercedes.’

‘I know.’

‘Mirren, she’s pregnant.’

The pain exploded inside her.

Her career, her reputation and her achievements remained untouched. This was much, much worse.

Her heart began to bleed.

Lou broke the silence. ‘Do you know what you’re going to do?’

Mirren could only manage a whisper. ‘Yes.’

4

ZANDER LEITH

‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ – U2

Malibu, 2013

The curvy, fifty-something nurse trundled towards him, brandishing a cup from the coffee house down the street. Zander knew it would contain a skinny latte with a vanilla twist and three extra espresso shots. His caffeine overdose of choice. He also knew that somehow his coffee-winning manner, combined with a perception that he was a lovely guy who always got the girl/ saved the day/won the war in the movies, may have given this woman a glimmer of hope that the top box-office draw in the country would respond to her daily gift by ravishing her in a very expensive Malibu rehab clinic, sometime between group counselling and having his pee tested to ensure he hadn’t discovered a way to smuggle in a bottle of JD.

Shit like that happened all the time. The groupie who got a friend at the alarm company to disable his house alarm so that she could