The Catch: A glamorous thriller from Shari Low and TV's Ross King

PROLOGUE

THE LOMAX OSCAR AFTER-PARTY, BEVERLY HILLS HEIGHTS HOTEL, 2014

‘Hollywood’ – Michael Bublé

It wasn’t your typical Hollywood threesome. No one could take their eyes off them.

All night the official photographers had been firing flashes like strobes in their direction.

The managers, the PRs and the agents who’d kill to have them on their client lists would need a chiropractor to sort out the neck pain caused by keeping them within view no matter which part of the room they moved to. Even the A-list movie stars who demanded all the oxygen in the room, the ones who’d thought of nothing but themselves since their cheap Sunday-best shoes first hit Hollywood tarmac, were fascinated by the trio, who had been inseparable all evening.

Zander Leith. Mirren McLean. Davie Johnston. The actor. The writer. The producer.

Individually they were people to be reckoned with, stellar forces that were circled by lesser beings in an industry that prized profit, power, beauty and talent. In that order. But together they were Hollywood royalty – three childhood friends from Glasgow, Scotland who had won their first Oscar when they were barely in their twenties. Two decades later, they still had the kind of three-in-a-billion careers that others would kill for. They had history, they had a unique connection, and they all shared the knowledge that the very event that created their success could one day bury them.

But not tonight.

Tonight, on the most hallowed of Hollywood occasions, the ballroom at the Beverly Hills Heights Hotel was a glittering collection of industry stars and heroes past and present, of $10,000 suits, beauty queens and billionaires, all gathered at the invitation of Wes Lomax, studio owner and – when it came to making movies – more powerful than God.

There were three other big events in town on that balmy March night in 2014: the Vanity Fair party, Elton John’s AIDS Foundation benefit and, of course, the Governor’s Ball. But it said everything about the power and status of Lomax that the tickets everyone wanted would gain them exclusive entry to his celebration, where they could breathe in the most rarefied atmosphere of all. And if they didn’t get access? Better to leave the country, feign illness or find another career, because if they weren’t seen here, it said they either weren’t big enough or they were over – and those were the two Hollywood crimes that could never be forgiven.

The walls were solid masses of flowers, banks of ornate white roses and lilies rising from floor to ceiling. The chandeliers were glittering crowns on a room filled with jewels, haute couture and enough silicon to fill a valley.

It was manufactured perfection. And it didn’t come any more perfect than the trio at the centre of the star-filled galaxy.

A hundred and ten pounds of former Miss Alabama sashayed past Zander and smiled.

‘Can I get you anything, Mr Leith?’ Her low purr oozed promise, an offer that replicated a million others over the course of his twenty years as the most messed-up but utterly irresistible bad boy of the movie world.

Most of the women in the room would fail a polygraph if they claimed they’d never thought about having a night of passion with Zander Leith. He was the nation’s go-to action hero, the Hollywood personification of sheer down-and-dirty, give-it-to-me-now sex, his physical perfection made all the more attractive because he was totally unaware that when the gorgeous woman at the next table looked at him, all she saw was her next orgasm.

Zander acknowledged Miss Alabama’s offer with a smile that said ‘gentle refusal’.

Not because any of the rumours swirling about his relationship status were true. He’d been linked in the press to everyone from his PA, Hollie, to Madonna.

Tonight he was off the market because he was only here for the beautiful woman beside him in the exquisite blush Dior gown, her Titian curls swept up to emphasize her perfect bone structure, her eyes the same deep shade as the sapphires that glistened in her ears. Mirren’s wide smile didn’t waver as she shared the love with everyone she spoke to, paying grateful thanks to an industry that had just given her yet another small, gold, naked but genital-free statue, this time for original screenplay on the new Clansman box office smash. Clansman was Mirren McLean’s baby. She’d written twelve novels featuring the Scottish hero, penned scripts for five of them, and nailed down a studio deal that now allowed her to direct and produce her own movies.

Her power in this town had grown with every dollar of the hundred million plus that each one had earned at the box office.

‘Hey, don’t let me stop you,’ Mirren murmured, having caught both the blatant offer and the subtle refusal in her peripheral vision. Zander’s green eyes crinkled at the side as he returned her smile and Mirren realised she’d never seen him looking this good. The months off booze and drugs had been good for him, as had the training regime for his next movie, the seventh in the Dunhill spy series. There was no danger of a Bond-like scenario in which the leading man was replaced every few years.

Zander still had it.

A couple of inches over six feet, he had the craggy good looks, the action-hero jawline, which contrasted with a disarming grin that made even the staunchest resolve crumble. His blond hair, naturally wavy, curled over the collar of his shirt, a captivating contrast to the formality of his Tom Ford suit.

On the other side of Mirren, Davie Johnston leaned into the centre of the triumvirate and joked in hushed, serious tones. ‘She only gave you that come-on because I’d knocked her back.’ They laughed, the irony not lost on any of them. On any other day, Davie Johnston was a catch. Multi-millionaire producer, a serious power player and physically cute. Yep, cute. Tom Cruise-short, Bradley Cooper curls, Michael J. Fox grin, Simon Cowell ego – all of which was elevated to ‘A-list desirability’ by the fact that he was Davie Johnston, the man who could turn any nobody into a star.

‘Oh fuck, ex-wife at nine o’clock,’ Davie muttered. ‘Brace yourselves for incoming hostility.’ The others immediately went to movie-star DEFCON 1 – wide smiles, utterly fake but convincing, designed to disarm the two approaching females. Jenny Rico, Davie’s ex-wife, tall, dark-haired goddess, star of the crime drama Streets of Power, holding hands with her co-star on the show and co-recipient of the hottest woman on earth award, Darcy Jay.

Sadly for Davie, what had started off as an occasional threesome had ended in a permanent coupling for the two women. Penis not required. It was a relief when the ambush was halted by a drum roll emitting from the speakers at the front of the room. The overhead lights dimmed, allowing two spotlights to focus on Wes Lomax, a sixty-something deity, who was deigning to address the crowd, fully aware that half the room were devotees who worshipped at his temple of power and the other half despised him. Welcome to Hollywood.

A hush descended.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to say a few words.’ His smug grin enhanced by the combination of attention and the growing sensation inside his Gucci trousers, caused by the Viagra he’d popped an hour before. ‘I’d like to congratulate all you guys out there who were winners tonight. Even the ones who weren’t in my movies.’

Cue sycophantic laughter from the audience.

‘… and it was a great night for Lomax. Best Movie…’ He paused to wait for the obligatory cheer. ‘Best Supporting actor and actress…’

Another round of congratulatory adulation.

‘And finally, the pinnacle of excellence, Best Producer…’

More applause as the flush of his face made an even stronger contrast to his thick mane of impeccably coiffed white hair.

‘But tonight, another member of the Lomax family is going home with the gold. A returning member. Many years ago, Lomax Films gave this lady her first break. Over the last two decades I’ve tried to persuade her to come back home, but, well, she played hard to get. And you all know how well I deal with rejection.’

His faux self-deprecating grin set off another round of amused, exaggerated laughs.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to announce a new partnership. Tonight, Mirren McLean, author, director, producer and Oscar winner for the second time for Best Original Screenplay, will be rejoining Lomax Films and will make the next two Clansman movies here… Where she belongs.’

The vibrations from the thunderous applause made the trays of champagne glasses on the bar tremble. Mirren, smiling widely, nodded her thanks to her peers, then blew a kiss to the beaming man on the stage.

Davie Johnston’s breath was hot in her ear as he whispered, ‘Did you know he was gonna do that?’

Still grinning at the flashing camera bulbs, Mirren barely moved her lips. ‘Not a clue,’ she hissed. ‘Ink’s barely bloody dry.’

Zander leaned in for a congratulatory kiss. ‘You OK?’

Still smiling, Mirren squeezed his arm. ‘I am… But I’ll love you forever if you get me out of here.’

It was all she had to say.

They knew. The three of them shared a silent language that they’d learned as children back in Glasgow. A glance. A nod. A frown. They knew each other inside out, and they knew it all: what they’d risked, what they’d shared and what they’d done to get here. Only they knew that their real story would blow their high-action thrillers and epic dramas out of the water.

It took them an hour to work their way to the exit, doing the standard shake-and-fake, pressing flesh and saying all the right things along the way – even if it was utterly insincere.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Marti. Yep, we gotta get something in the pipeline.’

‘Leo, you were sensational. I’m a huge fan.’

‘Will, you’re too kind. Of course, it’s the Clansman team that deserve this, not me.’

When they finally made it outside, it was nudging 2 a.m., but there was still a crowd of paparazzi and fans behind the cordons on the other side of the street. An explosion of flashes heralded their arrival. Still on show, keep smiling.

Mirren spoke to the valet. ‘The McLean limo, please.’

At the same moment, one of the other valets grinned at Davie. ‘Mr Johnston, your car is on the way. I radioed ahead for it.’

Davie shook his hand in thanks, leaving a hundred-dollar bill on the man’s palm.

‘Bunking off so soon?’

For the first time tonight, Mirren’s smile was genuine as she turned to see Lex Callaghan, the handsome star of her Clansman movies, a protective arm slung casually around the shoulders of his wife, Cara.

Mirren embraced them both. ‘Babe, you get more gorgeous every day,’ she told Cara. It felt like the first real thing she’d said all night. Cara was stunning – Native American roots had given her long, dark hair that fell in soft waves to the small of her back and required no adornment other than the sprinkling of ruby flowers around her left ear. Her face was perfection, with high cheekbones and a full mouth that softened her slate-grey eyes, which held far more compassion and wisdom than anyone Mirren knew. This was a rare trip off the Santa Barbara ranch for Cara, who preferred to shun the limelight and concentrate on running her equine therapy centre for those damaged by drugs, alcohol or any of life’s cruelties.

It made Mirren’s heart soar to see Cara with Lex, the heart-thudding, butch leading man in both their lives. For Mirren, it was purely professional. Since the moment he’d walked into the casting office a decade before, he’d been her Clansman, the Highland hero who defended lands and honour in sixteenth-century Scotland in five consecutive movies.

But when he left the set, he was all Cara’s. He eschewed the celebrity circuit and banalities of fame, and headed home to the wife he adored. They had a true love story. They’d been together since they were sixteen and he’d once told Mirren he had never doubted for a moment that he and Cara had mated for life.

It was more than a happy ending. It was hope for all of them. ‘I’m dragging him away, Mirren, sorry.’ They both knew that Cara’s words were in jest. Lex hated these staged events and Mirren had to coax him into coming along to occasions that millions would give anything to attend. He’d accepted his invitation to tonight’s ceremony an hour before the deadline, and only then because Mirren had threatened – jokingly – to replace him with Hugh Jackman in Clansman 6.

The flashes and the audible excitement on the other side of the road still permeated the air. The spectators would be dining out on this for months and the paps would already be spending the pay cheque they’d get for these shots. McLean, Johnston, Leith and Callaghan shooting the breeze – cash in the bank for the photographer who got the best image.

Davie’s Bentley slid round the corner and came to a stop in front of him. Not that he’d driven here himself. Oh no. No one drove to the Oscars. He’d sent the driver away when they arrived at the Lomax ball, deciding to stick to just a couple of drinks and then chauffeur himself home. Sometimes he just liked to drive alone late at night. Clear his head. Think things through. And right now, he had a lot to think about. Immediately behind the Bentley, Mirren and Zander’s car slid into position. One of the valets stopped speaking into a walkie-talkie and sighed. Shit. How come he had to be the one to deliver bad news? ‘Mr Callaghan, I’m afraid your limo will be another ten minutes – it’s just manoeuvring out of the gridlock at the end of the drive.’

‘Told you we should have brought a horse,’ Lex quipped to the group. Another pay cheque for the pap who caught the spontaneous laughter.

‘Jump in with us and we’ll give you a lift,’ Mirren immediately offered.

Lex put his hand up to protest, but Cara stopped him. ‘Callaghan, don’t you dare refuse. You’re not standing here in six-inch heels that have left you with no feeling in your feet for the last hour.’

‘But we’re heading north,’ Lex stated. ‘Opposite direction from you guys.’

Davie stepped forward with the obvious solution, addressing Mirren and Zander. ‘Why don’t you two come with me and I’ll drop you home? If you behave, we’ll get drive-through,’ he joked.

Mirren nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ She turned back to Lex and Cara. ‘And then you guys can just take our limo. Wes Lomax is paying for it, so be sure to clock up the miles.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Tijuana,’ Cara shrugged, laughing. Mirren giggled, then suddenly realised that it was a long time since she’d heard that noise coming from her lips. She didn’t even care that by dawn the snaps of Zander’s arm around her shoulders would have the world speculating that they were a couple. By lunchtime they’d be engaged, and by supper she’d be pregnant with his twins.

Kisses, hugs and handshakes were exchanged, before Lex and Cara headed to the limo, while Mirren, Zander and Davie stepped towards the Bentley, thanking the valet, who had the doors open and waiting for them. Zander gestured to Mirren to take the front passenger seat.

The buzz across the street ramped up a notch as the paps fought to shoot off a last image and the civilian spectators screeched down their phones to their friends, describing the star-studded scene in front of them, desperately seizing a moment of reflected glory just by their proximity to a group of strangers they felt they knew intimately.

Only one stood utterly still, eyes trained forward, face impassive.

Lex and Cara entered the limo, and the doors closed. Davie joked about his new career as a chauffeur as he pulled on his seatbelt in the Bentley.

Zander sighed with relief that he’d got through a night without slipping a waiter a hundred dollars to procure him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Mirren gathered the hem of her blush-coloured gown as she stepped into her seat, grateful that a night that had come with immeasurable risk was over without incident. They’d done it. Made it through.

Behind them, the limo driver restarted his engine.

Davie put his foot on the gas, heard a cry, looked around. A woman running towards him, clutching a bag, pulling something from it.

He froze.

Neither car moved, yet there was an earth-trembling bang. A blinding flash. The ripping of metal. Screams.

In a split second their world exploded.

Then all that was left was a deafening silence.

In that devastating instant, one heart stopped beating.

And then another.

1

SIRENS AND SCREAMS

Live Report Breaking News – Los Angeles

‘I’m Myla Rivera, live here on CXY 5, coming to you from the Lomax Academy Awards after party, as we bring you the horrific breaking news that there has been an explosion outside the Beverly Hills Heights Hotel. The incident happened as the stars celebrated the biggest night of awards season. Details are sketchy right now, but I can tell you that there are reports of casualties, and police are looking at the possibility of a terrorist attack, with claims that this could be the work of a suicide bomber.’

2

DAVIE JOHNSTON

Two Months Earlier Los Angeles, Jan 2014

‘Uptown Funk’ – Mark Ronson & Bruno Mars

‘OK, Davie, final soundcheck and then we’re ready to go.’

The voice in his ear was female, warm and professional, right up until the moment it barked, ‘And stop fucking rearranging your balls. You did it twice in rehearsals. Middle America will have a stroke if you do that live on air.’

Davie grinned as he gave the camera in front of him the finger, eliciting a raucous chuckle in his earpiece.

Mellie Santos was a notorious pain in the ass, brutally honest, toe-curlingly impolite and a self-proclaimed ill-tempered bitch, but she had been his first choice for producer and director of his new talk show, Here’s Davie Johnston, because she was the best.

This was uncharted waters for him. After years of producing reality-TV hits, he was stepping in front of the camera again, but this time without a script.

But the biggest twist? It was all going to be live.

Fuck it, if he was going to do it, he might as well do it with a risk factor that made his aforementioned balls retreat into his body in fear.

Live. It was crazy. Insane. The only other talk show that went out in real time was The Elaine Show, but that dealt with the risky unpredictability by sticking to the fluffy stuff: stars plugging their own movies, or spinning a good news story aimed at winning hearts.

That wasn’t what Davie was after.

For the last decade he’d been the most successful producer of reality shows in the nation and now he had three in the top ten.

The Dream Machine was a sentimental slushfest that made ordinary people’s wishes come true and left the viewing nation sobbing into their Saturday-night pizzas.

Then there was Beauty and the Beats, a fly-on-the-wall show following the lives of Carmella Cass, an eccentric, explosive supermodel and Jizzo Stacks, an ageing rock god. A monster ratings hit, it was currently sitting in the number two position in the ratings.

Of course, American Stars was still number-one prime-time gold, giving a smug V-sign of triumph to the runners-up, The Voice and American Idol. His production company owned the rights, so it added several zeros to his bank balance every year. For the first few seasons, he’d presented the show, but a blip of crap publicity last year had seen him dropped from the screen. Giving the network the final say on who presented it probably hadn’t been his best move. At the first sign of trouble, they’d dumped him without hesitation.

Last year, his marriage had imploded, he’d faced a landslide of negative press, and he’d had more rocky career moments than Sylvester Stallone.

The fickle world of fame had given him a metaphorical kicking.

But that was then, and things could flip on a dime in Tinseltown.

After a few lucky breaks, a major public redemption campaign, and plenty of carefully pre-planned, deliberately choreographed humility for the cameras, he was on fire yet again, and, man, he deserved it.

He was back on the current series of American Stars as a judge, airing Tuesday nights, and he’d be on the screen from Wednesday through to Sunday with Here’s Davie Johnston. And the cherry on top, the confirmation that all his sins had been forgiven, was the announcement that he’d been booked to co-present the Oscars in two month’s time.

World domination was just around the corner.

Mellie’s voice was barking instructions in his ear again. ‘OK, Davie, are you ready? Cutting to camera one. Jenny and Darcy are in the wings. People, listen up and don’t fuck up. Just don’t dare. We’re going live in ten, nine, eight…’

A cramping sensation took hold in his stomach, while an irrepressible grin hijacked his face. This was it. The network had trailed this show to death, and the advertised guests would have viewers clicking on in their millions.

It helped that there was a bit of strategic cross-pollination.

The first half of the show was finally going to deliver the interview the TV fans of the world had been waiting for: Davie Johnston, his ex-wife, Jenny Rico, and her current lover, Darcy Jay.

The second half was switching it up, with Jizzo Stacks and Carmella Cass, the stars of Beauty and the Beats. With any luck, they’d have stopped on the way to do a few lines and a bottle of Jack, and they’d be as messed up and unpredictable as always. Viewers lapped that stuff up. Those two were the more outrageous versions of the Osbournes. Think love children of Oliver Reed and Joan Rivers. On steroids. After a three-day bender. Davie adjusted his shirt collar – pale blue, no tie; it was the outfit that had scored highest with the test audiences. The lights in the studio dimmed and a ripple of anticipation ran through the audience.

This was it.

Three, two, one and cue the announcer’s bellow of ‘Heeeeeeeeeeeere’s Davie Johnston!’

The spotlights flooded the stage, then settled on Davie, standing front and centre against a midnight backdrop of stars. To his left, Cain Canning fronted his band, singing a funked-up soul hit that had been top of the Billboard chart for the last week. None of the standard, cop-out, house-band crap for this show. Davie wanted stars. Stars playing the opening, stars on the sofa, stars begging him for screen time. Whatever it took, he was going to make this the one show no one wanted to miss. And he wanted the two Jimmys, Fallon and Kimmel, to form a posse and kill for his ratings.

Cute grin, feigned modesty, gracious acceptance of applause. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Welcome to the show.’

More thunderous applause. The warm-up guy had them practically jumping off their chairs – a plus-factor in getting them up on their feet for the mandatory standing ovation. They liked those in this town. A waiter making a great job of reciting the specials could get a whole room on its feet.

Davie rolled straight into the introductions: another stipulation when they were planning the show. There were to be no self-serving, ego-stroking, bullshit opening monologue. Let’s face it, nobody cared. No one wanted to listen to some overpaid host telling shit jokes his writing team had spent three days coming up with. Nope, straight into the action.

‘And here tonight, my first two guests… And incidentally, the fee for this appearance will be deducted from this month’s alimony cheque…’

The laughter was loud and genuine.

‘Please welcome the stars of the sexiest cop show on TV, my beautiful ex-wife, Jenny Rico, and her gorgeous partner, on and off screen, Darcy Jay!’

With flair, elan and a beaming smile, he stepped to the side, right arm stretched to welcome his first guests. He could see Jenny, just off stage, smoothing down the front of her leather trousers and adjusting her cleavage to the point of voluminous perfection. Darcy was dressed in a more tailored style, in black crêpe pencil trousers and a tuxedo jacket that fastened with one button over what looked like a naked torso. He could absolutely see why this woman turned his wife on.

The roar of the audience escalated to fever pitch as the three of them met and hugged like one big happy family. Which they were. One big happy, bitchy, malicious, back-biting family.

The truth was, he wanted them on the show premiere, but they needed it as much as he did. Since they’d gone public with their relationship, the reaction had been lukewarm, and ratings had wobbled on Streets of Power.

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