The Show (33 page)

‘So,’ said Paul, ‘you’ve got your first big meeting on Tuesday. NBC. You prepared?’

‘You know me. I’m always prepared,’ Macy beamed. ‘I would have preferred to have Eddie with me. He’s great at this stuff. But, you know, under the circumstances …’

‘How is he?’ Paul Meyer knew all about the scandal involving Sir Eddie Wellesley’s wife. It hadn’t made the news stateside, but anything that affected Meyer’s clients affected him. ‘I always liked that guy.’

‘Me too,’ said Macy. ‘I haven’t spoken to him, but I hear he’s OK. Staying with Annabel.’

Meyer raised an eyebrow. In Hollywood people got divorced because their wife put the wrong number of shots in their latte.

‘True love, huh?’

‘I guess,’ said Macy. ‘Laura Baxter’s flying out to take the meetings with me.’

The look on her face told Paul Meyer all he needed to know about Macy’s feelings towards
Valley Farm
’s creator. He quickly changed the subject.

‘So, can I see the rock?’

Macy stopped and held out her left hand. The diamond was suitably impressive, but Paul couldn’t help but notice that she seemed less than enthusiastic about showing it off, or discussing her engagement.

‘Gorgeous,’ he observed. ‘He’s a cricket player, right?’

Macy nodded. ‘He’s a big deal in England. The David Beckham of the cricket world.’

‘Nice. You happy?’

‘Of course,’ she said, an edge of irritation creeping into her voice.

‘When’s the wedding?’

She shrugged. ‘This year some time. Probably summer, but it depends what happens this week. Work commitments come first.’

‘Does Becks know that?’ Paul joked.

‘His name’s James. And yes, he does. He’s marrying a career woman.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘No buts,’ said Macy. ‘He’ll have to take me as he finds me.’

Another group of runners cruised past them, the third in as many minutes. Not one of them gave Macy a second glance. She pouted at her agent.

‘I’m invisible here now, aren’t I? Everyone’s forgotten me.’

Paul Meyer gave her an indulgent look. All his clients were insecure, but Macy Johanssen was one of the few whose vulnerability he found endearing.

‘It’s been a while. But that will all change once we get you a US deal for
Valley Farm
.’

‘
If
we get a deal,’ Macy said gloomily.

‘Excuse me? That’s not the Macy Johanssen I know. Of course you’ll get a deal! Two beautiful chicks like you and Laura Baxter? You’ll have those network suits eating out of your hands like bunnies at a petting zoo.’

‘Hmmm.’ Macy sounded unconvinced.

‘Besides which, it’s a great format, it really is,’ said Paul. ‘A California version of
Valley Farm
would go down a storm here. It’s totally fresh. You’ll have a bidding war on your hands in no time, believe me.’

Macy smiled. She loved Paul Meyer. Out of all her Hollywood and TV friends, she was the only one who actually trusted her agent. Paul had the same ability to lift her up and make her feel good about herself that Eddie had. It was why she’d wanted so badly for Eddie to be here for these pitch meetings. Not because she needed her hand held. But because Eddie’s presence always made her a better version of herself.

‘Come on.’ She clapped Paul on the back with exaggerated heartiness. ‘One last sprint to the top of the ridge and I’ll buy you lunch.’

In the event, they passed on lunch. Paul had an urgent appointment with a shower, followed by another with a movie actress who would not tolerate being kept waiting.

Macy swung by Lemonade on Beverly for her favourite poached salmon and kale salad, before driving back up Doheny to Sunset and then on to Laurel Canyon. By a rare stroke of luck, her little house in the hills was between tenants, which meant she could stay at home rather than a hotel.

It was lovely to be back, amid her familiar pictures and furniture and books. But it was also weird. Jarring. As if something were not quite right, not quite as it should be. It had taken her a full day to realize that the thing that was different was her. When she’d left this house only a year ago, England had been a strange and unknown country and Macy had been a single woman with no more thought of settling down than a seed blowing carelessly on the wind. Now England was almost as much her home as Los Angeles, and she was preparing to marry one of its most famous native sons.

She told herself that these were all good things. Wonderful things. That soon she would re-establish her career in the States, too, and that somehow she and James would make their transatlantic careers work, and it would all be perfect and she would live happily ever after. But there was a part of her, deep inside, that hadn’t got the script. For some reason she couldn’t quite grasp, being in this house seemed to feed that part.

Settling down at her dining table, a rustic beauty from Restoration Hardware, she pushed her doubts aside as she wolfed down her Lemonade lunch. All the exercise and fresh air had left her famished, and food like this simply didn’t exist in England, for all Jamie Oliver’s efforts. Opening the screen doors to her rear deck, she allowed the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and newly mown grass to waft into the room. The combined pleasure-bomb of the delicious food and warm breeze quickly banished any lingering negativity. Once she’d finished her meal and cleared her plate away, sated and happy, it occurred to her she probably ought to shower. Peeling off her Lululemon jogging pants, she padded upstairs in her underwear.

Bathrooms. That was something else the Brits hadn’t got quite right. In England, the expression ‘power shower’ meant anything that turned on and produced water, and you were lucky if you got even that. Most homes in the Swell Valley, including Cranbourne House, still had iron baths with separate taps that either scalded or froze you to death, depending on which you turned on first. Standing now on her gleaming, porcelain-tiled floor, while hundreds of hot jets of water pounded down mercilessly onto her aching muscles, Macy closed her eyes in pure delight. The sensation was so wonderful, it took her a full fifteen minutes to drag herself out and get dry. If she didn’t have so much work still to do to prepare for the NBC meeting, not to mention a string of emails from Laura that demanded replies, she could happily have stood in that shower all day.

As it was she dried off, slathered herself in Ole Henriksen grapefruit body lotion and slipped on a purple silk robe that barely covered her groin and hung open loosely across her breasts. There was no one here to see it, but the touch of the soft silk against her bare skin always made her feel sexy. Maybe she’d keep it on for her Skype call with James later? Or take it off. It was odd how the times she most wanted sex with him were the times he was thousands of miles away.

Skipping back down to the living room, she reached the bottom of the stairs and froze.

There was someone in the house. A man.

At first she thought she’d imagined the tall, dark figure moving past the deck. But then she saw him clearly, stepping through the open glass doors, looking around him stealthily, no doubt for something to steal. He wore jeans and a hooded top, but Macy could see from his hands that he was black.

How could she have been so stupid, leaving the doors open? This was Hollywood, not Fittlescombe. He hadn’t seen her yet. Crouching back into the shadows, Macy grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the side table in the hall. He was facing away from her now, bending down over her desk. With a strength and speed born of pure terror, Macy launched herself at him with a wild, war-like shriek, her raised arm brandishing the glass ashtray like a hand grenade.

The man spun around, a look of panic on his face.

‘Stop! Please!’ He just had time to cover his head with his arms before the glass came crashing down, missing his skull but painfully slamming into his wrists.

‘Get OUT!’ Macy roared, lifting the ashtray for a second strike as the man yelped in pain. ‘Get out of my house, you asshole!’

This time he reacted more quickly. Lunging to one side, he reached out and grabbed Macy’s arm forcefully, easily knocking the ashtray out of her hand. The next thing he knew he had his hands full of wriggling silk as she lashed out wildly, kicking, biting and scratching like a deranged cat. A manicured fingernail clawed at his cheek, drawing blood.

‘Please! I’m not here to hurt you. The door was open!’

Macy continued lashing out blindly.

‘I’m a lawyer. I represent your father. Per Johanssen.’

Macy stopped hitting him. Nervously, the man let go of her. She stepped back, pulling her robe more tightly around her and looked at him, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘You don’t look like a lawyer.’

‘What do lawyers look like?’ he asked.

‘They wear suits.’

‘Not on the weekend.’ He risked a smile and extended his hand. ‘Austin Jamet.’

Macy shook his hand but did not return the smile. On closer inspection he did not look much like a housebreaker. His skin was smooth and coffee coloured, and freshly shaven that morning. He had a full mouth and playful dark brown eyes and his hands were manicured to perfection. The hoodie, she noticed now, was made from very fine-weave summer cashmere.

‘I have a doorbell, Mr Jamet.’

‘Austin.’ He was still smiling, rather unnervingly. ‘I know you do. I rang it, repeatedly. There was no answer.’

‘I was in the shower.’

‘So I see.’

Macy ran a hand angrily through her wet hair.

‘I’m sorry I scared you,’ he went on. ‘But when I saw the rear doors were open, I figured—’

‘You’d barge in uninvited?’

‘I have something important to deliver to you, Miss Johanssen. I realized this might be my only chance.’

‘If it’s from my father, it’s not important to me,’ said Macy. ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

The familiar Skype ringtone prevented the lawyer from answering. Macy disappeared into the kitchen. Austin Jamet could hear she was talking to a boyfriend. There were lots of ‘babys’ and ‘sweethearts’ being thrown around. Almost too many.

‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he heard Macy cooing. ‘I miss you too, soooo much. But I have a situation here … I’ll call you right back. Uh-huh. Of course I do.’

She hung up.

Returning to the living room, she looked in an even worse mood than before.

‘You’re aware I have a restraining order against my father?’

‘I am.’

‘Forbidding him to contact me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘I’m not your father, Miss Johanssen. I’m his attorney. The order doesn’t extend to legal representatives.’

Macy sighed. ‘Look, Mr Jamet …’

‘Austin.’

‘Mr Jamet. There is nothing that Per Johanssen has to say to me that I want to hear.’

‘I understand that. But there are things you don’t know. Things that, if you
did
know them, might make you think differently.’

‘Think differently about what?’ asked Macy.

‘A lot of things.’

Pulling out a business card, the lawyer scribbled something down on the back of it and handed it to her.

Macy’s eyes widened. She started to laugh. ‘Mr Jamet, I am not having dinner with you.’

He smiled back at her. ‘Table’s at eight. My name. I can see myself out.’

Nobu Malibu had to have one of the most stunning locations of any restaurant in the world.

Perched just feet above the Pacific Ocean, surrounded by swaying palms and white sand, diners on the sleek outdoor deck could watch passing pods of dolphins leap and play for their amusement as they sipped at their cocktails, while a bruised purple sun bled into the horizon. Flames from the fire pits danced in the darkness, while inside the finest Japanese food was being lovingly prepared by the best sushi chefs outside of Tokyo.

Macy had arrived early, thanks to an Uber driver who was clearly a frustrated Formula 1 wannabe and had torn down Pacific Coast Highway like a bullet. Now, sitting alone at a table overlooking the ocean, staring at the single white orchid and tea-light candle in front of her and sipping on sake, she began to wonder what on earth had possessed her to show up tonight.

It was true she’d always been a sucker for the confident approach. Austin Jamet’s assurance that she would meet him for dinner was almost a dare. A thrown-down gauntlet that Macy simply had to pick up. But it wasn’t as if this were a date. She was with James now, well and truly spoken for. And Jamet was her father’s attorney, which made him something close to an enemy, at least on paper.

Macy didn’t like the idea that perhaps it was this that had prompted her to slip on a simple, grey Calvin Klein cocktail dress and Jonathan Kelsey heels and impulsively tap the Uber X app on her phone. That there might be a part of her that was curious about this message, whatever it was, that Per Johanssen was so desperate to give her. Something so important that an attorney would show up at her home, uninvited, on a Saturday, to try to deliver.

She was curious about Austin Jamet, too. What sort of a lawyer gave up his weekends to do his client’s bidding, and break every known professional boundary in the process? Didn’t Austin have a wife? A family? What would he have been doing tonight if he weren’t having dinner with her?

The questions were still rolling through Macy’s brain like tumbleweed when she saw him, weaving through the tables towards her with the same smile he’d had at her house this afternoon. He was even better-looking this evening in a pale blue linen shirt and khakis, like a preppy Jamie Foxx. Macy noticed that quite a few women stopped or acknowledged him as he passed. All the young, beautiful ones, basically. The ones with tiny shorts and sheets of waist-length blonde hair and long tanned legs like perfect sticks of caramel.

Not married
, thought Macy,
but he definitely has a life of his own.

‘You came!’

He seemed genuinely delighted to see her.

‘I have no idea why,’ said Macy.

‘Doesn’t matter why,’ said Austin. ‘You’re here. Let’s order. We have a lot to talk about.’

Macy felt a twinge of disappointment at his business-like tone, followed by annoyance at herself for feeling it. This wasn’t a date, for heaven’s sake.