The Rise by Shari Low

Author:Shari Low [& Ross King, Shari Low]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

36

‘STAY’ – RIHANNA (FT. MIKKY EKKO)

‘Hey, are you ready?’

Jenny was leaning against the door frame, the halogen lights in his personal closet-come-chill room bouncing off the sequins on her silver Marchesa one-shoulder sheath. He swung round in the leather chair, struck by the contradictions in this scene.

This room contained three walls of designer clothes, a state-of-the-art computer system, a marble bath that had been imported in one piece from a quarry in Italy. In total, that lot cost more than most people made in a lifetime.

In the doorway, one of the most beautiful women in the world, his wife, a gorgeous, funny, warm star who was both smart and successful.

He was about to go to a party, a celebration of ten years of marriage that appeared to the outside world to be a true love match.

It was the stuff dreams were made of.

When he was a kid growing up in Glasgow, he’d have given anything to have this life. Anything at all. He had more than he could ever wish for – except happiness. He had everything, including, he realized, a large dose of self-pity, but he was utterly miserable. Scared. Anxious. This was different from the old days, even the darkest ones, when it seemed like life had gone to shit, because at least then he’d had optimism. Or maybe it was hope. Either way, being at rock bottom was a whole lot easier when he’d had nothing to lose.

Now it could be everything. The career. The family. And if the reporter who had been harassing his mother didn’t give up, he could lose – what, his liberty?

He got up and grabbed his jacket from the hanger on the front of one of the mirrored panels that allowed him to check out his appearance in 360 degrees. The last few weeks of worry, combined with skipping his normal muscle-building regime, had left him looking even trimmer than usual. It suited him. In fact, he’d never looked better. Yep, irony was the gift that just kept on giving.

Engine running, the limo was waiting for them in their huge circular drive, its gleaming bodywork illuminated by the beauty of the fountain that shot jets of water and rays of white light into the night sky.

Davie had long since stopped noticing it.

They climbed into the car, and Jenny automatically reached for the bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé 2002 – always her drink of choice.

‘Soho House, Mr Johnston?’ the driver checked.

‘Indeed.’

The private members’ club had been the obvious venue for tonight’s celebration. Over on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, it was like a tiny British colony in LA, a crowd of UK talent, writers and industry insiders. The only downside was that a reciprocal arrangement with the media haven, Soho House in London, made it a bit of a regular haunt with British journos, but they knew that inside the club they had to keep it discreet and off the record.

Glass in hand, he turned to her. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Ten years.’

She returned the gesture.

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