Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
Etta Grodinski from the Bronx.
Karen Lancaster from Beverly Hills.
A scream rose in her throat which she stifled, although many a therapist had told her to let it all out.
“That . . . that . . . cunt!” she hissed.
That cunt with those awful nipples.
“That cheating, stealing bitch!” she yelled out loud. “Just who does she think she is?”
A man in the car beside her stared.
“What are you looking at?” she raged, and sent the Mercedes rocketing off down Sunset heading for Bel-Air and Bibi Sutton. Because, whatever else, she wouldn’t dream of letting Bibi down. A royal audience was a royal audience. And nothing would make her blow that.
• • •
Angel’s silence had unnerved Buddy to such a degree that to even think about it sent him into a total panic. So he blanked out on the subject of Street People and the role of Vinnie. He even stopped calling Inga seventeen times a day. He settled for once—in the morning at precisely eleven o’clock. Then he would ask tersely, “Any news?” and she would try to keep him on the phone because since their date she loved him madly, even though nothing had happened—no fault of hers. Once he heard the doom words—“No news, but you’re still being considered”—he just hung up. All he wanted to do was run.
And run he did. Literally. He bought himself a good pair of jogging shoes and covered Sunset from Doheny to Fairfax and back. Every morning. It felt good channeling his excess energy that way. Stripped to a brief pair of white shorts he had never looked better. He was lean and tanned, his body a sleek oiled machine.
Only Angel wasn’t around to see it. She had dumped him like a sack of old garbage.
After two weeks of silence, Shelly told him that Angel had called with a message. “She doesn’t want to see you again, she’s had an abortion, met some guy, and you, Buddy Boy, are out of her life forever. She made me swear to be sure to tell you forever.”
He was shocked. He did not believe that Angel could be so harsh. “Didn’t you get her phone number? Or at least find out where she’s living?” he demanded angrily.
“What am I—a message service?” Shelly retorted. “I’m tellin’ you, man. She just wanted out. O—U—T.”
He almost slept with Shelly that night. He was stoned and she was there, coming on to him strong as usual. She took off her clothes to the throb of Donna Summer and danced around in front of him. She did have a great body, but that’s all it was—just another great body.
She sank to her knees in front of him and fiddled with the belt on his jeans, but she didn’t excite him. The hurt of Angel running out and getting rid of his baby penetrated the grass and the coke. He just felt empty. He didn’t want anyone except Angel.
“You’re crazy,” Shelly stormed. “What are you—gay or something?” Turndowns were not a regular feature of her life.
He stayed at Randy’s, hoping for the big break, and missing Angel.
Shelly did not hold a grudge for long. “I’ll get you one of these days,” she joked. “Guess I’ve just gotta keep hangin’ in, huh?”
Money he borrowed from them equally. Shelly was reasonably good-natured about it, but Randy finally blew when he tried to hit him for yet another fifty.
“Come on, man. I’m not a freakin’ bank. I need every buck I got to keep this thing with Maralee going. If she thinks I don’t have shit she’ll run.”
He nodded, understanding only too well. Maralee Sanderson was Randy’s shot at the big time, and after a lifetime of hustling maybe old Rand deserved a taste of the good life.
Reluctantly he could see he was going to have to get himself some sort of a job until he heard about the test. Having made that decision, he put on his only clean shirt, persuaded Shelly to press his black gabardine pants, and finished off the outfit with his white Armani jacket—courtesy of Jason Swankle.
Once dressed, he took himself off to see Frances Cavendish in the hope she would have something for him.
“Hey, Francie,” he breezed, walking into her office as if he had seen her only the day before.
She leaned back in her brown leather chair and surveyed him carefully from head to toe. “Well, well,” she said slowly. “Look what the Santa Anas blew in off the street. I thought you were dead.”
He frowned. “Huh?”
“An unseen actor is a dead actor in my book.”
“You’re seein’ me now.”
She squinted over her glasses. “And looking quite fit, I’m glad to say.”
“I’ve been running a lot.”
“It suits you.”
There was a long silence, which she did not seem inclined to break.
He cleared his throat. “So what’s happening, Francie?” “For God’s sake do not call me Francie.”
She had changed her rhinestone-trimmed glasses for heavy horn-rims, and now she looked more mannish than ever with her close-cropped gray hair and masculine suit—too heavy for California by far, but one of her famous trademarks. She unlocked a side drawer in her desk and produced her other famous trademark, a battered roach holder into which she fitted a joint. She lit up, dragged, then offered it across the desk. “Still married?” she inquired brusquely.
Instinct gave him the right answer as he drew deeply on the cigarette. “Nope.”
“Good. Marriage didn’t suit you. I’ve got a job for you. A low-budget horror epic for which you will be just right. Two weeks. Scale. You want it?”
He nodded, afraid to mention Street People in case he jinxed himself. “When?”
“Universal. Next Monday.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“So it should.” She retrieved the roach and hung on to it. One drag was apparently all he was going to get. But one drag was better than none at all.
“Are you available tonight?” she asked abruptly.
In the past he had escorted Frances to a couple of boring award dinners, and an evening on the town with her eighty-six-year-old mother. He had no plans to do any more escort duty. On the other hand, the picture at Universal probably hinged on whether he was free or not. “Yeah, I’m available,” he decided.
“Good,” she said crisply. “Ross Conti is having a party for George Lancaster and Pamela London. Pick me up at seven-fifteen promptly. You remember my address.”
It wasn’t a question, more a statement. He nodded, delighted to be going to a big party—even if it was with Frances.
“Oh, and dear,” she added, “wear something decent. Right now you look like one of those male hookers cruising the Polo Lounge.”
He tried not to scowl. What did she know, anyway? If it was descriptions she wanted he could truthfully say she reminded him of a female Rodney Dangerfield.
Cheered by that thought, he said, “Seven-fifteen, then.” And made his exit.
• • •
Oliver Easterne absentmindedly emptied out the ashtray in which Montana’s cigarette lay smoldering.
“Oliver!” she complained sharply. “I was still smoking that.”
“What?”
“My cigarette!” She turned to Neil with an expression of disbelief.
Neil was more interested in the glass of bourbon he was nursing.
Oliver scrabbled in the basket to put the offending cigarette out.
The three of them sat in Oliver’s spotless office. It was eleven in the morning, and they were awaiting the arrival of George Lancaster. He was already an hour late.
Oliver and Neil both knew him well, but Montana had never met him. She was excited in a funny sort of a way—after all, she had grown up with George Lancaster. He had always been there, a familiar face on the big screen and in the fan magazines. George Lancaster, John Wayne, Robert Mitchum. At thirteen she had nurtured a crush on all of them. Now things were different. She had written a movie, and George was all set to star in it. Unfortunately she did not consider him to be a very good actor, and the role of Mac in the film was so important. But George Lancaster e
Besides, with George starring, as Oliver said, they could use anyone they liked for the two other leading roles. And she liked Buddy Hudson. And so did Neil and Oliver after they saw the reaction of several secretaries she invited into the screening room when they ran his test.
“He may not be the greatest actor in the world—but he comes across like instant sex. He’s pure Vinnie,” she explained.
Neil said, “You don’t have to convince me. I like him.”
Oliver agreed, while still fretting about the fact that he could not find the girl on the beach he wanted for Nikki. She appeared to have vanished, and so after abandoning the idea of Gina, they had tested several other actresses for the role, and a couple of them were excellent. It was now a question of convincing Oliver to forget about his beach nymphet and make a decision.
The fact that George Lancaster had been signed was an extremely well-kept secret. “We want maximum press coverage,” Oliver kept on saying. “When George hits town it’s going to be an event. And when we call a press conference to make the announcement, it’s worldwide headlines.”
George had hit town late the previous evening. And Oliver was delighted. George Lancaster starring in his first movie for seven years. Street People— an Oliver Easterne Production. The suckers would be lining up to invest in his future projects.
A buzzer sounded on Oliver’s desk, and the flustered voice of his secretary announced, “Mr. Lancaster is here.”
Before she could finish saying “here” the door was flung open and George Lancaster made his entrance.
He was larger than life. Tall, bronzed, rugged. A true old-fashioned film star.
Oliver rushed into a welcoming speech. Neil didn’t bother to get up. Montana stood, and waited for Oliver to stop crawling and introduce her. Naturally Oliver was too busy doing his Big Producer number to bother with introductions.
No slouch in the height stakes, standing near George Lancaster made Montana feel positively small. She waited until Oliver paused for breath, then she stuck her hand out and said, “Hello. I’m Montana Gray.”
He almost ignored her, not quite. She got a fleeting handshake and a brief, “I’m gasping for a cup of coffee, little lady.”
He thought she was an assistant, a secretary, just some female there to see to his every need! Oliver did nothing to correct this impression, he just kept right on talking.
“I’m Montana Gray,” she repeated. “I wrote Street People.”
George favored her with another quick look. “You did? My, my, things are sure changing around here. I could still use that coffee, little lady.”
She did not believe it. No way. Who the fuck did this aging macho man think he was?
“Then I suggest,” she said icily, “that you have Oliver’s secretary get it for you.”
Her iciness had absolutely no effect. He greeted Neil, told a few off-color jokes, strode around the office with Oliver nervously dogging his every step.
The secretary, when she brought his coffee, was rewarded with a pat on the ass. “Pretty lady,” he remarked to no one in particular.
Oliver outlined the plans for the following morning’s press reception at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“Yes, yes,” George sighed, bored with his own celebrity. “We’ll make every front page from here to Jipip.” He rose to leave. “You’re all coming to my party tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Oliver enthused.
“We’ll be there,” Neil said.
George turned and gave Montana the benefit of his attention. “And you too, little lady. You’re coming, aren’t you?”
“Every time I look at your picture, Mr. Lancaster,” she murmured sarcastically.
His eyes froze for a moment. “I don’t like women who talk dirty,” he said, and then he was off, undeterred. George Lancaster was a superstar. And superstars didn’t have to take crap from anyone.
There was a moment of silence after he left the room. Then Montana said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your support.”
“What?” Oliver said vaguely.
Neil swigged his bourbon.
She stared at them coldly. “I’m going shopping,” she said. “If you need any coffee, why not give George a call.”
She swept out.
• • •
The salon was busy. In fact, it was the busiest day Angel had seen. “This is nothing, dreamheart,” confided Koko. Try Oscar night. Chaos! Pandemonium! Wonder . . . ful! I looove it. All the little dears outbitching each other. And if you’re not invited to Swifty’s party you’re dead!”
“Swifty?”
“Forget it, dreamheart. He’d adore you.”
“Why are we so busy today?”
“Ross Conti is throwing a big party for George Lancaster. You have heard of George Lancaster, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“Thank God for small mercies!”
Raymondo slid up to the desk, his jet hair slicked into a fifties swirl. “Wanna go dancin’ tonight, blondie?”
She shook her head.
“Wanna eat the best tacos in town?”
“Raymondo!” Koko screamed. “Back to work, if you please.” Raymondo scowled. “Bet you are a natural blonde,” he muttered. “Huh? Are you, pretty Angel?”
“Raymondo!” Koko’s shriek forced him to move on, making way at the desk for a harassed Mrs. Liderman minus her precious dog.
“Where’s Frowie?” Angel inquired solicitously.
Mrs. Liderman leaned confidentially across the desk, her eyes puffed and swollen. “Dognapped!” she revealed tearfully. “They took him two days ago, and I’m waiting for the demand.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Angel asked, concern flooding her voice.
“I don’t know,” quavered Mrs. Liderman, twisting a huge diamond solitaire on her finger. “This town is full of crazies. It could be anyone.”
“Perhaps it’s not dognapping,” Angel said reassuringly. “Maybe Frowie’s just wandered off. I wouldn’t worry, Mrs. Liderman. I’m sure it will be all right.”
“Do you really think so, dear?”
“Oh, yes. I’m positive. Frowie will be back, you’ll see.” “You’re such a lovely girl,” the fat woman sighed. “A real comfort.”
“Thank you,” Angel replied modestly. “Raymondo will be with you in a minute. If you’d like to take a seat . . .”
Koko waltzed over. “What was that all about?” he asked.
She told him, then added, “Nobody would kidnap her dog, would they?”
“Why not? This is Hollywood, dreamheart.”
The morning passed quickly, and by noon Angel was starving. She seemed to have developed a huge appetite and wondered if it had anything to do with being pregnant. Fortunately the swell of her stomach did not show yet, not when she was dressed anyway. Eventually her secret would have to be revealed, but she was in no hurry to tell anyone.
She thought about the baby all the time. And she tried not to think of Buddy at all. She had kept her promise to herself and not contacted him for two weeks. Then she had called Randy’s apartment, where there was no reply. She replaced the receiver and phoned Shelly. After all, it was only fair that she let Buddy know she was all right. Stoned or not, he was probably concerned.
“Hi, this is Angel Hudson,” she announced when the phone was answered.
“Good for you,” slurred Shelly, still half asleep.
“Pardon?”
“Whaddya want?”
“I wondered if you would be kind enough to pass on a message to Buddy for me.” Hesitantly she began. “I’d just like you to tell him that I’m fine. I’m working at an interesting job, and I’ll phone him at Randy’s tomorrow, the same time.”
“Hmmm.” Shelly groped for a cigarette and tried to wake up properly. “Still pregnant?”
“Yes, I am,” Angel replied defiantly.
“You jerk. Get rid of it. Take my advice and el abort
“I don’t need your advice, thank you. The baby is Buddy’s and my concern.”
“Oh, sure. But Buddy’s been sleepin’ in my bed lately, so that gives me some sort of say.”
Angel could not keep the shock from her voice. “What?”
“You heard. So why don’t you grow up and face facts? Stop playing Daisy Mae an’ get your shit together. Buddy doesn’t care about you, he just cares about number one—himself, and I can dig that because it takes one to know one. So get rid of the kid, find yourself some real straight dude, an’ hike your ass home. ’Cause, Angel-pie, I’m tellin’ you—Buddy’s through with you. Capish?”
Without uttering a word, Angel had replaced the receiver, her eyes filled with tears.
That had been weeks previously, and since that time she still hadn’t decided what she should do. Divorce Buddy? She had no idea how to begin. He was no good, but she was still finding it hard to accept that sad fact of life.
Raymondo cruised by the desk as she was preparing to leave for lunch. “Change your mind? Wanna hot date with me?”
“Leave the girl alone,” Koko scolded. “Pick on someone your own size.”
“Nobody is my size!” Raymondo leered.
“Don’t you wish,” retorted Koko tartly. “Come, dreamheart, I’ll buy you a hero sandwich—everybody needs a hero in her life.”
• • •
Bibi Sutton was not getting the full focus of Elaine’s attention, and she knew it.
“Darling,” she said. “Sweetie. Everything all right?” Elaine nodded, forcing a bright smile to her lips. “I’m concerned about the party running smoothly.”
“How’s Ross?” Bibi asked shrewdly.
Ross is a no-good cheating son of a bitch. “He’s fine,” she said flatly.
“You sure, sweetie?”
For a moment she nearly crumbled. How nice it would be to confide in someone. But she curbed herself just in time. To confide in Bibi would be like taking out a full-page ad in The Hollywood Reporter.
“Yes, I’m sure. Why?”
Bibi shrugged expensively clad shoulders. “Nothing. People in this town so vicious. I take no notice . . .”
“What have you heard?” Elaine demanded, suddenly realizing that maybe the whole town already knew.