Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
A sharp buzz at the door interrupted his train of thought.
Shelly stood on the threshold. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I thought you were coming right back after seeing Frances Cavendish.” She walked uninvited into the apartment and threw herself down on the bed.
He could see she was stoned. Why had he ever gotten involved? He didn’t want to go back to the kind of life he had lived before Hawaii, before Angel.
“I’ve got a job,” he said quietly. “I’ll be able to pay you back the money I owe you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Screw soon. I want it now. Why don’t you go out an’ score a few tricks? You don’t remember me, Buddy, but I knew you when you were one of Gladrags’ studs. We even worked together one time. How does it feel fucking old ladies for a living?”
A sour feeling spread across his gut.
Stoned little tramp.
Stoned little tramp telling the truth.
Jesus. When was it going to happen for him? When was something in his life going to go right?
• • •
By the time Montana got back from the beach it was late afternoon. She felt exhilarated, like a kid who’s played hooky from school. She didn’t bother going to the office, instead she drove straight home, washed her long black hair and showered the sand and sea from her body. Then, wrapped in a white bathrobe, she called Inga to see what she had missed.
“Nothing much,” said her secretary. “Mr. Gray called around three and said to tell you something came up and he’d meet you at the party tonight.”
“Where is he?”
“He didn’t say.”
Now Neil didn’t even bother coming home anymore. She was tempted not to go to the party. But then she figured George Lancaster would think he’d scared her off, and if she was to make her presence felt it had to be right from the beginning. She didn’t want him to feel that he could do what he wanted with her script. She intended to be on the location every single day. Mr. Lancaster was just going to have to accept the fact that every woman did not fall at his feet in a faint.
She put an Al Green tape on the stereo and decided that her look for the party should be strong and noticeable. Something George Macho-man Lancaster wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
• • •
Ensconced in Bungalow Nine at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Pamela London lay on a folding massage table and enjoyed the firm masculine fingers manipulating her flesh.
“I heard you were good,” she said languidly. “But you’re very good.”
“Um . . . thanks, Mrs. Lancaster,” drawled Ron Gordino. “I usually send one of my boys, but when Karen told me it was . . . um . . . for you, I decided to come myself.”
“Never send a boy to do a man’s job!” said Pamela coyly.
“I wouldn’t . . . um . . . dream of it, Mrs. Lancaster.”
“Don’t call me that. Miz London will do.”
How about Pamela? he thought. I’m sure as heck not calling you Mrs. Lancaster or Miz London at the party tonight. Elaine had come through with her promise and invited him.
She groaned as he dug his fingers into the spare tire around her waist. She wasn’t doing too badly for an old broad; she had to be at least fifty-five. But then, when you were the third richest woman in America you could afford to keep in shape.
He wondered what would happen if he gave her his “special.” Would she, like all the other Beverly Hills matrons, fall for his special? Most of them were so easy. Get them on the table, out of their jewelry and clothes—take away the labels. A little pressure here, a little pressure there, and they were his.
Just as he was deciding whether to make a move or not, George Lancaster breezed noisily in.
He ignored Ron, slapped Pamela resoundingly on her almost bare ass, and said, “How’s it going, you old bat?”
She laughed hoarsely. “Not so bad, frogface.”
“Getting all dolled up for the party.”
“I suppose we do have to go. I don’t even know these Conti people.”
“So what? As long as they’re paying. If we don’t like it we can take a group on to Chasen’s.”
“Good idea.”
“Hey, you,” said George, acknowledging Ron Gordino at last. “When you’ve finished with the heifer you can do me.”
• • •
Gina Germaine was perfumed, powdered, and coiffeured to perfection. She was, however, not yet dressed for the party. She wore a flimsy negligee with black undergarments—a plunge bra, bikini panties, and sheer black stockings attached to a lacy garter belt.
Gina Germaine employed three live-in maids, but when the doorbell rang she answered it herself, having dismissed all three for the night.
“Hello, Neil,” she murmured softly. “You look very elegant.”
He had changed at the office into a plum-colored smoking jacket, black silk turtleneck and black pants. He was all set to go straight on to the party.
“Thank you,” he said curtly, trying to ignore the fact that she was half naked. “Do you have the tape?”
“I most certainly do,” she replied, all injured innocence. “A deal is a deal is a deal, isn’t it?”
She turned and led the way into an overdecorated pink living room.
“I can’t stay, Gina. I don’t want to be late. Just give me the tape.”
“How about a drinkie?” She handed him a bourbon mixed with ice in a lead crystal glass. “Isn’t this your pleasure?”
He accepted the drink automatically, forgetting the three or was it four he had already consumed since five o’clock.
“I’m so excited we’ve signed the contract,” she cooed. “How long before we can—you know—let it slip out?”
He frowned. “We can’t. Not at all. To anyone. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“It turns me on when you’re forceful,” she purred.
“From now on, my dear, we are just actor and director.”
“Actress,” she corrected.
“Actress,” he conceded. “Where’s the tape?”
“Come.” She took him by the hand, enveloping him in clouds of Tatiana. He hoped the sweet scent wouldn’t cling to his clothes.
“This is my games room,” she announced, leading him into a large room where every inch of wall space was covered with framed magazine covers of herself. The rest of the room housed everything from a pinball machine to the latest in video games. “I love to play,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily.
“The tape, Gina.”
“Coming up.” She pressed a switch, and before he could object there he was in living color on her giant video screen. Bare-assed and humping the second most popular blonde in America. “I figured you’d want to see it,” she explained sweetly. “After all, you’d hardly want to take it home and run it for Montana, would you?”
Indeed he would not. He took a gulp of bourbon, sat down, and considered the action on the screen from a professional point of view. Bad camera angle, you couldn’t see her—oh, God, yes you could, she had moved around until those two great upstanding globes of flesh were filling the screen.
He felt the erection in his pants and silently cursed the inevitable.
Onscreen she heaved and panted while he slavered over her.
Offscreen she threw off her negligee, stepped out of her panties, and sat astride him.
One more time.
The last time.
He didn’t know how right he was.
• • •
Sadie La Salle left her office two hours earlier than she usually did. Her Japanese chauffeur held open the door of her black Rolls-Royce, and she sank gratefully into the luxurious leather seat and adjusted the air conditioning to its highest point.
“Home, madam?” the chauffeur inquired.
“Yes, please.”
Home was in the exclusive Hills of Beverly. Home had a long winding driveway. Home was a mansion to rival those of the stars she represente
Damn! Damn! Damn! Twenty-six years since they were together, and still she thought about him.
Unseeingly she gazed out the black-tinted windows as the Rolls sped majestically along Rodeo Drive. Tonight she was going to his house. The bastard. Tonight she would see where he lived. She would make polite conversation with his wife. Oh, how I hate you, Ross Conti. She would even talk to him.
Twenty-six years. She was a different person. Important, respected, some said even feared. She wore designer clothes, her hair was styled by Jose Eber, she spent a full day a week at Elizabeth Arden, and wore jewelry from Cartier.
Oh, sure, she had seen him over the years. Hollywood. Such a small community. It was inevitable that they would be invited to the same parties and events. Once he had even suggested she handle him again. Who does the son of a bitch think he is? Did he imagine he could walk back into her life as a client and that she would just forget the past? She had given him cold words and ignored him ever since.
The good times were always in her memory. She remembered every detail.
The first time she ever set eyes on Ross in Schwab’s. Ohhhh, gorgeous, she had thought, and then when he had ambled over like a blond bronzed god and bummed a coffee she could not believe her luck.
The first time they made love. His hands on her breasts. His hardness deep inside her. His tongue buried between her legs.
The trip to New York to show him off on The Tonight Show. And the thrill when it all worked. Riding through Central Park in an open buggy. Admiring his billboard in Times Square. Eating hotdogs on Fifth Avenue.
And sex, sex, sex. Under the shower. In his dressing room at NBC. On the back seat of a cab. Pressed up against the wall of the hotel elevator. Ross was insatiable, and she loved it.
Twenty-six years later she could still feel his hands on her breasts. “I’m a tit man,” he used to say. “And baby, you’ve got the best.”
Until something better came along. Something that was packaged a lot more prettily than she was. And he just walked out of her life without a care in the world and not so much as a thank you.
The pain was still with her. The loss. The humiliating rage.
She stared sightlessly from the car as it glided across Sunset.
There had only been one other man since Ross, and he didn’t count. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity. She was a star in her own way, and many a man had tried to pitch his way into her bed. She wasn’t beautiful, not even pretty, but once she began to climb toward the pinnacle of success—oh boy! Did they come running.
Very occasionally she went to bed with a woman. Sex with another female was not a threat, more a diversion. And Sadie called the shots. She liked that.
Her work became her passion. It was almost enough. Success can be very rewarding.
But now enough time had passed—too much, in fact. She wanted revenge for twenty-six years. And tonight she would have it.
• • •
At approximately four fifty-five Ross arrived at the department store to collect his wife.
At approximately ten minutes past five he left with Elaine by his side.
They both got into the Corniche tight-lipped and silent. Without a word being exchanged they endured the ride home.
Outside the house Elaine said coldly, “It was all a mistake, you know.” You bastard, you think I stole the bracelet.
Ross nodded. “Anyone can make a mistake,” he said reasonably. Stupid dumb broad. Do it if you must—but don’t get caught.
They entered the house. The wild-haired youth had blown a fuse. The pantsuited woman was having hysterics. The sad-eyed Italians were trying to flirt with the pubescent teeny bopper, who was dancing across the living room—oblivious to everything—earphones clamped firmly in place. The two gays were making faces as they prepared a guacamole dip while observing the action. The two bartenders were lolling on a couch smoking grass. Lina and her friends were stationed by the kitchen door ready to make a fast exit.
“Elaine,” said Ross, “I’m going to take a shower. You wanted this party. Sweetheart, it’s all yours.”
32
Barstow, California, was hot. An oppressive heat with no cooling breeze to bring relief.
Deke checked into a cheap motel. He lay on a hard mattress in a small dusty room and gazed at the ceiling. A noisy fan whirred monotonously, while flies buzzed around searching for escape. In the room next door a television blared, barely drowning the sounds of a woman yelling in anger.
He had removed his boots, pants, and shirt. On the table beside the bed he had placed his money, the hunting knife he always carried, and the piece of paper with the name and address written on it. The same paper that had been handed to him in Philadelphia while the three of them laughed, three pigs laughing at him, laughing at The Keeper Of The Order.
Only he hadn’t been The Keeper Of The Order then. No, before striking out he was just plain Deke Andrews—a nobody. And their laughter had been a sign. Yes, a signal to control the vermin. It would have been nice if Joey could have shared some of his triumphs.
• • •
Joey was wearing a red mini-skirt, white plastic boots, a cheap pink blouse, and her usual alarming amount of smeared makeup.
Deke stared at her. To him she was beautiful, but he knew what his parents would think. They watched television constantly and called all women whores. “Every one of those Hollywood starlets is a prostitute,” his mother would say. “They sleep their way up the ladder,” his father would agree. But neither of them ever made any attempt to switch channels or turn off the set.
Deke never watched television with them. He preferred to be in his own room, where he could lie on the bed and think about Joey and how he could safely bring her home.
There was much to consider. He wanted to marry her, but he didn’t want to upset his mother. All the time he tried to show her that he cared, but whatever he did was never good enough. “One day you’ll run off and leave your poor mother who went through such pain to have you,” she often told him. “It’ll kill me, you know.”
He always denied that he would.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she would say, adding craftily, “If you stay, one day everything we have will be yours. Not much, I know. The house, the car, your father has a nest egg . . .” She always trailed off at that point, as if the nest egg was too exciting to discuss.
He wondered how much there was. His father worked hard. Neither of them smoked or drank. Their only luxury was the color television set. Sometimes he lay in bed and fantasized about the two of them being killed in a car crash or a fire. Then everything would be his. And nobody to nag him—make him feel small and unimportant and guilty.
Then Joey came into his life. For months he had kept her a secret. But eventually he got up the courage to tell his mother. Or rather Joey forced his hand.
“I want to bring a . . . a . . . girl home,” he had stammered one day.
Now he stared at Joey in her colorful outfit with her orange spiky hair. And he knew his mother would never approve.
“Are we ready, big boy?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
He nodded.
She winked happily. “Well then, it’s up an’ at ’em—ain’t it?”
• • •
“You dirty stinkin’ piece a crap!” screamed the woman in the room next door.
There was the sound of flesh being struck, and a child began to wail.
Were they calling for him? Was he being summoned?
He sat up abruptly, reached for his knife, fingered the sharp blade.
Before he could decide what to do the noise ceased. The Keeper Of The Order could rest. He was not needed. Not for now, anyway.
33
A line of cars snaked up the Contis’ circular driveway, where female and male valets wearing white T-shirts emblazoned with Superjock waited to take control of the parade of Cadillacs, Lincolns, De Loreans, Rolls-Royces, Porsches, Ferraris, B
Clustered at the bottom of the drive were six or seven paparazzi, cameras at the ready, eyes alert for the real celebrities—not the producers, money men, superagents, and society flash. They wanted the real thing, the International Celebrity with the face that was recognizable from China to Chile.
They were rewarded by a smiling Burt Reynolds, followed closely by Rod Stewart and his striking wife, Alana. The paparazzi snapped happily away.
Inside the house all was under control. Elaine, fortified by two Valiums and her new seventeen-hundred-dollar Galanos dress, greeted her guests as though she did not have a care in the world. She smiled, hugged, exchanged kisses and don’t-you-look-wonderfuls with everyone. She introduced people who had not met, she summoned waiters with a mere flick of her wrist, she was charming, witty, gracious, in command. Who would have ever dreamed that only a short time before the first guest arrived she had been a raving screaming wreck?
Ross—the unfaithful swine—had vanished into the shower while she alone had attempted to create calm and organization from total chaos. She had done it. Etta from the Bronx had sprung into action. And now Elaine from Beverly Hills was taking the bows.
It had not been easy dealing with three recalcitrant maids, two stoned bartenders, a hysterical flower arranger, two temperamental members of the Zancussi Trio, and a hyped-up ex-member of a rock group who gave great live disco, plus his zonked little girlfriend.
Elaine had sorted that lot out just in time—for more people had begun to arrive. The caterers. Security. Parking valets. The third member of the Zancussi Trio. The second member of the live disco twosome—another freak.
Finally, with only fifteen minutes to go before the party officially commenced, she had locked herself in her dressing room and forced herself to get ready in a hurry. She would have liked the luxury of more time—but it was amazing what one could do when one had to. She had emerged triumphant, ready to greet the first guest, Sammy Cahn, who had promised to sing one of his famous parodies—this time on George Lancaster.
Now time had passed and the guests of honor had not yet arrived, nor had Sadie La Salle. But Bibi and Adam Sutton were making a spectacular entrance, trailed by the ever-present Wolfie Schweicker. Bibi looked stunning in a black silk Adolfo dress, and breathtaking Cartier emeralds. Adam was handsome and dignified as usual. Elaine hurried forward to welcome them.