“Busy my ass,” Hamilton snapped. “Busy doing fuck all. Takes after her mother, you know.”
Anya didn’t know. She’d never asked about his previous wives. She didn’t care.
I am Mrs Hamilton J. Heckerling now, she thought. And that’s all that matters.
ANYA
Anya had wished and wished so many times for someone to rescue her from the life she was forced to live. Her world was hardly worth existing in and she’d never thought she would be lucky enough to escape. Then one fateful night, God (in Whom she did not believe–but at last He came through for her) brought someone to her who changed everything.
An American man who was about to get married. An American man who saw into her damaged soul, and decided it was his job to help her. He’d paid for her freedom, she knew that much. Not as much as Joe would’ve liked, but her savior had threatened him with the police, and since he had connections at the American Embassy, Joe had backed down.
Anya didn’t know the details. All she knew was that the American man had arranged to get her to a safe house where a kindly couple looked after her, and then months later she was given the right papers and sent to New York where she was set up with an organization who helped girls in trouble. They put her up in a girls’ hostel, and got her a job with a family, where she went to work as a day-time au pair. Her duties were light house cleaning, and taking care of a six-month-old baby. She could barely take care of herself, let alone a baby.
The young couple she worked for were nice. The father didn’t seem to expect sex, and the mother was pleasant. They were both at work all day.
Anya was dizzy with everything that had happened. One moment she was a sex slave in one of the most decadent cities in the world. Then within months she was looking after a baby in New York–a dazzling fast-paced city that terrified her.
The girls’ hostel she was staying at was clean and comfortable. The other girls in residence were a mixed group. Anya kept to herself, she went to work every morning at eight, returning to the hostel at five. After dinner every night she sat in the Recreation Room staring at the TV until it was time for bed. American TV was quite a revelation, so many pretty faces, so many nice clean houses filled with happy families. And even if they weren’t happy, even if they were fighting and screaming at each other, they always ended up happy. Life on TV was very satisfying.
One of the other residents–Ella, a black girl with a mass of frizzed hair, large breasts and plenty of attitude–kept on attempting to start a conversation. Ella reminded Anya of the girls at Madam Olga’s, she had so many questions.
“Where you comin’ from?”
“Talk to me, girl.”
“Your family kick you out?”
“Ever done drugs?”
“We need t’ get our asses outta this fuckin’ prison.”
Ella never shut up.
“You’re so fuckin’ quiet,” she said to Anya one day. “I can’t get nothin’ outta you.”
Anya continued staring at the TV. It was her drug. She was addicted.
“How much they payin’ you at your job?” Ella asked, sitting down beside her. “’Cause where I work the cheap bastards are payin’ me shit to babysit two screaming brats. An’ ya gotta know–this place is a racket. They take us girls in who got themselves in trouble, then they send us out t’ work as cheap fuckin’ labor. An’ didja know that when we hit eighteen they’re gonna throw us out on our asses? Didja know that?”
Anya shook her head. She didn’t know that.
“Mind you,” Ella ruminated, “I was livin’ on the fuckin’ street before some fuckin’ do-gooder dropped me off here. So mebbe I ain’t got too much to complain ’bout. Least I got a damn bed t’ sleep in.”
Anya continued to stare at the TV. A homely-looking man with a wide plastic smile was giving away cars and fridges and all kinds of luxury goods. Girls in gold evening gowns fluttered around him like exotic birds, while plainer-dressed plump women jumped up and down, screaming with delight as they won things. Anya was fascinated.
“How’d you get here?” Ella wanted to know. “Didja run away from home same as me? I had a step-dad come bargin’ inta my room every night t’ get him some juicy pussy. That happen t’ you?”
Anya thought of the family who’d taken her in when she was eleven; the father of the house who’d sexually molested her night after night while his wife tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Then she recalled the night the soldiers had invaded the house and killed every one of them–except her. Somehow she’d been spared. For what? More horrors to come.
“Well?” Ella demanded. “What’s your fuckin’ story?”
Anya shrugged. She’d learned not to say too much, it was safer that way.
“You’re a quiet one,” Ella muttered. “Ain’t ya got nothin’ t’ say?”
“Yes,” Anya said at last, pointing at the TV. “How can I get on a show like that? I would like to win things too.”
Ella shrieked with laughter. “Wouldn’t we all like t’ get ourselves soma that shit. But we ain’t gonna get nothin’ stayin’ here.”
“Then what should we do?” Anya asked, her face quite serious.
Ella shrugged. “I dunno. You got any skills?”
“Skills?”
“Somethin’ you’re way good at.”
“Yes,” Anya said, nodding wisely for one so young. “Sex. I am very good at sex.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cherry and Reno–the two new trainers–were major assets. Not only did each of them come with their own client lists, they were gung-ho to help out before the big opening, and there was plenty to do. Cole had fired their contractor and hired Carlos’s contact, Freddy Cruise, a fast-talking tough guy originally from the Bronx. Freddy–who was quite a character with his shock of dyed black hair and a cheap cigar stuck permanently in his mouth–employed a team of workers who never quit. They were there to get the work done and there was no slacking off. It was cash all round, heavy metal blasting from a CD player all day, but things were suddenly moving at a rapid pace.
Cameron was delighted. Everyone was working toward the big opening night and excitement was building. They’d hired a P.R. woman to handle the opening, Dee Dee Goldenberg–another transported New Yorker. Dee Dee was almost like a female version of Freddy–fast-talking, acerbic, and hot to get things done as soon as possible.
Dee Dee was into lists and pinning celebrities down–which as anyone who worked in P.R. in Hollywood knew–was virtually impossible. Celebrities did not care to commit. Sometimes they’d accept an invitation and not show; sometimes they wouldn’t accept and just turn up; mostly they expected to get paid. Celebrities were mercurial creatures who danced to their own tune, which, Dee Dee informed anyone who’d listen, was a big fat pain in the butt. “It’s the freakin’ chicken without an egg deal,” she complained. “To get the TV shows to turn out you gotta have firm acceptances.”
“Don Verona is definitely coming,” Cameron informed her.
“Is he bringin’ Mary Ellen Evans?” Dee Dee wanted to know. “’Cause they’re all over the tabloids, which means that’ll get us major coverage.”
“I’ll make certain he does,” Cameron promised, although she wasn’t too sure how she was going to do that since Don was constantly telling her that he and Mary Ellen were not an item.
Busy as she was, she couldn’t help wondering why Ryan hadn’t called. It was disappointing, especially as she’d canceled a regular client to make room for him, and then he’d failed to follow up.
That’ll teach you to get the hots for a married man.
Shut up! I don’t care!
Oh yes you do.
Oh no I don’t.
Trying to put Ryan out of her mind was not as simple as she’d hoped. Their time together–brief as it was–lingered in her head. Truth was, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. And she wanted to stop, she was desperate to stop. Nothing was going to happen between them, so therefore she had to stop.<
br />
Obsessing over a man–especially a married man–was distracting and foolish and led nowhere.
Obsessing over Paradise was what she should be doing.
Cole sensed that something was up. “You met someone, didn’t you?” he probed. “Dorian’s got it right, you’re finally doin’ the bump an’ grind with some lucky dude.”
“If I was–which I’m not–you and Dorian would be the last to know.”
“How come that when it’s about sex, you get all uptight an’ paranoid?” Cole said, throwing her a penetrating look. “You sure you’re playin’ on the right team? ’Cause no problem if you’re not…”
“Thanks, Cole. I’m sure. And since you’re so interested in my sex life, I think I should put you out of your misery and tell you that for the last year I’ve been seeing a twenty-year-old guy who makes Justin Timberlake look like a girl!”
There. It was out. And so what? Now the speculation about which team she was playing on could finally stop.
“Shit!” Cole exclaimed. “A secret lover. That’s hot.”
“Thank you, Paris,” Cameron said, tongue-in-cheek.
“When do we get to meet this hunk?”
“You don’t. But trust me–he exists. Are you satisfied?”
“I am. How about you?”
“Extremely, thank you very much.”
After a week or so had passed, she’d casually brought Ryan’s name up to Don. “What’s going on with your friend?” she’d asked.
“I thought I told you,” he’d said impatiently. “Mary Ellen was a one-nighter. She’s not my type.”
“You have a type?”
“Yes,” he said, giving her a very direct look. “You.”
Ignoring his come-on she’d tried again. “I meant your friend, Ryan. The one with the shaky marriage.”
“Did I say his marriage was shaky?”
“You intimated as much.”
“Yeah, Ryan,” Don had said, all casual. “He needs a new set of balls if he’s ever gonna leave Mandy.”
And that was that. She couldn’t seem too interested or Don would catch on, he wasn’t exactly dumb.
Cole was busy calling in favors from his phone list of big-shot, powerful ex-lovers. The gay Mafia of Hollywood responded favorably. Cole was not an easy one to forget.
Dorian consulted his BlackBerry full of mid-level TV actors, half of them in the closet. He invited every one of them.
Cherry, it turned out, was personal trainer to pop tart Birdy Marvel. If Birdy came to the opening it would be a huge coup, for everywhere Birdy went, cameras followed.
If both Birdy Marvel and Mary Ellen Evans showed, they were set for amazing coverage.
Reno had his own group of young Hollywood which included Max Santangelo–the very pretty, very wild daughter of Vegas titan Lucky Santangelo–and Max’s two best friends, Cookie–the teenage daughter of soul icon, Gerald M.–and Harry, the gay son of a TV network president.
Cameron was still nervous about the opening. She couldn’t make up her mind whether to wear work-out clothes, or get all dressed up. Not that she had anything to get dressed up in–but Cherry informed her she had a stylist friend who, in exchange for an invite to the party, would set her up.
It was tempting. Both Cole and Dorian encouraged her. “You’re better-looking than any of ’em,” Dorian said. “You gotta work it!”
“Yes,” Cole said, joining in. “Wear something that shows off that body, ’cause that’s what we’re sellin’.”
Cherry’s stylist friend picked out an amazing Dolce & Gabanna creation. A white column of a dress with a front slit from here to Cuba.
She tried it on and fell in love.
“You look fantastic!” Dorian exclaimed. “A pair of sky-high Manolos an’ you’re all set.”
“Won’t it seem as if I’m trying too hard?” she worried.
“Not at all,” Cole assured her. “You’re the face of Paradise. And the body. We want everyone to notice you.”
Hmm…she wasn’t sure that she was comfortable being the center of attention.
But she’d go for it. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ryan was waiting for the right opportunity before broaching the subject of divorce. Since Mandy was on her best behavior he found it difficult to start the conversation. It didn’t help that she was also upset about her father’s new bride–so was he for that matter, but for different reasons. Then another family drama erupted. His sister, Evie, called in the middle of the night sobbing and crying out for help.
“You’ve got to come get us,” Evie implored, sounding desperate. “Please hurry. Marty went crazy again. I know he’s going to hurt us.”
Us? Were his nephews in danger? Christ! He read about it all the time. Some husband goes berserk and blows his entire family away.
After assuring Evie he’d get there as soon as possible, Ryan jumped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. Then, since this was an emergency and he might need help, he decided to wake Mandy, who had not stirred. He stared at his sleeping wife. Her eyes were hidden beneath a black velvet sleep mask, her ears were filled with foam noise blockers because she claimed he snored–which he could swear he didn’t–and she did not look as if she was going to wake up any time soon. He nudged her all the same, and she surfaced in a sleeping-pill stupor. “What?” she mumbled bad-temperedly, throwing her arms in the air. “Is there an earthquake? Wass goin’ on?”
“Nothing,” he said shortly. “Go back to sleep.”
What was he thinking? She’d be a burden not an asset.
Cameron Paradise. Where are you when I need you?
He made it to his car and took off like a rocket.
As soon as he hit Sunset his mind began racing. Should he have taken his gun out of the lock box in the safe? Maybe called the cops? He had plenty of friends who worked in law enforcement, perhaps they could help.
Jesus! What the fuck was he supposed to do?
Cutting through numerous red lights, he made it to Evie’s house as quickly as possible.
Evie met him at the front door, red-eyed and weepy.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Where the hell is the sonofabitch?”
“He got drunk again,” she said in a low whisper. “Then he started screaming about you and your rich friends, and why didn’t you give us money. Coming to your house the other night must have set him off.”
“Great!” Ryan said, walking into the house with Evie close behind him.
“I told him you’re always offering me money and that I won’t take it. That’s when he got out of control and started wrecking things.”
“Did he hit you or the kids?”
“No. He stormed out, but he’ll be back.”
“I’m sure he will,” Ryan said grimly.
“I don’t feel safe here anymore,” Evie said, still tearful. “We can’t be here when he gets back.”
“Right,” Ryan said, thinking fast. “Where are the boys?”
“In their room. They’re frightened, they don’t know what’s going on.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I want you to run upstairs and pack an overnight bag for all of you–you’re coming with me. We’ll sort out what to do in the morning.”
“Thank you, Ryan,” Evie said softly. “I knew I could depend on you.”
“Go get packed,” he said gruffly.
He walked into the living room, observing that once more Marty had done an excellent job of destroying whatever he could. The couch was overturned, the TV smashed, photos strewn across the floor, broken glass from the frames they were in scattered everywhere.
Ryan made a decision and he was sticking with it. He was bringing them home with him. Mandy would throw one of her childish fits, but it was his house too, and if he wanted to have members of his family stay there for a few days until he got everything sorted–then so be it.
The one big drawback was that he’d have to put the divorce
conversation on hold yet again. But he’d been married to Mandy for seven years, another few weeks wouldn’t make that much difference. The important thing was to have Evie and the kids settled somewhere safe.
The three boys came downstairs rubbing their eyes and looking confused. Benji, the youngest, was crying.
Ryan gave them each a big hug and told them everything was going to be okay. He loved his nephews, and if Marty so much as touched them…
“Let’s go, boys,” he said, leading them outside and bundling them into the back seat of his car. “We’re taking off on an adventure.”
Lucy Lyons Standard was sitting on a bean bag in Marlon’s room at the beach, feeling like she was back in college. She was reading the latest pages of Marlon’s screenplay based on her brilliant idea, and she had to admit that to her delight they were pretty good. Just as she was about to tell Marlon this, he hovered in front of her, shot her a sly look, and said, “I rented one of your movies.”
“You did?” she said, glancing up.
“Blue Sapphire,” he said, a satisfied smirk crossing his boyish face. “Some trip!”
Lucy frowned. Why were men so obsessed with Blue Sapphire? Yes, she’d stripped off in the film and twirled around a slippery pole a few times, but why this fascination? She’d made a dozen other movies where she’d shown what an accomplished actress she was, yet all men ever wanted to talk about was Blue Sapphire. Personally she would prefer to forget the entire experience, especially when she recalled the producer of the movie, Hamilton J. Heckerling, leching after her as if she were a bitch in heat. That was a story she’d never shared with Mandy. Hamilton had appeared on the set every single day, his beady eyes taking in every inch of her exposed body. “We gotta make a sequel,” he’d said to her one memorable afternoon. “You’ll do a Sharon–flash your snatch.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she’d replied, quite insulted.
“Jesus Christ!” he’d responded, used to everyone agreeing with him. “What’s wrong with you girls today? Don’t you wanna see your career sky-rocket?”
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