“I wish I knew!” snapped Montana. “The whole movie is cast except for the three most important roles. Wonderful, huh?”
Inga smiled politely. “I understand Mr. Gray is testing Gina Germaine. Excuse me for saying so, but isn’t she too sexy for the part?”
“Ha! Nice understatement, kid. Any coffee going around here?”
Inga retreated. Conversation with the boss over. She rushed to her desk and tried the number Buddy had given her at the beach. No reply. No service pickup. Who had ever heard of an actor without an answering service? Somebody would have to get Buddy Hudson together. Maybe it would be her.
Oliver Easterne came bouncing into the office, interrupting her thoughts.
“Miz Gray around?” he asked, running a finger along the rim of her desk and inspecting it for dust.
“Yes she is. I’ll tell her you’re—”
Before she could even pick up the intercom he was past her and into the office.
Montana, looking through some photos at her desk, glanced up. “Good morning, Oliver,” she said coolly. “Don’t bother to knock. Just come right in.”
He ignored her quiet sarcasm, polished off the seat of a leather chair with his pocket handkerchief, and sat down. “I have found us Nikki,” he announced.
“Oliver?” Montana questioned. “Tell me, I’m curious. When you have sex do you disinfect your cock first?”
He stared at her, frowned, then laughed heartily. “You got a cute sense of humor,” he allowed, “for a woman.”
“Thank you,” she murmured mockingly. “Your conversation never disappoints.”
He cracked his knuckles several times, then inspected his impeccable nails, which were coated with a clear polish. “Don’t you want to know who she is?”
“I do know. Gina Germaine. And the idea stinks.”
“No. I have found us a girl who makes Gina look like her fucking mother!”
She sighed. “Have you told Neil this devastating news?”
He leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“This girl I’ve found is sensational.”
“I thought you wanted Gina. I mean, it was you who carried on about what a big star she was, and how great she would be for the box office, wasn’t it?”
“With George Lancaster who needs Gina Germaine?”
“George Lancaster is a maybe,” she reminded him wearily.
“He’s a definite. I called him in Palm Beach last night and got a commitment. I’m meeting with Sadie La Salle this afternoon to firm up terms.”
“Does Neil know this?” she asked, feeling like a record stuck in the same old groove.
“Neil’s the artistic side,” he said airily. “I’m the business. I should have talked to George in the first place. Actors. I know how to treat ’em. Plus I’m paying him five mil and a piece of the action.”
Montana thought of the paltry sum she was receiving for the property. “How nice,” she murmured. “Don’t you think you should tell Neil the good news?”
“He’s out looking at locations. I’ll see him when he gets back. In the meantime I came to tell you about this girl I’ve found.”
“Exactly where did you find her?”
“On the beach. She’s my neighbor.”
Montana frowned. She was getting more and more disillusioned with the business side of making movies. First George Lancaster, news which didn’t thrill her. Now a little nymphet Oliver had discovered roaming the beach. “I’ve had it with the casting on this movie,” she said sharply. “First Gina, then some bimbo you probably picked up. This is becoming amateur night, Oliver.”
He took no notice of her outburst. “You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. She is Nikki.” And with that he stood up, vigorously brushed the back of his pants, removed a dead flower from a vase on her desk, flicked it into the trash basket, and exited.
She took a long deep breath. Where was all this total control Neil had mentioned?
Late Sunday afternoon Buddy phoned the house at the beach. “Pack up everything, get in the car, and come straight over to Randy’s place. Leave the keys there, an’ don’t answer the phone. If Jason turns up, don’t talk to him about anything. Got it?”
“I don’t unders—”
“Get moving. I want you out of there fast.”
Angel did as she was told, although her mind was alive with questions. She packed quickly. The phone rang once, but she ignored it. Jason did not turn up. Tearfully she realized it was goodbye to the house at the beach. Life with Buddy was certainly unpredictable.
He met her outside Randy Felix’s apartment. She could smell liquor on his breath, and there was a wild excited look about him.
“I don’t understand—” she began again.
He grabbed her in a hug. “One day I’ll explain it to you, babe.” And pulled her inside the apartment to meet Randy.
That was it as far as explanations went. Randy had a girl with him, Shelly. She seemed pleasant enough, although a little trampy to look at. They all sat around in the small apartment drinking cheap red wine and dragging on joints Shelly obligingly rolled. Angel did not indulge, and nobody seemed to mind; they were all too busy talking about themselves.
She sat in a corner, a slow steady anger building within. This was not the Buddy she had married. This was not the loving man she had met and fallen in love with—this jumpy, loud, stoned person.
At midnight Shelly stood up and stretched. “I gotta get me some sleep,” she yawned. “I mean, Sunday’s my only day off, and I am out of it.”
Quick as a flash, Buddy grabbed Angel by the hand and pulled her up too. “You’re sleepin’ over at Shell’s, sweet stuff,” he announced, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m gonna hit the sack on Randy’s floor. Tomorrow I’ll find us a place.”
She was dismayed. “Buddy—” she began.
He squeezed her hand. “Do it,” he whispered. “It’s the only game in town. She’s a good kid, no hassles, she’s not that way inclined.”
Angel stared at him coldly. His hair was tousled, his eyes bloodshot, sweat beaded his handsome features, and he smelled awful. “What about my things?” she asked, feeling tired and disillusioned. “Our suitcases are still out in the car.”
“Shell will set you up with anything you need, won’t you, Shell?”
The curly-headed girl nodded. “And if you stop callin’ me Shell, I’ll even give her breakfast.”
Buddy grinned and swayed slightly. “Thank you, Shelly. I will remember you in my will.”
She grinned back and patted his cheek affectionately. A move that did not go unnoticed by Angel.
“Let’s go, Angel-face,” Shelly said. “You’ll love my apartment—it’s even smaller than this dump.” She waved vaguely at Randy, who was slumped on the middle of his bed. “Nice meeting you. Thanks for the vino.”
He waved back in an uncoordinated fashion. “Nice to meet you—neighbor. Good grass. Next time I’ll buy if you got any to sell.”
“Grass. Coke. Quacks. Name it. I’m your man.”
“Some man!” slurred Buddy.
Shelly grinned. “ ’Night, all.”
Silently Angel followed her from the apartment, two flights up the outside staircase, tears stinging her eyes, anger stinging her tongue. It wasn’t often she lost her temper, but when she did it was a surprise. The Madonna turned into a tiger.
They stopped outside Shelly’s apartment while she groped for her key. Then she flung the door open and said, “Enter paradise, Angel-face. The worst little flophouse in Hollywood!”
• • •
“More champagne, Mrs. Conti?” the young waiter inquired.
Elaine nodded, and vaguely wondered how he knew her name.
Why shouldn’t he? I’m famous too. I am a movie star’s wife. A soon-to-be-back-on-top-and-screw-everyone movie star.
Christ! She was drunk and she knew it
. Not sloppy drunk, fortunately, but on the edge.
Surreptitiously she tipped her champagne glass so that a thin steady trickle of the finest Dom Pérignon hit the grass.
She sat on a white canvas director’s chair along with thirty-six other women (she had done a head count after lunch). And along with the rest of them she was being bored to death by a muscular ex-detective who looked like a Kojak reject and spoke like an articulate boxer who had just found God. Only he had just found Mace, or so it seemed. And there was no detail too trivial for him to reveal about the stupid stuff.
I want to pee, she decided, and shot a sideways glance at Maralee, whose expression was hidden behind tinted purple shades which matched her five-hundred-dollar Anne Klein jacket. Elaine knew it had cost exactly that, for she had passed it by in her quest for the perfect outfit.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.
“Who’s stopping you?” Maralee whispered back.
She stood, caught Bibi’s disapproving eye, mimed desperation, and hurried into the house.
A waitress, stuffing her mouth with expensive chocolates, jumped guiltily. Elaine swept past her to the pink-and-gold powder room. Idly she wondered about Karen. She had said she was coming to the lunch, so where was she?
Maybe a sudden flash of intuition had warned her that it was going to be the most boring luncheon of the year.
She checked out her appearance and hurried back outside. Seated once again, she reflected that by no means was the lunch a dead loss. The very fact that she had been invited in the first place was a plus. And a double plus was being able to say—ever so casually—to Sadie La Salle, “I do hope you can come to the little party I’m putting together for George and Pamela Lancaster.”
Even Sadie La Salle could not afford to turn that invite down. She had nodded, said, “Of course,” and even attempted a pleasant smile. Ross would be delighted. Once the woman was in his home she could hardly continue to ignore him.
Maralee gave a gentle snore. She had fallen asleep behind her shades. Quickly Elaine nudged her.
“Oh!” she started.
“And where were you last night?” Elaine whispered.
Maralee giggled. “Recovering from Friday and Saturday night. Randy certainly lives up to his name!”
Elaine smiled and wondered if she should find herself a young boyfriend. Ironic, really. Here she was married to the man with the biggest dick in Hollywood, and she was thinking about finding herself a boyfriend. How on earth could anyone else measure up?
She almost laughed aloud.
• • •
“You ever thought about divorcing Elaine?” Karen inquired. She was astride him at the time, knees athletically gripping his hips, while tactile nipples rose and fell temptingly near his mouth.
He was so surprised that he failed to reply. As far as he was concerned, conversation while making it was a no-no. He grunted.
“Well?” persisted Karen.
Her muscle tone was perfect. Why didn’t she just keep her mouth shut? “Divorce costs too much,” he gasped.
She maneuvered her body on top of his and closed her legs.
He groaned in appreciation. This girl knew tricks even he hadn’t tried. She was squeezing him with her muscles and driving him crazy.
“Would you divorce her if I wanted you to?”
He ignored the question. Gave himself up to the few precious moments before orgasm. “Move,” he pleaded. “I’m going to come.”
Her silent reply was to grip him even more firmly and rotate her body until she too was ready. As he exploded, so did she, thrusting her extended nipples in his mouth, grabbing at his hair, squeezing her legs together so tightly that he felt the come was being suctioned out of him.
“Watch the hair!” he screamed desperately.
“Screw your hair!” she shrieked back.
They peaked together in a frenzy.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he gasped. “You really are the best.”
Slowly she released him, leaned over to the bedside table, and lit cigarettes for them both. “You know how much money I have?” she asked.
He tingled all over. Hot damn, he felt about seventeen!
“How much?”
“Enough to pay Elaine off, for a start. And when Daddy goes, the sky’s the limit!”
Wonderful talk. George Lancaster was only twelve years older than he was.
“What are you saying?”
She drew deeply on her cigarette. “That you and I would make a good couple.”
He laughed halfheartedly, not at all impressed with the way the conversation was progressing. “You and I are good together because we’re not married.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see what?” he asked alarmed.
“We’ll just see, that’s all,” she replied mysteriously. “Why don’t we swim?”
“In the ocean?”
“I don’t see a pool around.”
“I haven’t swum in the ocean for years.”
“Let’s go then.” She jumped off the bed, rummaged in a drawer, and came up with a pair of red shorts for him, and a one-piece cutaway suit for herself.
He slipped on the shorts. They were tight in the waist, even tighter between the legs. “Ouch,” he complained.
“Never mind,” she crooned. “Momma’ll massage it all better in the Jacuzzi when we get back.”
“Why are you so good to me, Karen?” he asked quizzically. She grinned. “ ’Cause one good turn deserves another—and baby, your turns are gooood!”
They ran out of the house holding hands.
A lone photographer lying on his stomach under wooden stilts of a nearby house adjusted his telephoto lens. Within five minutes he had shot two rolls of very interesting film indeed.
• • •
Angel hardly slept at all. The state of Shelly’s rundown apartment shocked her. Clothes everywhere, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, and cockroaches roaming the tiny kitchenette as if it were their rightful home.
Shelly had indicated the unmade bed. “Wanna share?” she asked. “I’m not fussy if you’re not.”
Angel had already spotted a bulky armchair. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” she said quickly, memories of her ex-landlady, Daphne, still fresh in her mind.
“Suit yourself, Angel-face.” Shelly shrugged, rummaging in a drawer. “Want some coke?”
“I’m not thirsty, thank you.”
Shelly shot her a raised-eyebrow look, which she ignored. Carefully she removed a scatter of clothes from the chair and placed them in a neat pile on the end of the bed. Sleep. Think. Work things out. She was upset and angry. There hadn’t even been a chance to tell Buddy about her meeting with Oliver Easterne. A meeting that had left her breathless with excitement, his words ringing in her ears. You, little lady, are going to be a star. Naturally she had wanted to tell Buddy immediately, and he would have been as excited as she was. Now everything was spoiled. She would probably never get to see Oliver Easterne again.
Shelly threw over a grubby-looking shawl as Angel settled into the chair. “Sweet dreams, kiddo,” she said. “If you should happen to be an early riser, move quietly. I don’t like seeing daylight until at least eleven.”
Angel nodded. And then spent a miserable night trying to force her cramped body to sleep. By seven in the morning she was wide awake. Quietly she let herself out and went down to the pool. As the morning progressed, other residents appeared. Two girls in matching swimsuits who did a series of intricate gymnastics. An old bewigged lady leading a frazzled French poodle on a diamanté lead. A young schoolboy who had a secretive smoke under a palm tree.
Then came the serious sunbathers armed with towels and oils, nose covers and eye shields. Out-of-work actors all of them.
Angel sat quietly on a broken-down deck chair, her beautiful eyes tinged with worry and tiredness. She smoothed back her fine blon
d hair and tried to stifle a sudden rumbling in her stomach. She was hungry, starving in fact. She glanced at her watch. Only ten minutes before eleven. She would have thought that Buddy would come looking for her by now.
• • •
Buddy surfaced slowly, the heavy pounding in his head signaling life. Only just. He groaned loudly.
Randy, unshaven and bleary-eyed, shakily poured two cups of instant coffee and silently handed him one.
“Didn’t we just go to sleep?” Buddy complained, burning his tongue with the steaming liquid and letting forth a string of expletives.
“Seems like it,” agreed Randy, scratching a sweaty armpit and peering at his Patek-Philippe gold watch—a present from Maralee. “However, it is now two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What day?” groaned Buddy.
“Monday,” Randy replied, groping for the phone. He dialed a number and asked to speak to Mrs. Maralee Gray.
Buddy staggered into the tiny bathroom. He knew he should call Angel right away; she had not looked pleased when he’d stuck her with Shelly. But, hey, it was only for the night; today he would get something together.
He splashed cold water on his face and peered in the mirror. Buddy Boy was not looking his best. He had really laid one on, drugs, booze—the first time since Angel. But he had felt so depressed and frustrated after running out on the two women at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He needed to let go for once.
Thank God for friends—Randy, who had understood when he turned up at his apartment, and Shelly, who had agreed to put Angel up for the night. No problem.
The cold water revived him. He began to feel almost human. Randy was still on the phone, snowing Maralee Gray with bullshit charm.
Buddy pulled on his pants and signaled that he was going up to Shelly’s.
• • •
Two sharp raps. Three. Angel at the door, a cleaning cloth in her hands, the smell of Lysol in the air.
Buddy threw up his arms in exasperation. “What are you doing?”
Her voice cold, hurt. “Cleaning up.”
“Cleaning up what, for crissake?”
“Your friend Shelly lives like a pig. I’m repaying her for my night’s board. It’s the least I can do.”
Hollywood Wives Page 23