Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  Karen was burning. How come she was stuck at the worst table in the room with all the nothings and nobodies? How dare Elaine do that to her?

  The final insult was Ron Gordino, who just casually strolled over and sat himself down. She was seated next to Ron Gordino—a fucking exercise instructor. What had she done to deserve this?

  I will kill Elaine Conti, she thought. No way is she going to humiliate me like this and get away with it. Better still, I will steal her husband away from her once and for all, and I’ll have parties that she won’t even be invited to.

  Fat-ass Etta Grodinski. Oh yeah. I know all about your crappy beginnings. Your dear, sweet, unfaithful husband told me.

  “Um . . . this is a great party,” drawled Ron Gordino.

  “Tell me,” Karen said, smiling sweetly. “How many times have you laid our hostess?”

  36

  Legs, arms, breasts. The whisper of mouths, the teasing of tongues, hot breath, saliva, taste and touch and tactile sensuality.

  It was years since he’d been with two women. Maybe ten years. Paris. And they were sisters who fiercely resembled each other.

  This was different. Two women from two separate cultures, and they were transporting him to a plateau of ecstasy that he had thought was no longer his to visit.

  Thiou-Ling was indeed an artist. Only she did not work with a palette of paints, instead she worked with scented oils and her feathery childlike fingers. She tended both Gina and Neil at once, touching first Gina’s ripe nipples, then Neil’s rampant penis, which threatened to burst, the skin was stretched so tight.

  She fussed and fretted over each of them, her long hair trailing on their skin like strands of fine silken thread.

  After a while it was torture.

  Exquisite torture.

  He shoved the Eurasian girl away and mounted Gina, who wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was so wet and ready that he almost slipped out, but Thiou-Ling had not deserted them, she was there to help him enter the moist warmth of the second most popular blonde in America. She guided him into paradise. And he knew without a doubt that this was to be the most exciting sexual experience of his life.

  Montana was long forgotten.

  Street People was long forgotten.

  The party was long forgotten.

  He was entering heaven.

  37

  At eleven o’clock precisely the Zancussi Trio faded out with a soulful rendition of the theme from The Godfather. Ric and Phil, their speakers in place, their long wild hair freaked out, moved into action. Kool and the Gang imploring everyong to “Get Down on It” blasted out from seven hidden speakers.

  “Shit!” Ross shot out of his chair. “What a noise!”

  A space had been cleared for dancing, and Pamela thought he was offering. She leaped up too. “Yes, Ross, let’s show ’em how it’s done!”

  Six-foot, redheaded Pamela London dragged him onto the dance floor.

  Sadie was only too pleased to have a short respite from the pressure of his charm. He had been coming on strong to her all night, and although she knew it was all a game, she couldn’t help being affected. She felt uncomfortably aroused. He still had the power to excite her with words alone. How different it all could have been if he hadn’t deserted her.

  • • •

  “Wanna dance?” Karen Lancaster demanded of Buddy Hudson.

  He was sitting between her and Frances Cavendish, feeling confused. He should be feeling great. Instead he had one eye on Angel at a table across the room, and a nervous stomach that told him to keep hold of himself until the contracts were signed.

  Jeez! This was the best night of his life. It was also the worst. Who the fuck was Angel with? He decided he would go over and ask her to dance. Then he would get her in a quiet corner and ask, “Why did you get rid of our baby? Why did you leave me? Why can’t we try again?”

  “I said, let’s dance,” slurred Karen. She was high, her pupils huge. She and Shelly would make a great pair.

  He wanted to say no, but with George Lancaster being her father and all he thought it might be better to say yes, so he turned to Frances, who had just returned from smoking a joint in the guest toilet. “Do you mind if I dance?” he asked.

  “Do what you like,” Frances replied irritably. She was not pleased. He had hardly turned out to be the attentive escort she had envisioned. He could whistle for the Universal job. She would tell him so when he took her home.

  “Yeah, sure, let’s go,” he told Karen, and they joined the third-richest woman in the world, who couldn’t dance, and Ross Conti, who couldn’t dance, for a whirl around the floor.

  Karen could “Get Down on It” with the best of them. She moved in such a fashion that her body went one way, and her braless breasts with their exotic nipples another.

  “Hey!” exclaimed Buddy. He loved to dance, and among this group it was a pleasure.

  Angel, baby, understand that this is purely business.

  Karen moved nearer to Ross. “Pamela, you old dog,” she slurred. “Din’t know you were such a swinger. Here, Buddy, you dance with Pammy—I’m taking Ross.” Skillfully she moved between them, and Buddy found himself dancing opposite Pamela London, which really blew his mind.

  He grinned politely. She exhibited yellow horse teeth in response.

  “Come on, Elaine, if they can do it so can we, old girl,” boomed George Lancaster, pulling her up.

  Elaine forced a smile. She wasn’t too fond of the “old girl.” Karen had a viselike hold on Ross, and was pushing her disgusting body up against his leg like a bitch in heat. The entire party was watching.

  Put on a happy face, Elaine.

  Screw you, Etta.

  “I think I’m having an orgasm from your knee,” Karen husked drunkenly into his ear.

  “Pull yourself together, everybody’s watching,” he said tersely, keeping an alert eye on Sadie, who was deep in conversation with Shakira and Michael Caine.

  “So what?” slurred Karen.

  “So cool it.”

  “Cool it . . . cool it.” She raised her arms above her head and shimmied like a stripper.

  “That’s my girl!” shouted George, and he abandoned Elaine and moved over in front of his daughter.

  Reluctantly Ross found himself partnering Elaine. At that particular moment the blonde in the Porsche who had waved to him that morning boogied on by. Now he recognized her as Sharon Richmond.

  “And who were you visiting this morning?” She giggled. “Caught you—didn’t I?” She giggled again. “Only joking, Elaine. I know for a fact that there are three practicing dentists who live in my complex alone.”

  Her date, sensing Ross’s fury, yanked her away.

  Elaine narrowed her eyes. “You bastard!” she hissed.

  In unison they left the dance floor.

  • • •

  “Jogging sucks!” said the curly-haired girl with an unladylike hiccough.

  “You know what I want?” mused her friend, a tastefully dressed brunette with a body like Bo Derek. “I want a big star who’ll do windows!”

  Scintillating conversation, thought Montana.

  Since Ric and Phil had taken over the music scene, and three hours of liquor had taken care of everyone’s inhibitions, it was all happening. Only not for her. She might have been able to have a good time if Neil had put in an appearance. But his absence was beginning to worry her. Oliver didn’t know where he was. She had tracked his secretary down and she didn’t know either. All of a sudden thoughts were creeping into her mind about the way he drove his Maserati. Fast. Much too fast. Maybe he had had an accident.

  • • •

  As soon as Pamela left the table Oliver jumped to his feet and hurried over to Angel. “It is you, isn’t it?” he said, leaning over her chair.

  She started. “Sorry?”

  “You’re the girl from the beach. Don’t tell me I’m mistaken, I know it’s you.”

  “Oh . . . yes.”

 
“I’ve had people trying to find you. Aren’t you interested in becoming a star?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She thought about Buddy’s baby growing inside her, far more important than any quick shot at stardom. “No,” she said.

  “No?” he echoed in disbelief.

  “No,” she repeated firmly.

  “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with you? Nobody says no to becoming a movie star.”

  “I do,” she said in a small voice.

  • • •

  “Sadie, we had such a great thing going between us. Where did we go wrong?”

  We. He had the nerve to say we. What a selfish, self-obsessed egoist Ross Conti was.

  So what else was new?

  She waved at Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson, who were making a late entrance.

  “Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night,” he continued, “and I think to myself—why isn’t Sadie lying here with me? Why isn’t she next to me? With her soft warm body and her big fantastic tits.”

  The man was actually still calling them tits. To her face. And he expected her to be flattered. Hadn’t he heard of the women’s movement and the sexual revolution? He was coming on to her as though she were a piece of ass that he could sweet-talk into the sack. Poor Ross. He had learned nothing over the years.

  He was going all the way. “I want you, Sadie,” he whispered. “I want you so badly that if you put your hand under the table you can feel just how much.”

  • • •

  “I wish to be taken home,” said Frances Cavendish coldly.

  “Now?”

  “No. Tomorrow morning will do nicely.” She narrowed her flinty eyes. “Now, Buddy.”

  “But the party is just gettin’ going.”

  “For us it’s just ending.”

  For one wild moment he contemplated telling her to get stuffed. After all, he had Street People. Who needed Frances Cavendish? But common sense prevailed, and he decided to drive her home, return to the party, corner Angel, and really talk things out.

  “Let’s go,” he said, pleased with his decision.

  “I must say goodbye to the Contis.”

  That’s what he was counting on. While Frances thanked Elaine he skipped over to Angel’s table, bent over her shoulder, and said, “I have to go somewhere, but I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and I want us to talk—without any schmucks butting in. You at least owe me that, don’t you?”

  She frowned. “I don’t owe you anything. After what Shelly told me—”

  “What did Shelly tell you?”

  “That you and she . . .” She hesitated, unable to repeat what she had heard. “Is it true?”

  Goddam Shelly. Had she been in contact with Angel again and not told him?

  “What’s going on, dear?” asked the curly-haired man on her left, not so immaculate now, rather disheveled and wild-looking. Angel ignored him, and pushed her chair away from the table. “Okay, let’s talk. Let’s go somewhere quiet and—”

  “Buddy. I’m waiting.” Frances Cavendish’s commanding tone as she approached.

  “Twenty minutes,” he said desperately in a hoarse whisper. “Just gotta run this old broad home. Like it’s business, y’know?”

  Sadly she nodded. He hadn’t changed. What good would talking do?

  • • •

  “I’m telling you, Montana. She’s right for it. Better than anyone we’ve tested,” Oliver said excitedly. “I want you to talk to her. She’ll listen to you. When—”

  “What do you think can have happened to Neil? Should I call the police?” she interrupted anxiously.

  “Are you nuts? I’m telling you about the perfect Nikki and you’re talking police.”

  “I’m worried about Neil.”

  “He’s a big boy.”

  “Really?” Her sarcasm brushed off him like dandruff.

  “Come on, forget about Neil—he can look after himself. The girl’s name is Angel, can you believe it? I think we should call her Angel Angeli—the press’ll eat it up. Let’s go, Montana, you can talk some brains into the kid. Everyone wants to be in the movies.”

  38

  He was climaxing. Thick salty spurts of life’s essence.

  And Thiou-Ling was breaking a small glass phial of amyl nitrite under his nose.

  And he was coming and coming and coming.

  Life’s sweet wish. The never-ending orgasm . . . nirvana . . . paradise . . . bliss.

  And then the pain. So sudden. So unexpected. A thunderbolt of agony that gripped him across the chest and down one side with an intensity that was killing.

  “Oh good Christ,” he said. At least he thought he said it, but he didn’t hear the words come out.

  His cock was still hard, still pulsating, but the pleasure was no longer his, and no words would emerge to tell the world that he was slipping.

  The two women did not realize that anything was the matter. His weight did not bother Gina, it merely enhanced her own moment of ecstasy. And then, when her moment was over . . .

  “Neil?” she murmured. “Neil, please move, you’re crushing me.” Her voice rose. “Neil.” She tried to push him off her. “Stop fooling around—it’s not funny.”

  He groaned. “I . . . don’t . . . feel . . . good.”

  Oh, no. He wasn’t having a heart attack. Not on top of her. Not in her house. Oh, no!

  She panicked and tried to throw him off, her vagina contracting in a most peculiar way. “Get off me!” she screeched.

  The pain around his chest subsided and he attempted to withdraw from her clinging wetness.

  Strangest sensation in the world. He couldn’t pull out. His penis felt as if it were caught in a vise.

  “Gina, there’s something wrong,” he mumbled weakly.

  “Cut it out, Neil,” she snapped angrily.

  Ah, but if only he could!

  39

  “One thing I’ll always remember, and baby, never will I forget it, there has never been anyone else who did it for me the way you did. You feel the same, don’t you?”

  In a way Sadie wished he would stop. But then in another way she was enjoying every phony minute.

  “Haven’t you always felt that what we had was the best?” Ross persisted, wishing that Phil and Ric would turn their goddam speakers down. Loud rock music was hardly conducive to stirring up a romance. And yet he felt he was doing pretty well. He hadn’t got her to place her hand on his dick yet, but she was attentive, all right. Lapping up every line of dialogue he came out with. “Well?” He was determined to get an answer out of her. “Has there been anyone better for you?”

  She knew what he wanted, so she decided to put him out of his misery. “Do you want me to be your agent?”

  “What?” He pretended to be shocked.

  “I said how would you feel about me representing you again?”

  “Sadie . . . I never really thought about it.”

  “You thought about it a few years ago. Remember, at the Fox party?”

  He laughed casually. He was not above getting in a dig. “Yeah. I remember. You told me to take a hike—or something like that.”

  “Actually I said if making commission on you gave me my one hot meal of the week I’d starve to death.” As if he didn’t remember.

  “You did?”

  “I’ve mellowed since then.”

  “I should hope so!”

  “Well? Do you want to be my client or not?”

  He pretended reluctance. “I’m happy with the agent I have.”

  “That’s a shame. In that case—”

  “No, no. I’m not that happy, and there is something I think you might be able to pull off for me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It’s—”

  “Not now, Ross. Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow? Does five o’clock suit you?”

  It suited him. But was it right that he should have to go to her office like an aspiring client? Shouldn’t it be lunch at Ma Maison or the
Bistro Gardens? Shouldn’t she, the agent, be pursuing him?

  Cut it out. Who do you think you’re kidding? The game is getting her back in your corner. Not playing footsie over chicken salad, and jerking off because a roomful of assholes can see that you’re with Sadie La Salle.

  “That’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Good,” she replied, getting up. “Now you must excuse me, I have to spend some time with George.”

  He watched her walk away.

  It wasn’t all that difficult getting you back, Sadie. You may be a toughie, but with me you’re still cream cheese.

  The heavy throb of disco turned slow, and the dancing space packed up with couples clinging closely together. A lone paparazzo had managed to break in and climb a tree, where he perched precariously, desperately trying to get pictures before security yanked him down and out.

  For a moment Ross thought about Little S. Schortz and the incriminating photos. Karen had plenty of money—maybe she would feel like buying the negatives.

  He looked around. Everyone seemed to be having a terrific time. It was past twelve and no one was making any moves to go home. Hollywood was basically an early town, and past twelve was late. Elaine’s party was a big success.

  His thoughts rested on his wife for a moment. What had she been thinking of, stealing a bracelet? Was she crazy? Hadn’t she considered the consequences? It was back-to-the-shrink time for Elaine. No doubt about that.

  Where was she, anyway? His eyes sought her out and found her dancing close with some superman clone. The sexual promise of Teddy Pendergrass caressed them. Ross leaned across the table to Maralee. “Who’s Elaine dancing with?”

  She glanced over. “Oh, that’s Ron Gordino, our exercise instructor.”

  Karen’s words flashed across his brain. I think Elaine’s playing doctor.

  He peered intently at the entwined couple. Was it a trick of light or was the creep nibbling her ear?

  Impossible. Elaine was his wife. She wouldn’t dare screw around.

  Or would she?

  • • •

  “I think we should be going,” Mrs. Liderman said. “Poor little Frowie will be wondering what’s happened to his momma.”