Hollywood Wives--The New Generation

by Jackie Collins

  “Courteney Cox was in,” he confided.

  “Cool.”

  “She’s a babe.”

  “And taken.”

  “I can look, can’t I?” Freddy said hopefully.

  “When you make it big, you can do more than look.”

  “Encouragement,” Freddy said, grinning. “You spur me on.”

  Freddy had no idea who she was, which was good, because Nicci had never traded on being Lissa Roman’s daughter. The less people knew, the better. After all, it wasn’t as if she had any desire to be an actress or a singer. Truth was, she hadn’t decided what she wanted to do. She’d dabbled in a few jobs, just like she’d dabbled in a few drugs. Nicci was an adventurer, anxious to cover every experience.

  Recently, Evan had suggested that since she obviously had no intention of going to college, and was currently without a job, she might be interested in working with him.

  “What as—a gofer?” she’d asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, yeah,” he’d answered sarcastically. “I can see you running errands for people.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hang out on the set—see what gets your adrenaline going.”

  “You get my adrenaline going,” she’d said warmly.

  “That’s why I love you.”

  “You love me ’cause we have great sex,” she’d joked.

  “I love you ’cause you’re the only woman I can ever imagine spending more than five minutes with.”

  And this was true, because, unlike his brother, Evan did not have a long, complicated romantic history.

  According to Evan, he’d had no serious attachments before her. And that made her feel very special.

  I’m getting married, she thought, as she left Starbucks, clutching her coffee. Guess that means no more adventures.

  Evan had requested a traditional wedding. She’d sort of entertained the idea of running off to Vegas and getting hitched by some kind of Elvis impersonator, but Evan was having none of it. “A runaway wedding would break my mom’s heart,” he’d said.

  He had a mom! How normal. A widowed mom who lived in New York. They’d flown to New York so that she could meet Nicci. Somehow Nicci had imagined a little old lady in Easy Spirit shoes who wore fluffy angora sweaters and kept cats.

  No such luck. Lynda Richter had turned out to be a tall, big-boned woman clad in Escada and diamonds—purchased for her by her sons—with teeth the size of baby tombstones and plenty of overbearing attitude.

  Nicci felt quite intimidated by her—especially after she got back to L.A. and had to endure a daily phone call checking up on wedding preparations.

  “Have you ordered the cake? The band? Double-checked the place settings? Decided on the flowers? Hired the preacher? Booked a photographer? Chosen your dress? Chosen your bridesmaids’ dresses? What are you waiting for, dear? Your wedding is in six weeks.”

  Nicci dreaded Lynda’s daily phone call. Usually she let her voice mail pick up, but she soon grew annoyed that she was prevented from answering her own phone.

  She’d tried to talk to Evan about it, but, typical male, Evan thought his darling mommy could do no wrong and refused to listen to any form of criticism concerning her.

  The saving factor was that Lynda Richter resided in New York. Nicci didn’t think she could have handled it if Lynda had lived around the corner. What a nightmare that would’ve been. Besides, she resented Lynda butting in as if she were a ditzy airhead. She was perfectly capable of planning her own wedding and had everything under control.

  Well . . . almost.

  She’d booked the venue—a gorgeous bluff situated in Palos Verdes, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The ceremony and reception would take place outside at sunset. Not exactly as traditional as Evan expected, but it would be so romantic. And the woman who ran the place had assured her she could organize whatever Nicci required.

  So . . . all she had to do was figure out what she required.

  Lynda’s list ran through her head like an unrelenting mantra—dress, cake, band, bridesmaids . . . Bridesmaids! God! How traditional was that.

  Evan was having a best man and six groomsmen, so he’d insisted she have bridesmaids. Probably so the groomsmen can get laid, she thought dourly.

  The truth was that she was not a girly girl—most of her friends were male. After much thought she’d managed to come up with six suitable candidates. Now all she had to do was get them fitted for dresses. She was well aware that she’d left it horribly late, although her maid of honor, Saffron Domingo, who was also her best friend, had offered to help.

  Hmm . . . Saffron was hardly the most reliable person in the world. Like Nicci, Saffron was a free, spirit with not much idea about tradition. The daughter of Kyndra, a diva-style black singer, and Norio Domingo, an eccentric white record producer from Colombia, Saffron was a girl who lived by her own rules. Although she was only nineteen, she had a three-year-old daughter, Lulu, to whom Nicci was godmother. Lulu’s time was divided between living with Saffron in her modest Westwood house and visiting her daddy, famous NBA player, Bronson Livingston, who resided in a huge mansion in a gated community with his second wife and three children—all by different women.

  Nicci hated Bronson, in her eyes he was a big, stupid sports star with a giant ego who’d taken advantage of her best friend. And the kicker was he paid minimal child support, and Saffron refused to take him to court to get more.

  Nicci hated him because he’d stolen Saffron’s youth, and the sad thing was that she’d never get it back.

  •

  “I HAVE TO GO,” Lissa said, clicking her fingers for the check. “It’s been memorable, as usual.”

  “Honey, when I’m around it’s always memorable,” drawled Kyndra, producing a solid-gold compact and applying an overabundance of purple lip gloss. “Now don’t forget—my anniversary party is coming up soon, and I expect to see you all there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” everyone chorused.

  “I’m not certain Larry will make it,” Taylor said, her green eyes darting around the restaurant to ascertain if there was anyone important she should say hello to. “He’s in discussion on a big project with James Woods, Harrison Ford, and Nick Angel. You know Larry when he immerses himself.”

  “I’d love to do a movie with Larry,” Lissa said wistfully, reaching for her purse.

  “I believe there is a strong female role,” Taylor said thoughtfully. “Once they’re set, they’ll be starting auditions.”

  “Oh sure,” Stella said, laughing derisively. “Like Lissa would audition.”

  “For Larry, I might,” Lissa said, handing the waiter her credit card. “After all, he and Spielberg are the two finest directors around.”

  “I prefer them more cutting edge myself,” Stella remarked. “Such as Guy Ritchie or Sam Mendes.”

  “American Beauty, an American classic,” James sighed reverently. “Claude and I saw it four times.”

  “Really?” Taylor said with a bitchy edge. “And which one of you had the hots for Kevin Spacey?”

  “Pu-lease,” James drawled. “He’s hardly my type.”

  “Everyone’s your type,” Kyndra joked.

  James shot her an “I-do-not-appreciate-jokes-at-my-expense” look.

  “Personally, I preferred Snatch,” Lissa said. “Guy Ritchie has amazing style.”

  “We’re using an excellent director on our new project,” Stella said, picking a lychee from a dish set in the middle of the table. “A young English guy who’s shot several award-winning television commercials.”

  “Lots of luck, dear,” James interjected. “TV directors are notorious for going way over budget—especially the English. Claude says they’re not worth the hype.”

  “Nobody’s going over budget with Seth and me on his case,” Stella boasted. “We know how to kick major ass.”

  “Such a lady,” James murmured.

  “Just like you, dear,” Stella retaliated.

  Laughter all around
.

  The waiter returned with Lissa’s credit card. She signed the check and got up to leave.

  “Where’re you rushing off to anyway?” Kyndra asked.

  Lissa decided there was no reason to tell them that she had a meeting with a private investigator, it was embarrassing enough that divorce number four might be lurking on the horizon, why tip it before it happened?

  Not that any of them particularly liked Gregg. Even before she’d married him her friends had warned her. Kyndra had accused him of being a user; Taylor commented he hit on other women when he wasn’t with her; and Stella observed that he seemed to be extremely needy. How right they all were.

  Nobody had mentioned that apart from being a user, a flirt, and needy, he was also stone-cold broke and had been going through her money at the speed of sound. He’d lost over a million dollars on the stock market, and that was just the beginning.

  No more, because she was sure that the private investigator she’d hired would come up with plenty of incriminating evidence.

  Call it woman’s intuition, but she knew that marriage number four was definitely over.

  •

  SHORTLY AFTER Lissa left the restaurant, Taylor announced she had a meeting with her writer and had to rush.

  “Jesus!” Stella exclaimed. “How long have you been working on this script of yours now?”

  “Too long,” Taylor said with a grimace. “And I’m still stuck in development hell.”

  “Surely Larry can help?” James asked.

  Yes, Taylor thought grimly. He can and he will.

  When she’d first gotten involved with the project, she hadn’t imagined that she’d require her husband’s assistance. She’d been determined to prove to Hollywood that there was more than one talent in the family, that she was quite capable of getting a movie off the ground by herself.

  The truth was that—dammit—she couldn’t. Hollywood was basically a boys’ town, and even though she was married to one of the boys, when she was out there operating on her own, it didn’t make any difference.

  This was infuriating, because more than anything, Taylor craved recognition and her own identity. Hollywood knew her as Mrs. Lawrence Singer, the wife of an extraordinarily multitalented man who had three Oscars on his mantel and numerous other awards. He was a man who was well respected and well liked. And just because she was his wife (second), so was she.

  Larry was, at fifty, only a mere sixteen years older than she—hardly an age gap in Hollywood circles, where the norm was at least twenty years.

  Successful men usually dumped their first wives within several years of making it big. Then they married the second, much younger wife and started another family—claiming that they would now be able to spend quality time with their new offspring, conveniently forgetting how much this self-serving statement pissed off the children of marriage number one.

  Stella’s husband, Seth, was a classic example.

  Taylor had decided that children were not on her agenda for now. First, a kick-ass career, then maybe a kid or two. It wasn’t as if Larry was desperate—the one time they’d discussed it, he’d told her he didn’t care either way. He had a teenage daughter from his first marriage, and fortunately the girl resided in Hawaii with her mother, so Taylor hardly ever saw her.

  She and Larry had been married for five years. They’d lived together for eighteen months before he’d gotten his divorce—a divorce that had cost him millions. But he hadn’t seemed to mind.

  Taylor had minded. Especially when his lawyers stepped in and suggested that she sign a prenuptial.

  She’d moved out of his house in a rage, had not spoken to him for days.

  Her behavior paid off. He’d begged her forgiveness and the prenup was never mentioned again.

  They’d met on one of his movies. She’d had a small role, and he was king of the set. She’d gone after him from day one. Married or not, Larry Singer was destined to be her ticket to ride on all the roundabouts.

  Tracking him was easy—especially for an experienced player like Taylor, who’d been knocking around Hollywood for several years, snagging small roles in theatrical movies and starring in a couple of failed sitcoms.

  Taylor was an ex-cheerleader who’d come to Hollywood after winning a beauty pageant. Once there, she’d managed to fuck her way to the middle.

  Larry was an extraordinarily talented, rather plain man who’d never explored his sexual potential.

  Taylor had helped him make the trip.

  Now it was his turn to help her.

  She had a script that was almost right—and so it should be, she’d been working on it for long enough, hiring and firing a succession of writers. When the script was exactly the way she wanted it, she planned on directing and playing the lead, the role of a strong woman. So far three studios had passed, and finally she’d been forced to ask Larry to come to her aid. With his kind of clout, they both knew he could get anything done.

  Pending script approval, he’d set a deal for her at Orpheus Studios. God knows what he’d promised them to make the deal. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. It was her turn to shine. Her turn to get the recognition. She’d given up her acting career for Larry, and now it was time to get it back on track.

  She stood outside the restaurant, waiting for the valet to bring her car, a metallic-blue Jaguar that Larry had gifted her with on her last birthday.

  In her mind she was just as talented as her famous husband, and it was about time the world realized it.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  WE GOTTA PLAN your bachelor party,” Brian Richter remarked as he finished rolling a joint. “Or rather I do. All you gotta do is gimme a night, and leave everything else to me.”

  “No party,” Evan Richter answered stubbornly. They were sitting around a long table covered with scribbled-on script pages in a hotel room in Arizona, where they were on location for their current movie, Space Blonde.

  “Why not?” Brian said, lighting up the joint.

  “I’ve been a bachelor forever,” Evan said, annoyed that he had to explain. “Did enough partying to last a lifetime, so what’ve I got to prove?”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me?” Brian said with a disgusted look. “Bachelor parties are the only sane reason for getting married. If you’re gonna lock yourself up in pussy prison, you may as well fuck your balls off before your old lady cuts ’em off.”

  “You’re sick,” Evan muttered.

  “No. I’m normal,” Brian retorted, dragging deeply on his joint. “You’re the fucked-up member of the family.”

  “It’s a tragedy we weren’t separated at birth,” Evan muttered, wishing it were so.

  “That would’ve suited me just fine,” Brian retorted. “And I’m sure Mom wouldn’t’ve minded.”

  The Richter brothers. Fraternal twins. Totally unlike physically. Evan, quirky and nice looking, but no hunk with his spiky brown hair and lanky frame. Whereas Brian was all piercing blue eyes, shaggy beach-blond hair, and a hard body. In spite of Brian’s bad-boy habits—which included gambling, drinking too much, drugging a lot, and indiscriminately sleeping with a variety of nubile females—he was in excellent shape.

  The Richter brothers. Hot properties in Hollywood. Hot and unpredictable. Some thought Evan was the one with all the talent because he appeared to be more serious than Brian. But Brian was the one with the best ideas. And Brian was the one who came up with the main story line and wrote most of the scripts. It was Evan who kept it all together, handled the financial aspects, could unfailingly close any deal, and made sure their movies came in on time and usually under budget.

  The Richter brothers were always arguing; it amazed everyone who came in contact with them how they were able to maintain such a successful working relationship. Bicker, bicker, bicker. Day and night they went at it.

  Often they threatened to dissolve their partnership and go their separate ways. But usually sanity soon prevailed, because why mess with something
that was making them both more money than they could ever have imagined?

  “How is dear little Nicci?” Brian asked sarcastically. “Still calling you six times a day?”

  “We alternate,” Evan muttered, wondering why he was even bothering to explain.

  “Bullshit,” Brian said disbelievingly.

  “How come you’re always on her case?” Evan responded, frowning.

  “ ’Cause she’s nothing but a needy kid.”

  Evan glared at his brother. “Like you date adults,” he said.

  “I date ’em, don’t marry ’em,” Brian pointed out. “Marriage is for old people who can’t get it up.”

  Fortunately, Teena, their script assistant, rushed into the room, speaking into a cell phone. Short and in her thirties, she was an eccentric-looking woman with hair like straw, decorated with various colored clips and slides—plus a bold blue streak. Her round face was made to seem more so by the addition of huge wire-rimmed glasses, and she had a prominent snub nose.

  “What’s up?” Evan said, happy for the interruption, because he was not about to get into a discussion about why he was marrying Nicci with his sex-crazed brother. It was none of his business.

  “Everything,” Teena said, clicking off the phone and rolling her purple-shadowed eyes. “Abbey doesn’t care for her new lines. Harry is under the impression that his trailer is smaller than hers. And Chris can’t handle it. He’s apparently gone into a funk. We’d better get over to the location, pronto.”

  Abbey Christian—a leggy, twenty-two-year-old natural blonde, with a smile that could light up Christmas. Star of their latest movie. Major player. Major cokehead.

  Harry Bello—big-deal comedy actor supreme. Rubber faced and coming up to fifty. Paranoid about getting older and quite certain that Abbey was receiving better treatment than he was.

  Chris Fortune. Boy-wonder director. The same age as Abbey and somewhat intimidated by his two stars—even though he’d directed the big sleeper hit of the previous summer.

  “Freakin’ actors,” Brian grumbled, exhaling smoke. “We should be making animated movies.”