“Although Amber couldn’t help giving me a few helpful hints.”
“Amber’s really something.”
“Yes, she is,” Carol agreed. And then all of a sudden she moved in and began kissing him.
Michael found it most off-putting when a woman initiated kissing. It meant you couldn’t stop, you had to go forward, even if you didn’t want to.
He kissed her back, he had no choice.
She had an annoying habit of running her tongue over his teeth, and as she did that, he realized there was absolutely nothing left between them. He couldn’t have gotten a hard-on under any circumstances. The thrill was long gone.
I’ve gotta get out of here, he thought. I’ve gotta get out of here right now.
“Uh . . . what did you want to talk about, Carol?” he asked, finally extracting himself.
“Before I tell you what it is,” she said, sitting up very straight. “I want you to know that I’m not asking you for a thing.”
“Huh?” he said, wondering what the hell she was coming up with.
“I want to do this,” she said earnestly. “I’m doing it for me. So . . . you can be as involved as you want, or not involved at all. Whatever you decide, I promise I’ll understand. And I’ll never ask anything from you financially.”
He felt a bad feeling enveloping him. “What?” he managed.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-eight
* * *
LARRY WAS ANXIOUS to leave the party as soon as Taylor showed up. “I’ve been here for hours,” he complained, tapping his watch. “And I’m very tired.”
She was having none of it. “Well, I’m not,” she said, quite exhilarated.
“Aren’t you working tomorrow?”
“Late call,” she said, waving at Stella and Seth across the room.
“We have important things to discuss regarding your project,” Larry said, hoping to lure her home that way.
“Do you mind if we sit down first so I can at least get something to eat?” she said, pulling him out to the tented patio.
“I’ve already eaten,” he said. “It would be better if we talked at home, this band is too noisy for conversation.”
“You’re such a grouch,” Taylor said, obviously on a high. “Please don’t spoil my great day.”
“I have things to tell you, Taylor. Things that will please you.”
“So tell me at the table, darling,” she said, holding onto his arm. “Come on, I want you to meet Montana.”
“I already know Montana,” he said in a surly voice. “I worked with her husband once.”
“She mentioned it. You were married to Susan at the time.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“I’m having the best time with Montana,” Taylor said, refusing to let him ruin her night.
“I’m sure you are,” Larry said, getting more uptight by the minute.
“She’s an amazing director, so in touch with her actors.”
“That’s nice,” Larry said.
“Of course, you’re always in touch with your actors, aren’t you?” she said, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“I try to be,” Larry said, sensing it was going to be a long night. “Taylor,” he said seriously. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to your project, and you’re right, you should be in control, not working for other people.”
“What if the other person was you, Larry?”
“Meaning?”
“There’s a wonderful female role in your next movie,” she said, seizing the opportunity. “Why can’t I play it?”
It was the first time she’d asked if she could be in one of his films, and she felt particularly bold doing so. But what the hell? She was an actress for crissakes, and he was her husband. Why couldn’t he give her the part?
“I . . . I hadn’t thought about it,” he said hesitantly. “The studio—”
“Oh, please!” she interrupted. “You tell the studio what you want. Everyone knows you make all the creative decisions.”
“I wasn’t aware that you had any desire to be in my movie.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re an incredible director. Most actors would kill to work with you.” She took a gulp of champagne. “Montana said I was brilliant today, absolutely brilliant.”
“What did you do?”
“Shot a love scene between me and Sonja Lucerne, who, I must say, is extremely charming, and totally professional.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, not liking the thought of his wife indulging in a love scene with another woman. Quite frankly, it disgusted him.
“Anyway, darling,” Taylor said, “if you want to go home, I’ll understand. And I’m sure you won’t mind if I stay and wind down. You know what it’s like when the old adrenaline is pumping. I won’t be able to sleep for hours.”
“I’ll stay with you,” he said stiffly. “And then you can hear what I’ve arranged.”
“What?” she said, her eyes darting around the room to see if she could spot Montana.
“I gave your script to a new writer,” Larry said, stroking his beard. “I think he can do something special with it, something the studio will approve of. So I’ve gone ahead and arranged a meeting with him and a couple of Orpheus executives. Naturally you’ll be there. And if you want, I’ll come too.”
“Larry,” she said happily. “This is fantastic news. Who’s the writer?”
“Now don’t get excited, because the studio has already approved him.”
“They have?”
“You have to trust me on this, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s talent.”
“Who, Larry?”
“Oliver Rock.”
•
THERE WERE MORE MESSAGES from Evan when Nicci got home. Saffron had not come with her, having decided it was better for Lulu to sleep in her own bed.
Nicci played the messages over several times. Saffron was right, he did sound uptight, especially when he called her unreliable.
Ha! She might be unreliable—although she didn’t think she was. But he was a liar. He should’ve told her about a former fiancée, it was unsettling that he hadn’t.
She switched all the phones off, including her cell, and went to bed.
Tomorrow she’d get into it. Tonight she was still too hungover.
And as she drifted off to sleep her last thought was of Brian with his sleepy bedroom eyes and crooked grin.
Brian, Brian, Brian . . .
Did we? Or didn’t we?
•
THE WORKFORCE were out in droves, running in and out of Lissa’s house as if it were a 7-Eleven. Fabio was all over the place.
“My darling, I want you to try out these extensions,” he said, holding up swatches of blond hair. “They’ll be absolutely divine!”
“I’m not sure I want extensions, Fabio. Too much hair when I’m dancing gets in my way.”
“Darling, they’ll look amazing! And I’ve been dreaming of gold makeup. You have to be a golden beauty. Lissa Roman—you will own the stage.”
“Maybe,” she said uncertainly.
“Shall we test it today, my sweets?”
“No, we’ll do it in Vegas. I’m not in the mood today.”
Her clothes designer and his three assistants were dashing in and out of the house, ferrying back and forth several outfits, all of which she had to try on. Her favorite jeweler, Neil Lane, was busy tempting her with fabulous pieces of art deco jewelry, and she was trying to decide what to borrow to wear in her show. She finally decided on an amazing emerald-and-diamond necklace from the twenties and two magnificent Cartier diamond cuffs from the thirties. She toyed with some earrings from the Mae West estate, then decided they were too flamboyant.
Max was running around, attempting to persuade her to grant an interview to the L.A. Times.
&nbs
p; She demurred. “It’s too soon,” she said. “They’ll want to talk about Gregg.”
“They have strict orders not to,” he assured her.
“You know how it happens, Max. Whether I talk about him or not, they’re bound to mention him in the piece.”
“The journalist is a personal friend of mine,” Max said. “We can trust him.”
“Fine,” she sighed, realizing that Max was not about to let up. “When would you like me to do it?”
“Lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
“I wasn’t planning on leaving the house today.”
“Then should I have Nellie organize a light lunch here?”
“You know I don’t allow journalists into my home.”
“Make up your mind, Lissa,” Max said, getting quite testy. “What do you want to do?”
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “Lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She buzzed Danny. “Is everything set for tomorrow?”
“All organized, Miz Roman,” Danny said.
“Add Mr. Scorsinni to the list, he’s coming with us on the plane.”
“Certainly,” Danny said, quite pleased at the prospect of seeing the extraordinarily handsome private investigator again.
Lissa wondered if she should call Quincy and double-check that Michael was indeed coming. Then she decided no, it wouldn’t do to look too anxious. If Michael wasn’t coming, Quincy would have let her know.
Why did she want him there anyway?
She couldn’t answer that. He made her feel safe. Yes, that was it—safe and secure, protected from anything Gregg might do.
She called Kyndra to thank her for the party. Kyndra was still asleep, even though it was past noon.
James phoned and launched into a litany of bitter complaints about Claude, who apparently had not come home at all. “He said he went to the beach house and slept there,” James said. “Of course he did, and he probably took that Latin slut with him. Men!”
“What are you planning to do about it?” Lissa asked.
“Nothing,” James said sullenly. “I will get my revenge—just you wait until Vegas.”
That’s all she needed. James in his drama-queen mood, prancing around Vegas, trying to get back at Claude.
•
ACROSS TOWN, Gregg Lynch sat with Patrick, the Australian journalist friend of Belinda’s, in a café on Larchmont Avenue, drinking black coffee while trying to dredge up any new information about Lissa Roman he could think of.
“The bitch won’t even take my calls,” he complained. “She’s a first-class cunt.”
“They all are,” Patrick said sympathetically. “I’ve dealt with enough movie stars to know what a bunch of useless wankers they are.”
“Right,” Gregg agreed.
Patrick, a heavyset man with greased-back, dyed black hair, said, “You gotta understand, anything you come up with is worth money. What about her childhood? Nothing’s ever been written about that. You got any dirt?”
“Nothing,” Gregg said. “She told me she left home and ran off to New York when she was sixteen, hasn’t seen her parents since.”
“Bingo!” Patrick crowed, waving his pen in the air. “That’s good enough.”
“It is?” Gregg said blankly.
“There’s your story—dumped her family. Never seen them since.”
“I’m not sure,” Gregg said hesitantly. “She never talked about them, always said they never came looking for her, so she never went looking for them.”
“This is juicy stuff,” Patrick said, scribbling down a few notes in a tattered notebook. “Now all you gotta do is tell me what town she came from. Maybe you’ve got an address or something? I can take it from there.”
“How’m I supposed to know that?” Gregg said.
“Christ, you were married to the skirt. You gonna tell me you don’t know where she’s from?”
“We weren’t exactly investigating her history,” Gregg said. “We were too busy fucking.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick said. “We’ll play up the nympho angle. But I gotta have more. Did she keep a journal, shit like that?”
“As a matter of fact,” Gregg said, “she did have a bunch of old journals from when she was a kid.”
“Where’d she keep ’em?”
“In a big storage room behind her pool house. That’s where she stores all her old junk.”
“Can you get into it?”
“How? She’s got guards crawling all over the property. I can’t get into a fucking thing. They packed up my stuff and dumped it outside the front door. What a bitch!”
“You must have some connections. A maid, one of the guards, the friggin’ gardener, for crissakes?”
“She has a gay assistant, Danny,” Gregg said. “He kind of had eyes for me.”
“How about calling him?”
“I could do that.”
“Go for it,” Patrick said, waving at the waitress to bring him more coffee. “If you want big bucks for your story, we gotta dig deep. The diaries could be the stuff we need. I can see the headline now.”
“Maybe I can get in the house when she’s in Vegas,” Gregg said, thinking it might be possible. “She’s opening the Desert Millennium Princess hotel on Saturday night with her show.”
“Legally you’re still her husband,” Patrick said, encouraging him. “You have rights. I don’t see how they can keep you out. And the security won’t be so intense if she’s not home.”
“That’s true,” Gregg said. “I’ll call Danny, see what I can find out.”
“You do that, mate. Big score—here we come!”
•
“WHAT THE FUCK is the matter with you today?” Quincy said, staring at his partner as they sat in his office.
Michael had spent the day wandering around in a daze. He was so shocked by Carol’s news that he didn’t know what to do next. The first thing he’d wanted to ask her was if she’d slept with anyone else, only that would have been insulting. And anyway, he knew that she hadn’t, because when they’d first started sleeping together she’d promptly informed him she was planning on being monogamous, and she hoped he was too. That had been months ago.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“You don’t look so good either,” Quincy observed. “You’re still goin’ to Vegas tomorrow, right? You know I’d go if I could, but look at me—I’m on crutches, for crissakes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’,” Michael said, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll be glad to get out of town.”
“Somethin’ happen after we left last night?” Quincy asked curiously. “You didn’t give her the speech, did you?”
Michael wanted to tell him the truth, only then Q would go running back to Amber, she’d open her big mouth to the world, and who needed that?
On the other hand, if he didn’t tell Quincy, what was he going to do? Keep it to himself?
He got up and closed the door. “Here’s the deal, Q. I’ll tell you what went on, but you have to give me your word not to run back to your wife, who probably knows anyway. This is strictly between us, okay?”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?” Quincy asked.
“Carol’s pregnant.”
“She’s what?”
“Pregnant, knocked up—a bun in the oven.”
“Yours?”
“According to her,” Michael said, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I could get her to take a test, but I know it’s mine.”
“Aw, jeez, there goes your ‘let’s say good-bye’ speech.”
“You can say that again.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“What can I do? I don’t believe in abortion, and even if I did, she wouldn’t do it. She says she’s having the kid and doesn’t want anything from me.”
“Shit!” Quincy said. “I’m sorry, man.”
“You think I want another child coming into the world that’s not really mine?” Michael said.
“
You just said it’s yours,” Quincy reminded him.
“Don’t you get it, Q? I can’t do this,” he said, getting up and pacing around the room. “I don’t want to be with Carol, I don’t want to marry her. I don’t even want to spend any time with her. Now she’s having my kid. Damn! I’ve already lost one, and I’m not saying that this could turn out to be anything like that, but Jesus Christ, I’m fucking trapped.”
“You should’ve used a rubber,” Quincy said.
“It was one of those nights. She told me she was on the pill, and I believed her. Fuck! I don’t know what to do.”
“Nothing you can do,” Quincy said. “You gotta eat it.”
“Is that what I gotta do, Q?” he said, staring at his partner. “Is that what I gotta do really? ’Cause I don’t think I can do that.”
“You got no choice.”
“No,” he said glumly. “I guess I don’t.”
•
THE FIRST THING Taylor thought about when she awoke on Wednesday was Oliver Rock. How could Larry have done this to her? How could he have hired Oliver without consulting her first?
They’d argued all night. “I don’t want a new writer,” she’d said.
“Yes, you do,” he’d said. “Oliver recently sold a script for a million bucks. He’s hot right now. He’s exactly who you need.”
“How do we know he’s any good?”
“I’m telling you he’s good. I read his script, it’s got heat. If you want me involved, you have to accept what I say.”
When it came to the movie business, Larry was in charge. There was no arguing with him. He thought he was giving her what she wanted, and in a way he was.
The good news was that with Larry involved, her project would finally take flight, especially as he’d offered to put his name on as executive producer.
Suddenly she’d started thinking about how exciting it would be to actually star in and direct her own movie.
So what if Oliver Rock rewrote the script? As long as the movie got made, that was the main thing.
But she was still angry. How dare Larry go behind her back. And how dare Oliver accept the assignment.
When she got downstairs in the morning, Larry was settled on the patio eating his usual breakfast and reading The New York Times.
“I’m off to work,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
Hollywood Wives--The New Generation Page 25