‘I had a glass of water,’ she said belligerently. ‘Is that all right with you, Mr Reformed Alcoholic?’
To avoid a fight he hurriedly dropped the subject. ‘So…are you with anybody now?’ he asked, keeping it casual. ‘Some handsome young stud?’
‘None of your damn business,’ she told him, her words definitely tripping. ‘And you’d better behave yourself around my gentleman friends ’cause, if I recall correctly, last time you got the bejesus beaten out of you.’
Oh, great. Fond memories. Stoned as he’d been, there was no forgetting the low-life she’d been supporting at the time.
Big fucking deal, so he’d thrown a few insults the loser’s way. How was he supposed to know the creep was a professional boxer?
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Mom,’ he said, suddenly overcome with a desperate urge to get off the phone.
‘Do that,’ she said sourly. ‘If you can find the time.’
He put down the phone and stubbed out his cigarette. One thing for sure, she’d certainly managed to wipe the smile off his face.
Unfortunately, there was nothing new about that.
Max was seething. What kind of game was Mariska playing, and how could he find out?
It was all too suspicious. First Vladimir turning up at his office, then Mariska claiming she was not married to the Russian, when she knew perfectly well he’d seen the marriage papers.
Were they forged? Should he call in an expert?
No, he couldn’t do that because it meant bringing in people who would then know his business.
Goddamn it! He was trapped in an impossible situation.
He called Amy. ‘You never made it to brunch,’ he said accusingly, ready to vent his bad mood on someone.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said apologetically. ‘It wasn’t my fault. Grams was in one of her talkative moods and it was impossible to get away.’
‘How’s Grams doing?’ he asked, softening, because none of this was Amy’s fault and he shouldn’t be taking it out on her. The truth was that she and Lulu were the only two worthwhile people in his life.
‘Brilliant for ninety,’ Amy answered cheerfully. ‘She looks better than either of us.’
He didn’t laugh. He wasn’t in the mood for laughing. ‘So tonight we’ll have that quiet dinner, just the two of us.’
‘I was hoping to get an early night,’ Amy responded.
‘I’ll make sure you get home in good time,’ he promised.
There was a long silence. Amy broke it: ‘Is everything okay, Max?’ she asked.
‘I told you, I have a lot on my mind business-wise. We’ll talk later.’
‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly, because she still felt unbelievably guilty and she wasn’t looking forward to spending time alone with Max.
‘I’ll pick you up at eight,’ he said, still thinking about Mariska and the devious plan she was plotting. Fifty thousand to kill someone, and she was under the impression he’d come up with the money.
Oh, no, he was much too smart for that.
By the time Chris reached Jonathan’s Goode’s apartment, he’d made a decision. He was going to hop a plane to L.A., stay a few hours and fly right back for the Monday morning meeting with Red. Not only was he worried about his house but there was the matter of his safe, currently stuffed with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash ready to be transported to Vegas and Roth Giagante. He could not afford to lose track of that money.
Jonathan’s New York apartment, once featured on the cover of Architectural Digest with an eight-page spread inside, was a salute to sleek modern style. Jonathan was an avid student of architecture: he enjoyed clean lines, structural simplicity and stark furniture.
A barefoot Jonathan answered the door himself. Wearing rumpled chinos and a loose shirt, he looked worried. There was no sign of any entourage.
‘What’s up?’ Chris asked, walking in.
‘What’s up is extremely embarrassing,’ Jonathan replied, leading Chris through to the pristine kitchen.
‘Whenever I’m summoned to anyone’s apartment it’s always about something embarrassing,’ Chris replied, perching on a chrome stool. ‘Not to worry, Jon, I’ve heard it all and then some.’
‘Can I fix you a health drink?’ Jonathan inquired, busying himself chopping mangoes, bananas and papayas, then tossing them into a blender with some rice milk.
‘Not really,’ Chris said. ‘I kind of indulged myself last night and, now I’m suffering the consequences. I’ll have coffee–that’s if you’re making it.’
‘Coffee’s no good for you,’ Jonathan said. ‘I refuse to keep it in the apartment.’
‘Then I repeat,’ Chris said, ‘what’s up?’
Jonathan switched on the blender, and was silent for a long moment as the fruit tossed and turned. Then he switched it off, poured his drink into a tall glass and gave a long-drawn-out sigh. ‘Uh…I guess we all do things we prefer to keep quiet, especially when you’re an actor in the public eye.’
‘What’re you trying to tell me?’
‘It’s not that I’m ashamed,’ Jonathan said hesitantly, ‘but I realize that if this got out it could ruin my career.’
‘Keep going,’ Chris encouraged.
‘Well,’ Jonathan said, gulping down his health drink, ‘there are times I walk a dangerous street.’
‘And what street would that be?’ Chris asked, although he already suspected what the movie star was about to reveal.
‘Look, I’m not trying to hide anything from you, Chris,’ Jonathan said, speaking fast, ‘but, please, this is between you and me. Lawyer privileges, right?’
‘Of course.’
Jonathan set his glass on the counter. ‘I’m gay,’ he said, in a barely audible voice.
‘I gather there’s a problem?’
‘A big problem,’ Jonathan said. ‘Last night I met a man.’
‘Yes?’ Chris said, anticipating what he was about to hear.
‘He was nice-looking, clean-cut,’ Jonathan continued. ‘Rough trade isn’t my style. I invited him back here, and we, uh…had a good time—’
‘Can I interrupt?’ Chris asked, flexing his fingers.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Where was your girlfriend?’
‘We have an arrangement. She’s, uh…kinda into women, career-wise it suits both of us. So far we’ve managed to fool the media.’
‘This is getting more complicated by the minute,’ Chris commented.
Jonathan pushed a hand through his thick hair. ‘I realize you’re shocked,’ he said, his boy-next-door face serious.
‘Who, me?’ Chris replied. ‘I’m a liberal, Jonathan. Whatever you do is your business. I couldn’t care less.’
‘I always knew I liked you,’ Jonathan said, relieved that he wasn’t being judged.
‘Fill me in on what happened next.’
‘Well…the guy and I had our fun and, um, when he was leaving, I offered him money.’
‘Was he a professional?’
‘No, he wasn’t, and as soon as I tried to hand him the money, I realized I’d made a big mistake.’
‘How did he react?’ Chris asked, mentally picturing the scene.
‘He became extremely insulted and angry. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he began screaming at me. “Big fuckin’ movie star hiding in the closet. You think you can buy everything and everyone. Well, I’ve got a news flash for you–you can’t. I can blow your image apart in a heartbeat.” ’
‘What happened then?’
‘He asked me if I knew what he did. I told him I had no idea.’
‘Give me the clincher.’
‘Turns out he’s a journalist for a prominent gay magazine and, believe me, I might’ve got fucked last night, but now I’m really fucked. What are we going to do, Chris? What the hell are we going to do?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Why did crises always happen on weekends? Lady Jane Bentley was unable to reach her lawyer,
who happened to be on a three-day fishing trip to the Bahamas. She needed to speak to him but, in the meantime, she decided it was best to carry on as if nothing had happened. It was not unusual for Red to experience fits of unreasonable rage, but this time his rage was directed at her, and she did not appreciate it. The fact that he’d demanded she ‘get out’ was shocking. Oh, yes, over the years they’d been together they’d had fights over inconsequential things, but never anything like this.
She soon realized it would be prudent to put her time to good use. Since their initial morning blow-out she had not seen Red. According to his precious housekeeper, Diahann–and what kind of a name was that for a housekeeper?–he had left the house saying he would not be back until late.
Lady Jane suspected he’d gone to his so-called secret apartment–the one he hadn’t realized she knew about–where he was probably entertaining the whores he’d come into contact with at Max’s bachelor party.
She had a good mind to call Max, confront him. But then she thought, why do that? Max wasn’t responsible for his father’s vile behaviour.
Instead she began a systematic search of Red’s private office, going through his desk drawers, opening every file, checking out his e-mails, inspecting every letter and document. There was a copying machine in his assistant’s room, and since his assistant was never there on weekends, she made a copy of anything she thought might be useful. At one point Diahann entered the room and had the audacity to ask what she was doing.
‘Excuse me?’ Lady Jane said, giving the woman an imperious look. She’d always hated Red’s housekeeper, the sleazy black woman who didn’t even look like a housekeeper, more like a gone-to-seed showgirl. ‘Are you actually asking me what I’m doing in here?’
‘You’re at Mr Diamond’s private computer,’ Diahann pointed out, crossing her arms. ‘Mr Diamond does not allow anyone to use it.’
‘Do you realize who you’re talking to?’ Lady Jane said, amazed at the woman’s nerve.
‘Yes, I realize, Lady Bentley,’ Diahann replied, holding her ground. ‘But Mr Diamond has told me many times that nobody is to come in here.’
‘I am working under his instructions,’ Lady Jane said, furious at this interruption. ‘Therefore I suggest you take it up with him if you have any problems. And if you dare to question me again, I will make sure you are fired.’
Diahann gave her an insolent stare and left the room.
Lady Jane decided that if she remained in residence, she would definitely make sure Red got rid of the woman, although she’d tried in the past and had no luck.
Red Diamond liked to hang onto his servants. He actually imagined that by keeping people in his employ a long time it ensured their loyalty.
Lady Jane knew it to be exactly the opposite.
As soon as Chris had finished with Jonathan Goode, he took a cab to the airport, not bothering to check out of his hotel because he’d be back the next day.
On the way to Kennedy he spoke to Andy, his young African-American assistant, who was usually very reliable. ‘I’m flying in,’ he said curtly. ‘On my way to the airport now.’
‘There’s no point in you coming to L.A.,’ Andy argued. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your house is a no-go area.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘The city has it red-tagged as a possible slide down the hill.’
‘Son-of-a-bitch!’ Chris said tersely. ‘Did you find my safe?’
‘They won’t let anyone near the house.’
‘Andy,’ he said, in a voice that meant he would accept no argument, ‘I want you to go back there, break in and get my goddamn safe. That’s if you value your job.’
‘You don’t understand what’s going on here,’ Andy said, attempting to explain. ‘It’s non-stop torrential rain, huge storms, and people are being swept away. In Conchita houses were buried under the mudslide. Many people lost their lives.’
‘C’mon,’ Chris said, refusing to believe it was as bad as Andy was making out. ‘This is L.A. we’re talking about.’
‘I know,’ Andy said miserably, ‘and it’s a disaster.’
‘I’m flying in anyway. Have a car and driver at the airport, and meet me at my house.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Chris. There’s no house to meet you at.’
‘Get in your fucking car, go to my fucking house and stay there,’ Chris said, losing it.
He managed to get a United flight out. Unfortunately there were no seats left in first class, so he had to make do. He complained bitterly to anyone who cared to listen.
Jeez! he thought, I’m turning into my father’s son. Screaming at my assistant to break into a house that’s been red-tagged. Bitching about not being in first class. What happened to me?
Then he remembered Jonathan and his problem. It was a whole lot bigger than his. Jonathan’s entire career was at stake, and what was he going to do about that?
He’d told Jonathan not to worry, that it was taken care of. ‘I am worried,’ Jonathan had replied, throwing him an I-trust-you-implicitly look. ‘Nobody knows about this except you, Chris. I’m depending on you.’
What was he supposed to do? Pay the guy off?
Yes, that was usually the answer. Jonathan had said he would pay as much as he had to–anything to shut the journalist up.
Chris nodded. In his experience most people could be bought. It all depended on the price.
Toying with her meal, Amy couldn’t help noticing that Max definitely had something on his mind. This was no big deal, because she did too. Valiantly she tried to make conversation, but Max kept on staring off into space as if his thoughts were elsewhere. She hoped and prayed he hadn’t found out about her one wild night.
The waiter cleared their dishes and asked if they wanted coffee and the dessert menu.
Amy shook her head. Max requested the check.
‘Are you sure you’re ready for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night?’ Amy asked, determined to get him talking before they left.
‘I’m ready,’ he said curtly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
She sighed and picked up her glass of wine. ‘You saw Mariska today, didn’t you?’
He nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘She always puts you in a bad mood.’
‘You think so?’
‘It’s true, Max. You’re much happier when you deliver Lulu to her nanny and you don’t have to see your ex.’
‘Problem is, Mariska’s always there,’ he said, grimacing. ‘There’s no avoiding her. She gets her kicks torturing me.’
‘Something else is bothering you,’ Amy said, leaning across the table. ‘I wish you’d tell me what it is.’
‘Business problems,’ he answered gruffly. ‘Nothing I can’t solve.’
‘It’s helpful to share, Max. After all, we are getting married soon.’
‘Yes, sweetheart, and I for one can’t wait,’ he said, as the waiter brought the check. ‘You do know how much I love you, don’t you?’ he said, throwing down his black American Express card.
No, she didn’t. It would be nice if he told her more often. And why had he so readily accepted her no-sex-before-marriage rule?
Then there was the biggest question of all–what had made her sleep with a total stranger? How could she ever explain that?
Max signed the bill and stood up.
Dinner was apparently over.
The plane ride to L.A. was non-stop bumpy all the way. By the time Chris arrived he realized he might have made a mistake. He’d told Andy to have a car and driver at the airport. The car was waiting, and so was the rain: it was still pouring down in windswept torrents. Andy was right–L.A. was one big mess.
The driver insisted on telling him bad-weather stories all the way down the freeway.
Chris sat in the back wishing the goddamn driver would shut the fuck up: he needed to concentrate on everything he had to take care of. First there was Jonathan–a big priority. Then Birdy and her pro
blems. His house–exactly how damaged was it? And, of course, Roth Giagante and the money he owed.
When he reached his home, he had to give Andy credit, because even though it was pitch black and late, the young man was sitting in his SUV waiting patiently for him. Now that was loyalty.
Chris got out of the car, ran over and tapped on Andy’s window. ‘Did you get my safe out?’ he yelled, over the pounding rain.
Andy rolled down his window and handed him a flashlight. ‘Take a look, Chris,’ he shouted. ‘Your house is buried under a ton of mud. I can’t get anywhere near the front door, can’t even see it.’
Chris took the flashlight and walked over. Things were far worse than he’d imagined. There was no house, just a giant mountain of mud, and large signs red-tagging his property.
‘What arrangements have you made about getting it cleaned up?’ he yelled, thinking that once they got rid of the mud, his house would emerge pristine and undamaged.
Yeah, sure.
‘Can’t do anything until the rain stops,’ Andy replied, trying to shelter them with an umbrella. ‘Then they’ll be able to bring in heavy dredging equipment and get to work.’
‘Fuck!’ Chris said, getting thoroughly wet, his shoes sinking into the soggy ground. ‘I came home to this.’
‘I did warn you,’ Andy pointed out. Then, anxious to please, he added, ‘I’ll deal with it, Chris. I’ll do everything I can.’
‘Fuck!’ Chris repeated, shaking his head as rain soaked through his clothes. ‘This is a fucking joke.’
After dinner, Max took Amy home, pecked her on the cheek and that was that. Another unsatisfying evening with a man she wasn’t sure she still loved.
Upstairs in her apartment she wandered from room to room, restless and confused. Was she doing the right thing? Could she go through with it? Was Max the perfect man for her?
Oh, sure, it was easy for Tina to tell her he was–but Tina wasn’t marrying him, she was, and she couldn’t get her night with S. Lucas out of her head. His handsome face kept floating in front of her, his mesmerizing blue eyes, his muscular body and the way he’d held her in his arms…
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