“Y’know, this isn’t fair,” she said, running a hand through her short blond hair. “This scene doesn’t interest me. I want to split.”
“I know you do,” he said, peering past her into her cabin. Shit! She was packed and ready to go. “If you could just do it for me, I’ll be forever in your debt,” he said calmly. It hurt him to beg, but what else could he do?
Hmm . . . forever in her debt, huh? Not such a bad thing. “Well . . . okay,” she sighed, agreeing, although she’d already made the decision that she didn’t care how difficult it was finding somebody else to finance her movie, she was through with Merrill Zandack.
“Thank you,” Jonas said, sounding properly grateful. “I owe you one.”
She followed him upstairs and down the long corridor that led to Merrill’s stateroom. Jonas knocked tentatively, then opened the door. She walked into the room while Jonas remained outside.
Merrill was sitting up in bed wearing chocolate brown silk pajamas. His Russian girlfriend—fully made up— was in bed beside him, clad in a lacy negligee. A tray of breakfast goodies sat on his lap. It was a cozy scene of domestic bliss that hardly rang true.
“Uh . . . y’know I wasn’t exactly planning on saying goodbye,” Cat said, hovering by the door. “But apparently it’s the rule around here.” She took a bold step forward. “Would you please instruct your captain to let me off this boat before I’m forced to jump.”
“Ah, Cat, Cat,” Merrill said, shaking his head. “You are a very impulsive girl.”
She was impulsive! What about him? Was it possible that he actually didn’t recall demanding that she suck his pathetic erection last night? “Excuse me?” she said, glaring at him.
“If I did anything that offended you, I deeply apologize. Perhaps I had too many tequilas. I remember nothing.”
Oh, so now he was coming up with the tried and true I-remember-nothing excuse. Didn’t that go out of style with the old Rock Hudson and Doris Day movies that she saw so often on late night TV?
“Of course, you may leave if that’s what you’re certain you want,” Merrill continued. “As long as you don’t forget that tonight I am throwing a party for you, and there will be many people attending that you should meet for the sake of your career.”
Oh man, now he was laying a guilt trip on her; she’d totally forgotten about the party.
“If you like, Jonas will accompany you into town,” Merrill added. “You can spend the day shopping. Buy anything you want. Jonas has my credit card.”
“No, thanks,” she said, shaking her head. “Shopping’s not my thing.”
“You could walk around the town,” he suggested. “You’re not a prisoner on my boat.”
“Well, yeah,” she said indignantly. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
His Russian girlfriend was staring at her with a totally blank face. Cat wondered if she actually spoke perfect English and couldn’t be bothered to get involved. Highly likely, and quite wise.
“Take the tender to shore,” Merrill said magnanimously. “Jonas is yours for the day. He’ll buy you lunch, and tonight you’ll attend my party.” A crafty pause. “Or should I say our party.”
Now what was she supposed to do? Fortunately she hadn’t reached Jump, because if she’d told him about the incident he’d insist she get the hell out of there. On the other hand, if she was smart, she’d stay and hopefully cement the financing and support for her movie.
“Okay,” she said at last, mad at herself for weakening. But it wasn’t as if Merrill was a threat—he was simply a fat old producer who obviously got off on trying to control women sexually.
“Excellent decision,” Merrill said. “You’re a clever girl.”
Was she? She didn’t feel clever.
“Jonas,” Merrill yelled. “Get in here.”
Jonas entered the room. “Take Cat to lunch,” Merrill ordered. “And whatever else she wants to do. Be back here by five.”
Jonas shot her a quick glance. She wondered if he thought she’d caved too easily. So what? She didn’t care what he thought.
“Tonight’s the party,” Jonas said, obviously not thrilled at the prospect of spending the day with her. “I should be here.”
“Not necessary,” Merrill said, dismissing him. “You haven’t had a day off since we arrived.”
“It would hardly be a day off,” Jonas pointed out.
“Go,” Merrill said, waving them both out of his room.
“Hmm . . . ,” Cat said once they were outside. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
“Yes, it does,” he said dourly.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Soon as we hit the shore you can take off and I’ll do my own thing.”
“I have my orders,” he said rigidly. “And that’s to take you to lunch.”
“Do you always do everything he says?”
“Mr. Zandack is my boss. I’m getting the best education possible. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“If you say so.”
“Yes,” he said, uptight as usual, “I do.”
• • •
Lola wasn’t sure what she wanted to do after New York State of Mind. She’d just finished shooting a thriller in Atlanta, and there were several scripts she was considering for the future. Last night Merrill Zandack had mentioned Cat’s next project was going to be big. She’d seen Wild Child, and even though it was quite rough, it had a frantic energy and moved fast. Cat was not an experienced filmmaker, however; according to Merrill she had heat and a built-in young audience. Lola liked the thought of that. “What’s the role?” she’d asked.
“A sexy, captivating woman like you,” Merrill had replied.
Lola admired Merrill. He was responsible for her first big break, and even though she’d had to service him orally, she didn’t mind, because it wasn’t as if she was involved with anyone at the time, and a simple blow job wasn’t that big a deal. In fact, ex-President Clinton didn’t even consider it sex.
Yes, Merrill was a powerful man who could make things happen.
By the time her makeup artist and hairdresser had finished with her, and her stylist had helped her into a dazzling white sundress, she was ready for anything.
Faye Margolis was on the phone in the living room. Lola always felt secure when Faye was around; she considered her hardworking publicist better than a dozen bodyguards. People were scared of Faye. She was a genius at what she did, and everyone knew it.
“Morning,” Faye said briskly, putting down the phone. “Did we all sleep well?”
“Sure did,” Lola replied, applying a touch more lip gloss with her finger. “What’s my agenda today?”
“While you lunch with Mr. Zandack, I’ll be setting up a room with TV crews from Sweden, Denmark, and Norway,” Faye said. “Those interviews will take you half an hour after your lunch, then at three-thirty you’re having a drink with the journalist from Vanity Fair.”
“Why aren’t I coming to lunch?” Matt asked in a whiny voice.
“It’s all business,” Faye explained.
“Besides,” Lola added, unable to resist a tiny dig, “Merrill didn’t invite you.”
“That’s not very polite,” Matt said sulkily.
“Nobody forced you to come here,” Lola pointed out. “You could’ve stayed in L.A.”
“I thought you wanted me to come,” he said, pulling on his goatee.
“You heard Faye,” Lola said impatiently. “It’s an important business lunch. Surely you can see that it wouldn’t look right having my husband trailing behind me?”
“I don’t understand why I can’t come,” he complained, following her around the room.
“You’ll be escorting her to the party tonight on Merrill’s yacht,” Faye said, interceding. “I’m sure that’ll be more interesting for you, Matt.”
“Then what’m I supposed to do today?” he said, scowling like a truculent child.
“Sorry,” Lola said, picking up her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses.
“I’m not responsible for planning your leisure time.”
Faye quickly hustled her out the door before the two of them became embroiled in a fight. No man enjoyed being relegated to the background. Famous women and nonfamous men—it was an ongoing problem.
A group of eager photographers were gathered outside the hotel. They jumped to attention as soon as Lola appeared. She flashed them a smile and a few poses while wondering if any of them were the same photographers who’d captured her and Cindi on their first trip to the Cannes Festival. Little did they know what a bonanza they’d have if they discovered her early pictures.
Her mind flashed on Cindi for a moment. She hadn’t spoken to her in years. The last she’d heard, Cindi had married Lou Steiner and was dabbling in soft-core porno movies. How sad if it was true.
She climbed into the waiting car, Faye right behind her.
The moment the car set off, Faye was on her case. “Do you have something you want to tell me?” Faye inquired in her raspy voice.
“What might that be?” Lola asked, casually removing her purple-tinted shades.
“I think you know what,” Faye said, her tone brooking no argument. “And since I’m the one who’ll have to deal with it, shouldn’t you be giving me a heads-up?”
Lola sighed. She knew exactly what Faye was getting at. “It’s not my fault,” she answered defensively. “Matt is simply not right for me.”
“He’s trying,” Faye said, uncharacteristically sympathetic.
“Not hard enough,” Lola replied.
“I hope your plans do not include getting back together with Mr. Alvarez.”
“What’s wrong with Tony?” Lola asked, springing to her ex-fiancé’s defense. “He’s not doing drugs anymore.”
“How do you know?” Faye said, squinting at her in a knowing way.
“Tony’s had a bad rap, that’s all.”
“And because of his bad rap,” Faye said pointedly, “you endured a ton of bad publicity.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You have a short memory, dear. The first time Tony was arrested for possession, you were with him. They took you to the station and kept you there for three hours. Your lawyer had to call in a lot of favors to make it go away. And so did I.”
“Relax,” Lola said. “I’m not planning on getting back together with Tony.”
“Good,” Faye said sternly.
Sometimes Faye’s know-it-all attitude drove Lola crazy. Why couldn’t the woman understand exactly how difficult it was for her?
“It’s just that Matt is like a great big lummox who hangs around me with nothing to do,” she said, unable to let it go. “He depends on me to entertain him. Isn’t it about time he realized that I’m not an entertainment director? He’s boring, Faye, and I can’t stand boring.”
“Then why did you marry him?” Faye asked, sensible as usual.
“You know why I married him,” Lola said irritably. “Because my manager and my agent and my lawyer and you advised me to do so. ‘Get as far away from Tony as possible,’ you all insisted. ‘He’s ruining your career.’ So I did.”
“I’d call that excellent advice,” Faye said. “It distanced you from a man who was bringing you nothing but damaging publicity. It saved you from being dragged down with him.”
“You don’t understand,” Lola insisted, her eyes gleaming. “I have to be passionate with a man. There’s no way I can settle for mediocre.”
“And apparently you’re not going to,” Faye murmured dryly.
As soon as they arrived at the Hotel du Cap, Lola forgot about Matt and Tony and launched into career mode, sweeping through the spacious lobby as if she owned the place. Faye accompanied her to the outdoor patio overlooking the blue Mediterranean, where a solicitous maître d’ ushered her over to Merrill Zandack’s table.
Merrill was sitting by himself reading Variety while puffing on his usual fat cigar. He did not get up as Lola approached. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Lola, dear,” he greeted. “You look delicious as usual.”
“I don’t know how, considering the way you plied me with tequila last night,” she said, flirting outrageously. “You’re such a bad boy, Merrill,” she added, wagging a playful finger in his face as she slid into the chair opposite him. “I have a monster hangover. I must look like a hag.”
“Impossible, my dear. You’re one of the sexiest and most talented actresses around.”
“I love that you think that,” Lola said, wondering what other actresses he had in mind. “You were the first one to give me a break. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
“Me too,” he said with a dirty-old-man leer.
Oh, God! Was he remembering his shriveled old cock in her mouth? How humiliating!
“I have that script we talked about for you to read,” he said. “Cat’s written a very complex character. Personally, I think you’re right for it.”
“Did your people messenger copies to my people?” she asked. Translation: I can’t be bothered to read it, so send it to my manager.
“Who needs agents and managers?” Merrill said. “I want you to read it. You’ll do that for me, Lola, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Merrill,” she answered graciously. “I trust your judgment all the way.”
• • •
Sitting with her director, Russell Savage, and her co-star, Beck Carson, on a raised platform with a microphone in front of her, facing an army of international journalists, Shelby wished she hadn’t accepted the damn pink diamond ring. Linc probably thought all was forgiven, which meant that he’d do it again. Maybe not this week or even this month, but he had a pattern he always followed. No Alcoholics Anonymous for Linc Blackwood— the man who claimed he didn’t have a problem. Shelby was becoming more convinced every day that if he didn’t do something about it, his drinking would eventually destroy their relationship.
Russell Savage, a short, wiry, staccato-voiced man, with stand-up black hair and thick, bushy eyebrows, nudged her. “Your answer, sweetie,” he urged.
Her answer. To what? She was thinking about Linc and hadn’t heard the question.
“Excuse me,” she said into her microphone. “Could you please repeat the question?”
“Would you be prepared to do more on-screen nudity?” asked a pie-faced woman with a thick Swedish accent.
“Uh . . . it would very much depend on the script and, naturally, the director. Mr. Savage made me feel extremely at ease. And so did Beck,” she added, indicating the actor sitting on her right. “Both of these wonderful men were always respectful. Plus there were only essential people on the set when we shot the love scene everyone seems to be talking about.”
“Love scene?” said the female journalist sneeringly. “Is that what you call it?”
“Yes,” Russell Savage said, taking over. “It’s a raw, very sexual love scene, and only an actress of Shelby Cheney’s caliber and talent could’ve pulled it off.”
“Some people have compared it to the graphic sex scene between Billy Bob Thornton and Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball,” said a male journalist. “How do you feel about that comparison?”
“Flattered,” Shelby replied. “Halle Berry is an amazing actress.”
“She certainly is,” agreed Russell, rapidly joining in again. “But let’s face it, guys—comparisons are lazy journalism. Rapture is a completely different movie.”
And so it went, most questions involving the nudity and sexual content of the film.
Shelby couldn’t wait for the torture to be over. She was an actress, not a talking puppet.
• • •
After Shelby left, Linc decided that since he’d never made it to all his morning interviews, he’d better catch up. He was well aware that there were many journalists waiting to speak to him, and pissing off the press was never a good idea. So reluctantly he wandered downstairs, unshaven, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind dark glasses.
Women’s heads still swiveled. Linc exuded a ru
gged sex appeal that they obviously found irresistible.
Norm Johnson, his publicist, was pacing the lobby, tearing out his hair—metaphorically speaking, because Norm featured a flat red rug that perched on his bald scalp like an Indian’s trophy. It would take an army to dislodge it.
“Hey, Norm,” Linc said, patting the short man on the back like he hadn’t missed a dozen interviews.
Norm glowered on the inside. Linc was not an easy actor to deal with at the best of times, especially when he’d been drinking. And last night he’d obviously experienced quite a bender.
“You’re late!” Norm wanted to yell at him. “You’re late! And rude! And a pain in the ass!”
He didn’t say any of those words—instead he manufactured the perfect publicist’s noncommittal expression and got down to business. Dealing with stars was never easy, especially big macho’ studs who thought they owned the world.
“So what’s happenin’, Norm?” Linc asked, grinning lazily.
“There’s a woman from Premiere magazine who’s been waiting since ten A.M. She’s in the bar.”
“Wise choice,” Linc said, thinking that maybe one Bloody Mary was exactly what he needed to get him through the day. One Bloody Mary and that was it. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m ready to charm.”
“Glad to hear it,” Norm said through clenched teeth as they headed for the bar.
CHAPTER
* * *
9
“We should have the tender drop us in Juan-les-Pins, where we can walk around,” Cat suggested.
“Walk around and do what?” Jonas said, not very pleased at the prospect of spending the day with Cat when he’d sooner be checking over every detail of the upcoming party.
“Like hang out and do nothing,” she replied vaguely, inspecting his outfit of linen slacks and crisp white shirt. “You’d better go put on something more comfortable before we take off.”
Reluctantly he acquiesced, changing into shorts and a tee shirt before jumping into the tender.
“Nice legs!” she teased. “Shame about the face!”
A few hours later they both realized what a welcome change it was getting away from the razzle-dazzle of the festival. They’d perused the many small boutique shops, strolled along the seashore, and finally they’d settled at an outside café in the middle of the main square.
Hollywood Divorces Page 9