Cat was psyched to be getting away from all the bullshit and on her way to see Jump. A week apart seemed like a year, and even if she was able to spend only a few days with him, it was worth it. The big Kris Phoenix concert was coming up in Sydney, and that was the most important night for Jump and his band. After a few more unsatisfactory phone conversations, she wanted to be there for him—front row and center—supporting him in every way, just as he’d supported her when he’d gotten her off drugs.
When Merrill’s plane landed, she had to hurry to make her connection, barely finding time to say goodbye to everyone. She saved Jonas for last; he’d been the one bright spot of her trip. Once she got him out of his Prada he’d turned out to be a cool guy—and not even gay! When she got to L.A. she’d have to hook him up with one of her girlfriends.
Even though she considered herself a New Yorker, she’d rented an apartment in L.A. for the next six months, because that’s where Caught was set, and that’s where Zandack Films was based. Australia would be a nice break between the south of France and getting back to work. She could have stayed in London for a couple of days and visited her mother; that’s if her mother had been there. Mommy Dearest was currently on a photographic safari in Africa with a man twenty years her junior—who, if he played his cards wrong, was about to become husband number six.
Oh well, that’s my mother, Cat thought wryly. Nothing’s going to change her.
“I’ll see you in L.A.,” she said to Jonas.
He nodded, busy on his laptop.
“Anything you want from Australia?” she asked, thinking that he’d been kind of elusive for the last few days—ever since their fun time at the beach.
“No thanks,” he said, closing his laptop and standing up.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” he said noncommittally. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I just wondered.”
“Did you tell your husband you’re coming?”
“Nope,” she said, grinning. “Surprises are the bomb!”
“Not always,” he cautioned.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Jump is a lucky guy.”
“And I’m a lucky girl.”
“Didn’t I already tell you that?”
They exchanged a look.
“Well . . . I guess I’m outta here,” she said.
“Have a safe trip.”
“I will.” Impulsively she kissed him on the cheek before hurrying from the plane. “See you in L.A.”
CHAPTER
* * *
13
The first thing Lola did upon arriving home was rush upstairs, shut herself in the bedroom, and call her lawyer, Otto Landstrom. “You’ve got to help me, Otto,” she pleaded. “This is urgent.”
“What’s the problem, Lola?”
“I want a divorce.”
“That’s impossible. You only recently got married.”
“It simply isn’t working out. Europe was especially bad, and the truth is . . . marriage is not for me.”
“What does Matt have to say about your change of heart?”
“He doesn’t know. I want you to tell him.”
“You want me to tell him?”
“Yes,” she said persuasively. “After all, you are my lawyer. You’re supposed to take care of this kind of thing.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a marriage counselor,” Otto said, sounding pissed. “I can’t call him up and say, ‘Your wife is divorcing you.’ ”
“Why not?” she said petulantly.
“Does he have any hint you’re thinking of divorce?”
“No. We just got back, and all he’s interested in is sitting in front of the TiVO checking out what sports programs he missed.”
Otto sighed. “Exactly why did you marry him, Lola?”
“ ’Cause I thought I could make it work. And anyway,” she added truculently, “you advised me to, along with everyone else.”
“Then why are you divorcing him?”
“He’s boring, Otto. And since when did I need a reason to get divorced?”
“You always need a reason.”
Why did everyone have to make it so difficult? “You’re my lawyer, Otto,” she said sharply. “This is an instruction. Do it.”
Otto did not appreciate her tone. The time was coming in the not too distant future when he would give up representing movie stars. They were too much damn trouble.
“When do you expect me to take care of this?” he asked.
“Like yesterday. I’ll go to a spa with my sister; you can tell him then. That way he can be gone by the time I get back.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she said vaguely. “I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll do it, Lola. But you have to talk to him first. At least give him some indication that all is not well.”
“I’m not good at confrontations,” she wailed, mad at Otto for refusing to make it easy for her. “You handle everything, that’s what I pay you for.” She clicked off her phone. God! How come Otto was making it such a major deal? She shelled out big bucks for him to take care of business—including personal.
The intercom buzzed, and Jenny, her assistant, informed her that her mother was on the phone.
Damn! She’d have to tell her family before they read about it in the tabloids. They’d all been at the wedding, her many cousins and other assorted relatives, mingling with the stars, their mouths half open in awe as they recognized many famous faces.
She’d tell Mama first. Claudine Sanchez was fond of Matt, and why shouldn’t she be? In her mind her daughter had married a white-bread sports hero.
Yeah, sure. A loafer: A sponger. A man who expects me to pay all the bills.
On the other hand her dad wasn’t so crazy about Matt. “He don’t have that macho thing goin’,” Louis Sanchez had complained the first time she’d brought him home. “You’d be smarter to find yourself a Latino man.” A caveman grin. “Sexy, like me.”
Yeah, well, Louis Sanchez should know all about that. Mr. Stud. The bull of the neighborhood.
Lola often wondered how Claudine had put up with his philandering over the years. She would never take that kind of crap from a man; it was disrespectful and insulting.
Hmm . . . she’d better arrange a visit to a spa with one of her sisters. Both of them enjoyed all the perks that came with her stardom. They loved it when she went to an award event and scored a huge basket filled with thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff, which she always handed over to them. She was very generous to her family; Mama called it sharing the luck. Recently she’d bought her parents a house in Hancock Park. The house had cost a fortune, but it was worth every dollar to see the look on Claudine’s face. Her dad wasn’t so thrilled; he didn’t like leaving the old neighborhood and his many cronies; so she’d bought him a new red Corvette to make up for his loss. That soon shut him up; now he could visit his lady friends in style.
“You must do something for your sisters next,” Mama had informed her before she’d left for the south of France. “They need your help.”
Why? They both had husbands. Still . . . to appease Claudine she’d agreed to create a trust to pay for her nieces’ and nephews’ future education. It wasn’t such a hardship because she could certainly afford it, and she adored the kids, especially as she knew she could never have any of her own. That was her secret, a secret she kept close to her heart. A secret that haunted her and drove her crazy.
She clicked on her phone. “Hi, Mama.”
“Welcome home, Miss Movie Star,” joked Claudine. “I’m happy you’re safely back.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you have a wonderful time?”
“Of course.”
“Who did you see? What did you wear?” Claudine was totally into hearing all the details.
They chatted for a few minutes, then Lola promised to phone her in the morning.
Next she called Tony. His voice
mail picked up.
“Hey,” she purred into the receiver. “Guess who’s back in town?”
When she finally made her way downstairs, Matt was still in the library, switching sports programs on the TiVO.
“What’re you searching for?” she asked impatiently.
“I’ve got plenty of catching up to do,” he said, busy clicking his remote. Obviously it did not take much to turn Matt on.
“Can’t you do it later?” she said, yawning. “I’m going to bed and you’ll disturb me when you come up.”
“Go to bed later,” he advised. “That way you won’t get jet lag.”
“What’re you, an expert?”
“Why are you so bad tempered lately?” he asked, taking his eyes off the TV for a moment.
She shrugged. This seemed like a good opportunity to give him a hint. “We don’t seem to be getting along so good, do we, Matt?”
“I think we get along fine.”
“It’s just that now we’re married, you don’t do anything. And if you want the truth—it bugs me.”
“I told you,” he said firmly. “I gave up tennis because I’m writing a screenplay and planning on being an actor. Give me time and I’ll surprise you. You’ll see.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” he said stubbornly.
“No, it’s not,” she countered.
“You made it from nothing,” he said pointedly. “Why can’t I?”
“Because you’ve got to be realistic, Matt. You’re married to me.”
“So?”
“So there’s no way you can go out on auditions for bit parts; it wouldn’t be dignified for either of us.”
“Then put me in one of your movies,” he said. “You have plenty of control. Elliott Finerman likes me. I could even play the lead in New York State of Mind.”
Was he insane? “You’re not an actor,” she reminded him sharply. “You’re a tennis player.”
“And what were you before you started acting?” he retaliated. “I seem to remember that you were a waitress.”
“The difference is that I wanted to be an actress ever since I was a little girl,” she said heatedly. “It was my lifelong ambition. I worked hard to get where I am today.”
“Yeah,” he sneered. “And what did you have to do along the way, Lola?”
“Excuse me?” she said, outraged.
“Is it true what they say about Merrill Zandack?”
“Who’s they? And what do they say?”
“That he has to get serviced by all the actresses he works with.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she hissed, prancing out of the room.
Now she didn’t feel so bad. Matt had a stupid, dumb-ass attitude. Let Otto go ahead and do her dirty work. She didn’t care anymore.
• • •
Martha and George Cheney lived in a large house in St. John’s Wood, an upmarket area of London. George, a retired stockbroker, worshiped his daughter. Shelby reminded him of her mother; she was kind and giving, with a genuinely sweet nature. It often surprised him that she’d chosen to become an actress. Such a strange and difficult profession.
Martha Cheney had invited them to stay at their house, but Shelby knew it would not be a good idea, for Linc was extremely demanding. He expected room service, cable TV, and all the amenities of a luxury hotel. Instead, she’d opted for a suite at the Dorchester, where Linc would have everything he required—including a gym where he could perform his daily workout.
Ever since he’d read the unfortunate USA Today interview, Linc had been in a foul mood. He absolutely refused to believe her protestations of innocence.
“Goddamn it, Shelby. You should be smart enough to know that journalists twist your words,” he said, once they were settled at the hotel.
“Hasn’t it ever happened to you?” she asked, tired of his relentless complaining.
“Yeah,” he retorted. “When I was young and stupid. You’ve been a working actress for long enough. You should know better.”
“In future I’ll have a publicist and a tape recorder present so I can prove it to you.”
“You must have said some of those things.”
“No, Linc, I didn’t,” she answered wearily. “He told me he thought you were an underrated actor and I agreed with him.”
“Christ!” he muttered, heading for the minibar.
“The truth is, you are underrated,” she said, following him. “You should be doing different things.”
“I am,” he said, swigging from a bottle of scotch, daring her with his eyes to stop him. “I’m instructing my agent to accept Elliott Finerman’s movie.”
“What movie is that?”
“I read the script on the plane. It’s a romantic comedy with Lola Sanchez.”
“Lola Sanchez,” she exclaimed. “Do you honestly think the two of you have chemistry? I mean, she takes over the screen, and the last thing you should do is play second fiddle.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake.
“You think I’d be second to Lola Sanchez, huh?” he said, glaring at her. “How come you didn’t put that in your fucking interview?”
“I’m sorry,” she said haltingly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll be in the gym,” he said, and stomped out of their suite.
Shelby realized that lately she couldn’t say anything right. Linc’s lackluster reviews had set him off, and the USA Today piece hadn’t helped his black mood. The interview wasn’t that bad, but unfortunately it had given him something to vent his anger and frustration on.
Her immediate problem was that they were expected at her parents’ for dinner that night, and how was she going to ask him not to drink? Whatever troubles they were experiencing, she did not want her parents to know.
Meanwhile, according to her agent, everyone was anxious to work with her. Word of her performance in Rapture had reached the States. The trades had given her glowing reviews, while Linc’s reviews were dismal. “Your price is skyrocketing,” her agent told her over the phone. “Word is that when the time comes, you’ve got a good chance of being nominated. Congratulations, Shelby. You’ve done a great job.”
She was excited, and yet she couldn’t let Linc see her excitement, because she knew it would only upset him further.
What a dilemma! If only she could enjoy her amazing success and not have to worry about Linc all the time. Sometimes she felt as if she were treading on eggshells.
Later, when he returned from the gym, Linc flopped down on the bed and calmly announced that he wasn’t going to her parents’ for dinner.
“You can’t do this to me,” she said, struggling to remain calm. “They’re expecting you. If you don’t come with me it will look bad.”
“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, activating the TV remote. “You can go by yourself. Or if I come, I’m drinking, and I don’t want you nagging me in front of them.”
Great, what kind of a choice was that?
“Okay,” she said tightly. “But you will behave, won’t you?”
He threw her a filthy look. “Y’know, Shelby, sometimes you talk to me like I’m a fucking kid, and I’m bored with it, okay? You’ve got a habit of boring the shit outta me.”
Obviously he’d had another drink or two at the bar.
She nodded miserably. Dealing with Linc was becoming more and more of an ordeal.
• • •
Cat managed to view several DVDs on her flight to Australia. She also had time to listen to some new CDs she’d picked up at the airport.
During the long flight she got to talking to a friendly flight attendant who informed her she was the biggest Kris Phoenix fan in the world.
“I’ll get you tickets,” Cat promised.
“Oh my God! That would be incredible!”
“And a backstage pass,” Cat added. “How about that?”
“Fantastic! And I’ll give you a bag full of miniature bottles o
f booze.”
“Deal,” Cat said, grinning. “I’m sure Jump won’t object.” Although she had no doubt that there was no shortage of booze on the tour.
Not that Jump was a big drinker; he wasn’t. He was into his weed and that was about it. In view of her insane drug past she was happy that he didn’t indulge in anything else.
Jump had saved her from a total wild-child life, although if she hadn’t been such a wild child, she would never have had the material to write her movie, so it had all worked out in the end.
A stern-faced customs officer took one glance at her standing in line, clad in her tightest, frayed jeans, with her cropped top and studded earlobes, and decided she looked suspicious, so he pulled her out of place and began searching through her luggage piece by piece— checking everything.
Man, she was pissed! Now that she’d finally arrived in Australia, she couldn’t wait to see Jump.
By the time she got out of customs, hailed a cab, and reached his hotel, it was past midnight. She marched up to the front desk, announced that she was Mrs. Jagger, and requested his room key.
The clerk gave it to her without any argument, which pissed her off, considering she could have been some crazed groupie trying to get to him. But at least she had access, and if he wasn’t there she’d slide into bed and surprise him when he got back. It was no good searching around the city looking for him; he could be anywhere.
Riding up in the elevator, her mind was racing. If he was in his room he wouldn’t have the security chain on. Jump wasn’t into security locks and things like that; his claim was that if somebody was out to get you, they’d do it anyway, citing John Lennon as a prime example.
There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of his room, which meant nothing, because he always left it on. He had a phobia about maids and housekeepers coming in and rifling through his stuff.
She slipped the key into the lock. Ha! Just as she’d thought, no security chain in place.
His room looked like a bomb had hit it: clothes thrown all over the floor, half-empty beer bottles on every surface, lights blazing, TV blaring—another of his charming habits; he never slept without the TV at full blast.
All this and no Jump.
Hollywood Divorces Page 13