Ian continued to pour out his frustrations. “I encouraged him to go on his own. But as dumb as Kenni is, he was still smart enough to get me to make him executive V.P. Executive shithead … Well, it’s my company. My studio. I can fire his ass …” He looked up at Noora. “Sorry … I didn’t mean to cuss …”
Noora nodded. “It’s all right.”
“You be careful with that guy,” he said, waving a finger.
“Yes, Mr. Cohen.”
“Ian! Call me Ian already,” he said, the crease of his frown line more pronounced.
“Yes, Ian,” she repeated and smiled.
“I’ve seen him hovering around you like a dog in heat.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You know, I’m only keeping him around because of my promise to Bevvy. Ah, if only she hadn’t died. Beautiful Beverly. So young …” He groaned and held his head in his hands.
“May I get you anything? A glass of ice water?” she asked, rising.
“Go on up to bed. No need to get tangled up in my misery.”
“I’m sorry. What may I bring you?”
“Ask Sam to bring me a glass of gin and tonic.”
She stood there without moving. He looked up and met her eyes. She gave him a look—one he understood.
“All right, Nurse Kelley. Soda water. Spike it up with bitter lime, or something that makes me think it’s the real thing. Put a little pepper even,” he grumbled.
The next day, Ian returned to his office late in the afternoon, after spending most of his day watching dailies. As usual, “Kennilworth-less” could not have picked a worse time to barge into Ian’s office.
Sitting behind his desk, Ian was busy jotting down notes on a legal-sized pad, while his stepson flopped on one of the leather chairs facing Ian’s huge oak desk. From the corner of his eye, he watched Kennilworth as he opened the leather box on his desk and helped himself to one of Ian’s expensive cigars.
“So tell me … What’s so special about that girl?” Kennilworth asked, running his nose along the cigar from end to end.
“I’m busy,” Ian said without looking up.
“You’d have more time if you didn’t have Frenchy.”
Ian felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.
Staring at his stepfather’s prized cigar, Kenni continued, “The girl’s not only taking your time, and your health, everyone says she’s after your money.” He huffed the words all in one breath.
Ian had to control himself to keep from jumping over his desk and punching his worthless stepson in the face.
The discomfort in his left leg, where the scar still itched, and where the doctors had removed arteries for the bypass surgery, was a reminder that stress can kill. And Kennilworth-less was not worth dying for.
Ian took a deep breath and looked up at his stepson. “I’ve made some changes in this property,” he said, and handed over a heavy box containing a 600-page unbound manuscript. “I’d like you to look this over … uh … read it, before I consider hiring a screenwriter for the adaptation. Let me know what you think.”
Kennilworth set the cigar down on Ian’s desk and remained silent for a moment. “Sounds good,” he finally said. He hesitated a moment, then took the box.
“I’ve made some editing notes on some of the pages. You might want to add your thoughts in the margins.” Ian looked down at his papers. “Let me know by Monday,” he said. “Would be great help.”
Kill that fucking kid with kindness, Ian thought. Or better yet, get shithead out of his office! Kennilworth’s suggestions would probably be worthless. Ian had given up asking him to read screenplays, especially manuscripts, years ago. The kid did not like to read.
“Okay,” Kennilworth said. He finally rose rather eagerly from his stepfather’s chair and walked out, carrying the manuscript.
“Thanks,” Ian said. As soon as his stepson was gone, Ian squeezed the pencil he was holding so hard, it broke in half.
The heavy rain that pounded Saturday night cleaned the morning air, leaving a fresh scent of blooming flowers from the manicured lawns of Beverly Hills and Bel Air—a perfect Sunday morning.
Kennilworth stayed home Saturday night until three in the morning reading the manuscript his stepfather had given him. He usually reserved Saturday nights for the posh Le Dome restaurant, where he hung out at the bar and later drove west on Sunset Boulevard, to the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge. Depending on his mood, and also depending on the young starlet he had on his arm on Saturday nights, he would enjoy a late-night snack at Spago. He usually took the girl with stars in her eyes to his home up on Angelo View, where he enjoyed a night of fucking. Sunday mornings were reserved for more sex—in bed or in the shower, followed by a late brunch in Marina Del Rey or Malibu, whatever struck his momentary fancy. And if the girl really gave good head, he would take her to the Hotel Bel Air for champagne brunch. He didn’t do that often; it was too expensive. But somehow, the atmosphere of that place, seeing movie stars sitting at nearby tables, made the weekend girlfriend even hornier. He would take her back to his place, and they would have great sex in the afternoon and lie around in bed until early evening. If the girl was still fun, he would keep her around if she made dinner for him.
Lately, he had a difficult time finding a young chick who would put out. But that weekend, he didn’t mind being alone, because he had that manuscript to read. It was too long, and he was almost sorry for having gone to his stepfather’s office. Kennilworth had never admitted to anyone that he hated to read. Especially lengthy things like manuscripts. He never had to read anything literary agents poured into their offices, because Ian Cohen Enterprises employed readers, or “story analysts,” as they liked to call themselves. If Ian preferred to do his own reading, that was his problem. As if he didn’t trust anyone’s opinion.
He must have trusted my opinion, Kennilworth thought. There had to be something special about that manuscript.
By three o’clock in the morning, however, Kennilworth had to force himself to stay awake and make a few minor changes in the margins to prove he had read the thing. The story was actually good, full of action, titled, The Battle of Mefisto. Maybe there was a big celebrity name attached to this project. By Monday, Ian had better inform him as to who was going to be the female lead.
He must have fallen asleep after that thought, because the next thing he knew, he woke up feeling so horny, he wanted to bite his knuckles. He jumped in the shower instead. He realized he had not had a girl in over a week! Ejaculating in his morning shower was not enough. A man of his business stature should never run out of beautiful girls to satisfy him at any given moment.
He heard rumors that Francine Papillon, his ex live-in, had hooked up with some middle-aged screenwriter she met the day she moved to the Chateau Marmont. I should have set her up at a Holiday Inn in Torrance or Orange County, Kennilworth thought bitterly.
Still wet from his shower, he scanned through his black book, but realized he was now more famished than horny. He threw on black gabardine trousers and a loose Hawaiian silk shirt. With the manuscript in his briefcase, he hopped into his red Ghibli Maserati and drove down to Nate N’ Al’s Deli, ten minutes away, where they served his favorite—mushroom and spinach omelet; lox, cream cheese, and thickly sliced onions and tomatoes, on perfectly-toasted bagels.
At least he lucked out with the perfect parking space in front of the restaurant. A crowd of admirers popped out of everywhere on the sidewalk, snapping pictures of his car. Kennilworth loved the attention.
At the restaurant, he was treated like a celebrity. Everyone recognized him, called him by name, and shook his hand. Soon, he should find himself a lovely young aspiring actress, he thought with a grin, eager to fuck his brains out.
Sitting alone in a circular corner booth for six, Kennilworth set his manuscript on the table and leafed through the Calendar section of the Sunday Los Angeles Times. He glanced up and noticed a veteran actor, smooching with a long-haired blonde
a good thirty years his junior. Why, that old fart! He thought of his stepfather. He tossed the newspaper aside, picked up his manuscript, and left without finishing his breakfast. He cruised around Beverly Hills. He could drive his sports car down Sunset Boulevard, east to Hollywood, where he would surely find a hooker. But at this stage of his life, he should not have to pay for sex!
Here I am, the big shot—bored out of my wits with no one to suck my dick while those old guys are screwing young chicks! He shifted forcefully into high gear and the Maserati screamed up Rodeo Drive, heading north. He screeched to a halt because of the traffic light, and spotted a police car on his right. As soon as the light turned green, Kennilworth carefully drove ahead. Another speeding ticket he sure as hell didn’t need. He made a sharp left, crossing Sunset Boulevard, toward Comstock Park. A familiar figure jogging toward the park caught his attention. Slowing down, he recognized the new office receptionist. He honked once.
“Hey!” he shouted, after pulling to the curb, giving a quick glance at his rearview mirror to make sure there was no police car around. He kept his engine humming. Sports car loud. “Want a ride?”
“Oh, hey! Hello, Mr. Kennilworth Cohen!” the young woman said.
“Hell-lowww!”
“Nice car, Mr. Cohen!”
Kennilworth shrugged a shoulder, raised a pretentious eyebrow. “Wanna ride?”
“A ride? Really? Oh, no. Thank you!” she replied, but she was obviously impressed.
“Get in.” It sounded more like an order.
“Oh gosh, I’d love to. I can’t. Such a gorgeous car. Is it a Corvette?
“No!” he said, almost angry. “It’s a Maserati.”
“What?”
“A Maserati Ghibli. I picked it up in Italy.”
“Eee-talee? Hey, wow.”
“Come on, get in.”
“I’m all sweaty and I’ve got …”
“I don’t mind. C’mon!” he commanded. Down boy, he thought, as he pressed down on his crotch.
“My husband and my little girl are waiting for me at the park. Otherwise I would’ve loved to go with you. Oh gosh, such a neat car!”
Stupid chick! Why didn’t she say she had a damn husband and a kid? If they didn’t make those discrimination laws at work, he would have had his personnel department fire her ass. Bitch, he thought, waving a hand and flooring it, back up to Sunset. No need to get upset over a nobody. This reminded him of the girl who lived with his stepfather. Another “nobody.” Ian always played tennis on Sundays at the Beverly Hills Country Club. What was Ms. Nobody doing today?
CHAPTER 53
ZAFFEERA’S DILEMMA
“No! Not again!” Zaffeera shouted at her reflection in the mirror. Sitting alone on the boudoir chaise while brushing her hair, she felt the familiar mild cramps signaling the onset of yet another menstrual period.
One year and two months after her last abortion, Zaffeera was still not pregnant. She shuddered, remembering the terrible ordeal she endured at that dreadful little clinic in the Los Angeles outskirts of the San Fernando Valley, where she was left nearly paralyzed with the worst cramps she had ever experienced.
If Michel had been in bed with her every night, there might have been a chance to conceive again. But no, he had to spend most of his time abroad, working on some Bel Air mansion instead of focusing on her! He designed intricate waterfalls and fishponds for his new client. Koi fish, he said. Who cares? she thought.
Michel committed his precious time to foreign clients, strangers, while he neglected his own wife. She yearned for his hard body. Every night and day, instead of days filled with emptiness—walking around the new Al-Balladi mall—shopping for things she didn’t need or care to own.
Not pregnant, and never likely to be—if Michel continued to neglect his husbandly duties, she thought, brushing her hair. With each stroke, her anger intensified. Realizing she would surely ruin the extensions she had put in last week at the beauty shop, she switched to a comb. She had worked hard on looking good. For him. For what? All in vain.
“I am a neglected wife, sexually deprived,” she concluded. “It’s unhealthy.” Patience, a voice said inside her.
Fuck patience! She tossed her comb across the room. She had waited long enough for Michel to show some affection! She scratched her itchy elbow. Why wasn’t he more demonstrative? There had to be something wrong with him. Could he be … interested in … men? Boys? No! She pushed the ghastly thought away. Of course he was not a homosexual—he was attracted to Noora. She wondered if he would have treated Noora the same way. Of course he would have. Only Noora wouldn’t have known the difference, she was so stupid. Zaffeera picked up the brush again, telling herself she mustn’t think about her dead sister. Not ever.
She scratched the back of her knee. The skin behind both knees felt dry and itchy. The rash had started on one elbow, and it spread to different places. She wondered if it was eczema. Obviously, the result of nerves and having to live a lonely, sex-starved life. Michel was to blame. Other people’s houses were more important than his, and she was the one who had to suffer?
Pain stabbed through her right temple. She took deep breaths and held her hands over her eyes to calm herself. She must not let the headache take hold. She fumbled for the pills she had left on top of her boudoir table. Migraines. That word never entered her mind before she married Michel.
Yes, there had to be something wrong with him, though he sure had all the proper tools. He had the gift of perfection, only he didn’t know what to do with it! She was tired of having to plan every evening with him—slipping an aphrodisiac into his wine. The first few times, it worked. The last time, he fell asleep. But she was able to catch him aroused during the early morning. No foreplay.
Sooner or later, he would return to Al-Balladi and work on their dream home—at least that. He had already completed the designs for a modern mansion surrounded by pools and waterfalls. Their new house would be the envy of everyone at Al-Balladi, but he kept postponing it.
Zaffeera hated living in her father-in-law’s house, a boring, sprawling three-story Mediterranean-style villa where she spent night after night without Michel. At least she didn’t have to have dinners with Michel’s father, because he was busy completing the world-class resort at Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt, with her own father. The only servant who lived in the house was the family’s cook, an unfriendly older lady who spoke only French and didn’t appear too excited about having Zaffeera living there. The old hag had a room next to the kitchen—far from the bedrooms upstairs—and she never dared to intrude on the rest of the house. There were two housekeepers who came weekday mornings, and the chauffeur drove them home every evening before sunset.
She looked around the large suite she occupied. Boring beige and peach décor, relatively comfortable. The wide king-size bed was ridiculous. Perhaps she should replace it with a queen-size bed, like she wished she could have done it for their wedding night, so that Michel wouldn’t drift so far from her. At least she could have the new driver take her back to the mall and buy new bed linen. Something more elegant, more sensual. Satin. Silky satin sheets. She smiled at the thought. Soft and slippery—she fantasized the two of them nude in bed. How wonderfully delicious that would be—whenever he decided to return to Al-Balladi!
The only solution was to live with him in Los Angeles. They would purchase a cute hacienda in Beverly Hills; perhaps a cozy bungalow, next to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Yes, she would do it, she sang to herself, bouncing up from her boudoir chair and breezing across the room to the huge walk-in closet. She punched in the combination to her little safe on the back wall behind hanging dresses, and removed her large and shiny penis-shaped vibrator. She stared at the device and flipped the button to the “on” position. The vibrating motion was weak. She needed fresh batteries.
A gust of wind threw the window open and the sheer drapes billowed out wildly like huge sleeves waving toward her. Zaffeera ran to the window and managed to close it. She tried
to catch her breath, holding the vibrator to her chest. A cold shiver ran through her. The glass of the tall french windows rattled and shook as if a violent wind swept through the house, then moments later, all was quiet, except for the gentle hum of her vibrator. Quickly, she flipped it to the off position.
Just a little wind, she told herself. But how did it materialize so fast, when it had been calm and even balmy outside? My imagination is running away with me, she thought, closing the heavy beige brocade curtains. The silver-framed wedding picture of Zaffeera and Michel had fallen on the carpet. She picked it up and replaced it on the table next to the window, and as she did, she noticed the other picture of Mrs. Amir—a silver-framed photograph with Michel as a boy about ten years old. Zaffeera bent closer as she stared at the black-and-white photograph. She had never really paid much attention to it before. Another shiver ran through her, as if the ghost of Michel’s mother was present—watching her. She jumped when she heard a knock. Zaffeera dropped the vibrator in the pocket of her peignoir, took her wedding picture, and crossing the room, she placed it prominently on Michel’s bedside table.
Another soft knock.
“Who is it?” Zaffeera asked.
“Missus Amir?” Gamelia’s whimpering voice could barely be heard. “Missus … Missus Amir, it is only me.”
“Go back to your cottage,” Zaffeera snapped. “Wait there.”
Zaffeera kept her personal maid nearby. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but where Michel failed, the brainless little maid still knew how to satisfy her. It had been a terrible revelation. But what else could she do? Soon after her wedding, Zaffeera moved Gamelia from the Fendil mansion to Mr. Amir’s guest cottage near the pool, a separate little bungalow. Zaffeera decided she would have to go to Gamelia and get some relief, away from the Amir mansion from now on. The haunting feeling that the ghost of Michel’s mother was in the bedroom, watching, gave her the creeps.
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