In a way he seemed relieved to have been caught. He was giving himself up to five intravenous injections a day, plus massive doses of sleeping pills to calm himself down.
The drug he was taking was methadrine, which after a time could become as addictive as heroin.
The doctor ordered him straight into a private nursing home, and there for the first time Sunday met the man she had married. He lay in bed day after day, his eyes glassy and blank, hardly talking, completely passive.
She visited him every day, and after a few weeks he begged her to get him out, to let him come home. He assured her he was completely cured.
The doctor said no, it was too soon. But she felt so sorry for him just lying there. She felt sure that at home he would become his old self.
She persuaded the doctor to release him, and within two days at home he had made a miraculous recovery. He was his old charming assured self.
Of course he was back on the drug.
The next two years were a nightmare. She became his nurse, enemy, spy, welfare visitor, and jailer. And he went from doctor to doctor, hospital to nursing home, with intervals in between at home – supposedly cured. But she would always discover the truth, and back to another doctor he would go.
Her life became an existence of visiting him, or if he was home, watching him. She also had to work as much as she could, for suddenly there was no money, and his family didn’t care to be involved.
The end came one morning when she awoke uneasily. Paulo had been home a week, off the drug, just lying in bed staring at the ceiling, his once-handsome face unshaven and drawn. Now he was not beside her.
She ran first to the bathroom. The door was locked. She knocked and called his name, but there was no reply. She looked through the keyhole, he was lying on the floor quite still.
Panic stricken she called the doctor, and together they broke the door down.
Paulo was dead. Killed by a massive overdose.
At the inquest they called it accidental death. In her own mind Sunday wasn’t sure.
She endured the gossip for a few weeks, and then the opportunity to go to Hollywood arose and she leaped at the chance.
Rome no longer held the same magic for her.
* * *
‘Look, I really think you should go to this party of Jack’s,’ Carey said for the second time.
Sunday was staring out of the window cuddling her little dog. ‘Did you know my husband killed himself?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Carey looked at her in amazement. They had never discussed Sunday’s former life although Carey knew all about it from newspaper clippings.
‘Yes.’ Sunday nodded dreamily. ‘How will that fit into my big publicity build-up?’
‘Look, honey,’ Carey put a hand lightly on her shoulder, ‘I know about your past and that’s what it is – past. It’s not normal for you to shut yourself up here. You’re a beautiful girl, you’ve got to get out and enjoy yourself. Apart from which, it will be good for your image to be seen. Just Jack’s party to start off with, huh?’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sunday said. ‘OK, I’ll go.’
‘Great! There’s a good girl. Now what are you going to wear that will knock ’em all cold?’
Chapter Seven
Herbert Lincoln Jefferson polished the faded crinkled leather of his best brown shoes. He had had them eight years but they still gave good service.
Marge shuffled into the kitchen to fetch herself a beer from the fridge. She was chewing on a chicken leg.
‘You want me to do that?’ she asked mouth full of chicken.
Herbert shook his head. She asked him every night, and every night he said no.
Marge pulled the ring on the beer can and some of the liquid sprayed out over Herbert’s shoes, which he was cleaning on the table.
‘Gee, I’m sorry, Herbie,’ she said nervously, grabbing at a corner of her dress and attempting to rub the shoes.
He gave her a shove.
She looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Herbie, I said I’m sorry . . .’ She took her can of beer and left the kitchen.
Muttering under his breath Herbert finished polishing the shoes. He put them on and admired them, one foot at a time. Then he put on his jacket, patted the letter in the inside pocket, and left the house on his way to the bus stop.
He liked working nights for the Supreme Chauffeur Company. He hated the daytime jobs, boring trips to the airport and back.
He wondered who he would be driving tonight. The previous week had been very dull, just old married couples. He liked to get single actors with their dates. They were the interesting ones. They were the ones that kept you waiting outside the girl’s house or apartment at the end of the evening while they screwed her. Once he had managed to watch; the girl lived on a deserted hill in a big glass house, and she and her date had gone inside and started right at it in the middle of the floor. Herbert had crawled to the bottom of a glass pane and seen the whole thing. He wrote to that girl regularly once a week.
The bus arrived and he climbed aboard. It was a hot sweaty ride and he was pleased to get off. He hurried to his place of work, posting the letter on the way.
‘Hello, Jefferson.’ The man behind the desk nodded to him. ‘Tonight you’re driving Sunday Simmons. She’s to be picked up at the Château Marmont at eight and taken to a party at Jack Milan’s. You know his house in Bel Air?’
Herbert nodded.
‘You’re to wait. Take the number four black Caddy. It needs gas and a wash.’
He nodded again, pleased with his assignment. He had read about Sunday Simmons. She was the one who wouldn’t show her tits or something. Now he would have a chance to look her over and see if she was worth writing to.
Chapter Eight
Charlie got back to his hotel just after three. Natalie Allen was waiting in the lobby.
‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘You know the Elephant at lunchtime, it’s like a meeting of Equity. Come on up.’
Natalie had been to the hairdressers, and her short dark hair hugged her head like a cap. She was wearing a yellow linen suit, and Charlie couldn’t help thinking how attractive she was. Clay was a lucky fellow.
‘You must have heaps to do before you go,’ she remarked.
‘Not really. I’m all set. George will pack everything.’
‘Oh yes, the trusty George. Are you taking him with you?’
‘Of course. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘Lorna didn’t like him, you know.’
‘Didn’t she?’ He looked surprised. What was there not to like about George? And Lorna had never said anything to him about disliking George.
‘Yes, she was jealous. I mean he’s more like your closest friend than a servant.’
He winced at the word servant. He didn’t like it. As far as he was concerned George worked for him because he wanted to, not because he had to.
‘Do you want some tea or a drink or what?’
They were in the suite, and Natalie took off her jacket and sat on the couch. ‘A drink, I think. A Pernod with masses of ice.’ She leaned back. ‘Do you know this is the first time we’ve been alone together since that party?’
He had not been aware of that fact, but was embarrassed thinking about it. Clay and Natalie had had a fight, and Clay had gone off in a fury. Then Charlie had tried to console her, and ended up kissing her. Fortunately, Clay had come back, but Charlie felt badly about the whole thing. You didn’t go around grabbing other people’s wives, especially your best friend’s.
‘I’m sorry about that night,’ he said, ‘let’s just forget about it. I was drunk, and so were you.’
She smiled thinly. ‘But I don’t want to forget it. I enjoyed it, didn’t you?’
‘Of course I did. But you know, love, it’s a bit tricky, Clay’s my friend, and I want it to stay that way.’ Charlie was disturbed at the direction the conversation was taking. He had thought Natalie was going to talk about Lorna.
‘Clay’s a shit,’ Natalie said firmly. ‘A lousy, egotistical shit! I know all about the little girls he bangs. Why shouldn’t I have some fun? You do fancy me, don’t you, Charlie? Well, of course, I know you do.’ She got up slowly and came towards him.
He backed away warily.
She wound her arms around his neck and started to kiss him.
How the hell did he get out of this?
‘I’ve always liked you,’ she whimpered. ‘Lorna was never any good for you. I always felt something between us – something special, didn’t you?’
The phone rang, and with relief he untangled himself and went to answer it.
It was George, phoning from the lobby. ‘I thought if you didn’t need me for an hour I’d pop round to Hayward’s and pick up your suits.’
‘What, now? Charlie said loudly in an annoyed voice.
‘I don’t have to, I just thought—’
‘Oh, God. All right. I suppose I’ll have to. I’ll be right down.’
He hung up on an amazed George.
‘What’s the matter?’ Natalie asked.
‘Business. Some bloody appointment I clean forgot about. Sorry, love, what a drag.’
‘Shall I wait?’
‘God knows how long it will take, you’d better not.’
She sighed. ‘Whoever invented phones should be shot.’
‘You’re right.’ He helped her on with her jacket and hustled her to the door.
‘About us,’ Natalie said. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘We’ll figure something out,’ he replied, making a mental note never to be caught with Natalie Allen alone again.
‘Goodbye, darling.’ She kissed him. ‘Don’t forget, we’ll be in Hollywood two weeks after you. Wait for me.’
He nodded. Charming! Clay wasn’t so lucky after all.
* * *
At the airport Charlie was stoned. He was petrified of flying and could only board a plane completely out of his mind. Before leaving for the airport he had smoked two joints, and the plane now looked like a beautiful big bird ready to receive him. He smiled benignly at the photographers, pantomiming funny faces for them, and waving his horn-rimmed glasses in the air.
George hissed at him. ‘You know you don’t like photos without your glasses on.’
‘Oh, yes, very very factual,’ Charlie replied in his best Indian imitation.
‘Bye, Charlie – good luck,’ one of the photographers called.
A pretty air hostess arrived to escort them to the V.I.P. lounge.
‘The flight will be boarding in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
He nodded. ‘A double scotch, my dear.’ He needed it.
Once airborne he fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Nine
Jack Milan’s house stood in acres of grounds, surrounded by electrified fences. At the entrance there was a small guardhouse. Nobody had access to the main house unless the guard said so. This was due to the fact that Jack had five children, and in the past there had been several kidnapping threats. Although the kids were all grown up now, he was taking no chances.
Sunday sat nervously in her car while the chauffeur thrust her invitation at the guard. Then the car swept up a long drive to a big white colonial mansion.
Sunday felt nervous. First she had decided Carey was right, and she should have brought an escort. Second she was sure she wouldn’t know anyone. And third, since Paulo’s death, she hated to be among lots of people. In fact, she dreaded the whole evening.
She looked quite fantastic in a long black sequin outfit that she had had made for a film in Italy. She wore nothing underneath, and her body was shown off to great advantage.
A butler greeted her, and led her through the house and out onto the sloping floodlit terraces at the back.
‘Miss Sunday Simmons,’ he announced through a loudspeaker system, and left her standing there.
The many people drinking on the terraces all turned to stare. Her name was already known.
A plump fortyish woman came over extending her hand. ‘Hi, Sunday dear, I’m Jack’s wife, Ellie. It’s lovely to see you. Come along, and I’ll introduce you around.’
Sunday immediately liked the warm plump Ellie. She followed her to a group of people and soon found herself mingling easily into the small talk.
It wasn’t going to be too bad. After dinner she could slip quietly away. She would have done her duty.
She was chatting to a bleached-blond actor, a well-known queen and an elderly red-headed woman who kept one protective hand on the queen’s arm in case he should flit off, when a girl said, ‘Sunday. How great to see you. How are you?’
She looked at the girl. Very trampy with long blonde hair, and a busty figure crammed into a shiny red dress. Sunday knew she had seen her somewhere before, but she couldn’t for the life of her think where.
‘Hello,’ she said.
The girl laughed. ‘Don’t you remember me? Dindi Sydne – Prince Benno’s friend. We all used to go to the beach together in Rome. You and Paulo – gee, I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t mention him. It was so awful what happened. Benno was heartbroken. Anyway, you remember me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Vaguely she remembered her.
‘Well, here I am. Back in my home town,’ Dindi continued. ‘It just didn’t work out with Benno. Anyway, I was offered a movie, so here I am again. Would you believe I had to go all the way to Rome to get a job here? Ain’t life funny? You look great. Are you having a good time? Your publicity’s wonderful. Hey, did you see Steve Magnum yet? I’d love to meet him. Do you know him?’
Sunday shook her head. She knew who he was, of course. A film star, swinger, four-times married (all to famous ladies) millionaire. At least that’s what one read about him.
‘He’s a great friend of Jack Milan’s,’ Dindi said, ‘so I guess you’ll meet him. I haven’t even met Jack yet. My date is a real creep cameraman. Doesn’t know anyone. I don’t know how the hell he got invited in the first place. By the way, where are you staying? Let’s get together.’
‘The Château Marmont. But I really don’t go out much and—’
‘We’ll soon change that. I can fix you up with some live ones. Things can get a little dull around here if you just mix with the importants. Agreed, that’s a good scene, but a little action on the side doesn’t hurt. I’ll call you, must rush now, there’s a director over there I’ve had my eye on for weeks.’
Dindi wriggled off in her tight dress, and Sunday found herself standing alone. She looked around. The party was in full swing. Soon, she hoped, they would serve dinner and then her ordeal would be over.
She felt very much alone, but that had been a constant feeling ever since Paulo’s death. In the few months beforehand, she had watched him degrade himself. Would she ever forget the lengths he had gone to in hiding the drugs from her? Burrowing beneath the tiles in the bathroom like a dog, hiding little stores under the mattress, in the light fixtures, even on the narrow ledges outside the windows of their apartment. In the end she had been thinking about divorce, and the week before he died had threatened him with it. He had cried like a baby, making her fervent promises of how good he would be, how this time he was cured.
‘Sunday, dear,’ Ellie Milan bore down on her, ‘I’m putting you at a table with Jack. Table number two, you’ll see a place card for yourself. I’m trying to get everyone seated.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She followed the groups of people drifting towards the tables.
Dindi was sitting earnestly at a table, her hand laid casually on top of a fat man’s arm. His eyes were glued firmly down her neckline.
‘Hi there, Sunday.’ Jack Milan waved at her from table two.
She went over, returning his smile and shaking hands with the people already sitting there, to whom he introduced her. Abe Stein was among them, with a horse-faced wife who glared.
She was seated next to Jack on one side, with tw
o vacant chairs on the other.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said. ‘And great in the dailies too. I understand Radiant are giving you a contract.’
‘Well, they have offered me one, but I’m not taking it. I don’t believe in long-term contracts, they’re too restricting.’
There was a short shocked silence from everyone.
Abe said, ‘I’d take it if I were you.’
‘I haven’t done too badly,’ Jack said mildly. ‘I’ve been with Radiant seventeen years.’
‘No, the kid’s right.’ Steve Magnum had appeared, accompanied by his latest steady, Angela Carter. He sat down next to Sunday. ‘Forget it. Long contracts are a thing of the past. Radiant’s about the only studio left who sign people, and they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Don’t let them talk you into anything, kid.’
‘I won’t,’ she replied, trying to stop herself from staring at him. His face was so familiar. Back in Rio, when she was still at school, he had been her favourite film star.
Steve Magnum had aged well. At fifty he wore his years with style. He barely made five foot eleven and he was very thin – his unkinder critics described him as scrawny – but his face still had the same bony, hungry quality that had made him a huge star some twenty-five years before. Steve Magnum was a legend in his own time. Women were mad about him. Even his four ex-wives never tired of saying they would always have him back. He had been single eight years now, and the newspapers and columns were always speculating about who would be the next Mrs Magnum. There were many candidates, but most people in the know bet there wouldn’t be another Mrs Magnum at all. Some said he might even go back to his first wife, by whom he had three children.
‘Hey now,’ he looked Sunday over with his famous pale blue eyes, ‘you’ve handled yourself pretty well so far. Came into town and caused quite a stir. Even told old Abe and Jack where to get off.’
Jack laughed, but Abe scowled and tried to ignore his wife who was nudging him to say something.
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