Sinners

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Carey St Martin is looking after me. She’s terrific. I’m sure I have her to thank for all the offers I’m getting. If it wasn’t for her I’d probably have been out of here on the next plane to Rome.’

  Angela laughed prettily. ‘How sweet. All because of some itsy-bitsy nude scene. Darling, they’re all the rage now. If you want to get on in this business, you have to learn to take your clothes off.’ She snaked an arm around Steve and gazed at him adoringly.

  ‘Yeah, honey,’ Steve said, ‘and you certainly know how to do that. On and off the screen.’

  During the meal Steve kept on talking to Sunday. She was well aware of Angela on his other side, listening to every word and trying to join in.

  Angela had been his steady girlfriend for three months and she had high hopes of continuing the role, perhaps even making it permanent. She was infuriated by Steve’s interest in Sunday. What idiot had sat him next to her, and what the hell was all that slop she was coming out with about principles and good scripts?

  She could hardly believe her ears when she heard Steve say to Sunday, ‘You know you’d be great as the rich sexy broad in my new movie. Want to test?’

  Angela had hoped that Steve was going to let her do that part. It wasn’t a star role, but it was good. She had hinted that she would like to do it, but Steve had brushed her off. And now he was practically offering the part to this unknown bitch! And the unknown bitch was replying, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t test. There are quite a few Italian films I am in that you could run. I don’t believe in testing.’

  Steve looked at Jack, and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ Steve said. ‘You were right. This broad is different.’

  Chapter Ten

  Marshall K. Marshall left his custom-built white Rolls Royce with the doorman at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and limped into the lobby.

  Actors – lousy actors. They were becoming so damn demanding. They seemed to want to have a say in everything. He remembered the days when all they did was sign their contracts and get on with it.

  Marshall had arrived at the hotel to be present at a meeting between Cy Hamilton, Jnr – producer of Roundabout – and Charlie Brick, star of said picture. The meeting was due to the fact that they could stall Charlie no longer. He certainly wasn’t a fool, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Michelle Lomas was not going to appear.

  Already they were shooting around her, and the previous day Charlie had stalked off the set, leaving a message for Cy that unless Michelle was there he wasn’t doing another day’s work. So the time had come to tell him that Michelle Lomas was pregnant, a fact confirmed yesterday. She was confined to her house by Lake Lugano and wouldn’t be budging, on doctor’s orders, for nine months.

  Marshall carried a small briefcase in which were photographs and brief biographies of his ideas for replacements.

  The main thing was to convince Charlie that it was worthwhile to go ahead with the picture without Michelle. He had every contractual right to walk out if he wanted to. It was up to Marshall as his agent to persuade him not to.

  * * *

  In his tastefully decorated pale beige suite with two colour televisions going full blast, Charlie paced the floor wearing a white towelling bathrobe and brown Gucci slippers.

  George hovered respectfully in a corner, one eye on the television and one on Charlie. A rented secretary sat at a table, day-dreaming about being discovered. And another table held a spread of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, all untouched.

  ‘You should eat something,’ George said mildly.

  Charlie grunted, still pacing. His work was more important than anything else, and he was incensed that they should have done this to him. Without Michelle the film wouldn’t be the same. Where the hell was she? Why had she backed out?

  He wasn’t going to do it. He would go back to London and screw ’em. They weren’t going to fob him off with some replacement.

  Six boring days he had been waiting for Michelle, and apart from a press party, where he was asked a string of inane questions, he hadn’t been anywhere except to the studio.

  Of course, he had had a stack of invitations. Hollywood was always delighted to see a new face in town. Any excuse to throw a party. Several well-known hostesses vied with each other to be the first to have a dinner party for him. This time they were out of luck. He said no to everything. He didn’t believe in a social life until the film was under way.

  There was a knock at the door and Marshall K. Marshall limped in. In spite of the air conditioning he was sweating profusely. He rarely left his office during the day, only in emergencies.

  ‘You look great,’ Marshall said. ‘Even thinner than last week.’

  ‘Yes, I am managing to keep the old weight down.’ Charlie smiled. He knew it was only supreme willpower that kept him looking as good as he did. Four weeks of normal eating and he would be back to the fatty he once was.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ Marshall said. ‘Cy’s not exactly ecstatic about it. But Michelle is expecting a baby. She’s got us by the balls.’

  Charlie slumped into a chair. That was the last thing he’d expected.

  ‘We got a doctor’s written confirmation yesterday – so that’s why there’s been all the shillyshallying. Who would imagine Michelle would get herself knocked up? Not only knocked up, but thrilled about it. Cy wanted her to go ahead and do the movie anyway – after all, it won’t notice for another four or five months – but no, she ain’t taking no risks. Sorry, Charlie, that’s it. Look Cy’s in a bind, if you walk out it will be bad, and I know you can walk out, and personally I wouldn’t blame you. But listen, baby, if we can find a replacement – someone you OK, and you stay, then I reckon it will be another ten per cent of the gross, and that ain’t chicken feed. What do you think?’

  The rented secretary sat straight in her chair, trying to listen over the noise of the television. George still lingered in the corner.

  Charlie closed his eyes and tried to think. Another ten per cent. Not bad. But who could replace Michelle?

  As if reading his thoughts Marshall said, ‘We could have a re-write. Instead of the parts being equal, build yours up and cut hers down. It would be your movie, all the way. Can we turn that goddam television off ?’

  ‘George, turn it off,’ Charlie said, his mind racing. ‘And I don’t need you, dear’ – to the secretary – ‘come back tomorrow, same time.’

  The rented secretary got up, smoothed down her mini, and wriggled past Marshall. Perhaps he would discover her. He didn’t even give her a glance.

  At the door she paused, trying to decide whether to tell them she was an actress, but George blocked her path and ushered her out.

  She wriggled off, angry at not having been discovered.

  Charlie said slowly, ‘It sounds good. What about Cy? Has he agreed?’

  Marshall felt relief. ‘He will.’

  * * *

  By the time Cy Hamilton Jnr arrived, fresh from an argument with his recent third wife, Charlie and Marshall had sorted everything out.

  Cy was a likeable man, but he had a steely temper that appeared on occasion.

  ‘You bastards – you’re holding me to ransom,’ he said. But eventually he agreed.

  All that remained to be settled was a new actress for the role, and they all had different ideas.

  ‘Magda Seal,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Forget it, she’s booked solid.’

  ‘Mirielle Montane from Cy.

  ‘No tits – skinny, useless.’

  ‘Anna Karl.’

  ‘Too old.’

  They discussed the possibilities, eventually running out of foreign actresses and deciding that the girl could be any nationality.

  ‘How about a new girl?’ Marshall suggested, opening his briefcase and bringing out pictures. ‘Sunday Simmons.’

  ‘Sunday what?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Simmons. You’ve seen her, Cy, haven’t you? Great body, big boobs, g
ood publicity potential.’

  Cy nodded. ‘Not a bad idea. Can she act?’

  Marshall shrugged. ‘Who knows? We could run some film of her – she’s in the new Jack Milan.’

  ‘I don’t want an unknown,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Take a look at her pictures,’ Marshall replied. ‘She’s a wild-looking broad.’

  Charlie thumbed through the stills, lingering on one that showed Sunday in the nude scene with Jack Milan. He felt suddenly aroused. My God, he realized it was at least two weeks since he’d had a woman. Have to do something about that.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ he said. ‘What’s her phone number?’

  ‘Yeah, what is her phone number?’ Cy asked, smiling slowly.

  Marshall laughed. ‘Shall we run film on her?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Now another idea I had,’ Marshall said, ‘and don’t blow your stacks – is Angela Carter.’

  ‘Angela Carter!’ Cy exclaimed.

  ‘Yeah, Angela. She’s a name. I think I can get her to test.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘OK with me. It sounds like a good idea.’

  They decided on another three possibles, and since time was at a premium, they arranged to meet at eight o’clock at Cy’s house, where he would have film on all five girls to show in his private screening room.

  As Marshall was leaving, Charlie called him to the side and said something he hadn’t wanted to. ‘Can you fix me a girl for later?’

  ‘Sure. Any preferences?’

  Charlie shook his head, already regretting asking Marshall. But after all, he didn’t know anyone in town and he didn’t want someone from the studio sending him a hooker.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Marshall said, limping off, relieved to be on his way back to the office.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I love drive-ins!’ Sunday exclaimed, examining the menu on a stand by the car window. ‘I want two hamburgers and a chocolate malt.’

  Carey laughed. ‘You’ll get fat.’

  ‘I don’t care. I think I’m beginning to like it here.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Carey pressed the buzzer on the car-side speaker and gave their order. ‘If I was in your position I’d be crazy about it. I mean, let’s just consider things. You get into town with a small part in a Jack Milan movie. You march out of that like a star, grab all the headlines – march back in again, plus apologies all round. Meet Steve Magnum at a party. He showers you with roses and invitations all week long. You refuse to even date him – Mr Number-One Hollywood Catch. And now today a firm offer for you to be in his new movie. Six glorious weeks in Acapulco. Wow – no wonder you’re beginning to like it.’

  Sunday smiled. ‘Thanks to you. If it wasn’t for you I would have gone back to Rome.’

  ‘Thanks to you, kiddo, I got myself out of that agency job, and now things are really swinging for me. I’m picking up new clients every day. Do you know Angela Carter called me yesterday and wants to know if I’d be interested in handling her. She must hate you.’

  Sunday frowned. ‘I don’t know why. Life is too short to go around hating people.’

  A waiter in tight white jeans came bearing two trays with their order. ‘Aren’t you Sunday Simmons?’ he asked in a feminine voice, peering through the window.

  She nodded.

  ‘Lots of luck, dear, my friend and I think you’re lovely. We saw you on TV the other night.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Carey waited until the boy had gone, then said, ‘Fame, baby, that’s fame.’

  Sunday munched on her hamburger. ‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed.

  Carey picked daintily at her cottage cheese and fruit salad. ‘You really are an unusual girl. I ask you out for a celebration lunch, thinking maybe the Polo Lounge or Bistro and where do you want to go? A drive-in! I shall be glad to pack you off to Acapulco.’

  ‘When am I supposed to leave? And when do I get a copy of the script? And don’t forget the clause about no nude scenes.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to forget that. They’re sending a script to your hotel today. You start costume fittings, hair and make-up tests next week. They want you to leave July tenth. What are you going to do about Steve Magnum?’

  Sunday smiled sweetly. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re too much. Why not go out with him? He’s not going to eat you – and even if he was – wowee, baby, I hear he’s the greatest!’

  ‘I don’t want everyone saying the only reason I’m in his movie is because I’m having an affair with him. If he’s that anxious to go out with me he’ll just have to wait until Acapulco, and then we’ll see.’

  She spoke calmly, but she had given a lot of thought to Steve Magnum. She was attracted to him, but she knew his reputation with women, and instinct told her that the only way to hold his interest beyond a few dates was to play it very cool indeed. Also she was frightened of what a relationship with Steve Magnum would involve. There had only been two men in her life – Raf and Paulo – and she wasn’t yet sure if she were ready to cope with a third.

  ‘I think Stevie the lady-killer has met his match,’ Carey said with a laugh. ‘Only don’t under estimate him – he’s been playing the boy-meets-girl game for a long long time. Whatever you do, don’t ever take him seriously – there are more hearts broken by Magnum than convertible cars in Southern California!’

  ‘I’ve got the message, thank you.’

  They called for the check and Carey drove her car down La Cienega to Sunset, dropping Sunday at the Château.

  ‘When you get back from Mexico we should really find you a house or apartment, and you’ve got to get a car.’

  ‘I think I’d like a little place at the beach.’

  Carey shrugged. ‘You’re impossible. That’s just not chic. However, knowing how definite you are, I’ll ask around and see what’s available. Talk to you later. Oh, by the way, we’ll break this to the press about the movie tomorrow, so stay available.’ She waved and drove off.

  Sunday walked slowly inside. She had decided to spend the afternoon by the pool. It was so hot that her thin cotton trousers and shirt were sticking to her body.

  The old lady at the desk beckoned her over. ‘There’s more flowers for you, Miss Simmons. And a letter from England. I wonder if I might have the stamp? My grandson collects them, you know. And there’s a young woman here for you, she’s sitting over there.’

  Sunday looked over in surprise and saw a girl, flopped out in a chair, sunglasses shielding her eyes. ‘Who is she?’

  The old lady reached for a message pad. ‘Dindi Sydne.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sunday remembered her from Jack Milan’s party. The girl who had known Paulo. What on earth was she doing here?

  Sunday took the flowers and letter, carefully peeling off the stamp and handing it to the old lady. It was from her aunt; she would read it later.

  The note with the two dozen roses read: ‘When are you going to change your mind? S.M.’

  She walked over to the girl in the chair and nudged her gently.

  The girl sat up like a startled rabbit. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed loudly. ‘Sunday! Oh, and you’ve brought me flowers – how nice!’ She stood up. She was wearing tight hipster orange pants, and a brief sweater. Her exposed midriff was very tanned. ‘Guess what happened to me? I was driving along Sunset in my beautiful T-Bird and the frigging little monster goes and blows up! Fortunately it happened not two blocks from here, right by a gas station, and this adorable mechanic with muscles like Superman is fixing it for me. I remembered you lived here, so I figured I’d while away the afternoon with you. He’s going to drop it back here when it’s fixed. You should see him – a real sex machine!’

  Excuses leapt to Sunday’s lips, but she hated to lie, and anyway, the girl was only trying to be friendly.

  ‘That’s fine. I thought I might sit by the pool, you’re welcome to join me.’

  ‘Yeah, great. I’ll borrow a bikini. My tan could do with a booster.’ She examin
ed her stomach.

  ‘I’m just going upstairs, I’ll bring you down a bikini.’

  Dindi linked arms with her. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Upstairs, Limbo, Sunday’s little dog, came bounding to greet them. The rooms were stuffy and Sunday turned up the air conditioning.

  Dindi wandered around, picking up everything to inspect. ‘Who are all these flowers from?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a friend,’ Sunday replied shortly.

  ‘A very good friend,’ Dindi said with a chuckle. ‘I adore good friends. I once made it with a guy on top of six dozen red roses. It was the end, very sexy. Only he couldn’t come, said the smell put him off. Some guys are so weird.’

  ‘Here.’ Sunday handed her a green and-white bikini. Dindi stepped out of her pants and sweater, revealing that she wore nothing underneath. She put on the bikini. ‘Man, you’ve got big boobs – give me some cotton wool to pad this thing out. I wish I had a big pair, guys really dig that.’

  Dindi was not exactly flat-chested, Sunday had observed.

  They rode down in the elevator and walked the short distance to the pool. It was nearly deserted except for an aged woman in a huge flowered hat, and a muscle-bound man stretched out and covered with oil.

  ‘Not much happening here,’ Dindi said, a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘You should move to the Beverly Hills, the pool there is always full of action.’

  ‘Listen, Dindi, let’s get one thing clear. I am not looking for any action. I enjoy peace and quiet.’

  Dindi lifted orange-tinted sunglasses and stared in disbelief. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize I was with such queenly company. For someone who doesn’t want to swing, you certainly look the part. Do you want me to go? Buzz away and leave you to your peace and quiet?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’

  ‘So I know. Hey, I’m going to ask that guy to lend me some of his oil.’ And she was off.

  Sunday decided she quite liked her. She was loudmouthed, nosey, and obviously a pushover with men, but she had a certain honest charm.

  She came back after ten minutes, triumphantly bearing a bottle of sun oil. ‘That’s Branch Strong,’ she announced. ‘He’s in from New York to do a test. He swings both ways.’