Sinners

by Jackie Collins

  ‘At an orgy,’ Phillipa replied, and concentrated on her nail.

  After dinner they went out to the patio for coffee. Natalie was calm and happy. Charlie was being especially sweet to her. His unbelievable girlfriend had lapsed into an hour-long silence.

  There seemed no point in telling the Allens that plain Phillipa was actually Lady Phillipa Longmead. Charlie was sure it would make no difference to them.

  ‘I hired a chauffeur today,’ Clay remarked. ‘A nice quiet chap. He can take Natalie around. The doctor said she’s got to give up driving – her back or something.’

  ‘I wish you had let me interview him,’ Natalie said. ‘After all, it will be I who is with him most of the time.’

  ‘You were asleep, darling. Anyway I was lucky to get him. They interview you. He’ll be here at ten in the morning, so you’ll see him soon enough. His name is Herbert Lincoln Jefferson. Are you ready for that name?’

  * * *

  They sat in the Lamborghini in front of Phillipa’s parents’ house.

  ‘Your friends, didn’t like me and I don’t care,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you weren’t exactly charm personified were you? Telling Natalie the prawns were off. You should have just kept quiet about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it would have been the polite thing to do.’

  ‘Oh Charlie, don’t be so uptight and antiquated. That’s the trouble with your stupid generation, you’re all so busy being polite that you don’t even see what’s going on under your nose. Wars and violence, people starving, young kids being sent off to get their brains blown out, and worse – if it’s an arm or a leg they lose, they just get dumped in some lousy army hospital and left to rot like garbage.’

  ‘I don’t want any of your lectures. I know what’s going on. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s life, you have to accept it.’

  ‘Accept it?’ Her lip curled sarcastically. ‘That’s just what we’re not going to do.’ She got out of the car and walked into the house without a backward glance.

  Charlie sat glumly, watching her disappear. She was a strange girl. She made him feel guilty. She made him feel that his life was small and useless and that he wasn’t doing anything. However, at least she could open her mouth and talk. She was aware, and that was a commendable quality.

  He gunned the car into action, and feeling depressed, drove back to his hotel.

  * * *

  Charlie and Laurel were hardly talking. He could not conceal his anger at the way she and Floss had just taken off at the rock festival. Neither of them mentioned it, but there was a cold barrier between them which everyone noticed. He stopped going to their house. He was busy reading properties anyway, looking for something he could do in the gap left by the cancelled movie. He had no reason to return to England before the end of the year.

  He saw Phillipa. She came to his hotel most evenings and sat around while he read. Sometimes she read scripts for him. She had surprisingly bright criticisms, and as he got to know her she relaxed and was a much more pleasant person to be with. It remained a purely platonic relationship. He didn’t really fancy her sexually, so he didn’t push it. Of course everyone thought they were at it day and night. Apart from the fact that Clay dropped by occasionally, they saw hardly anyone.

  One day Phillipa said, ‘My mother is having one of her parties. She wants me to bring you.’

  Charlie looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought you hated parties.’

  ‘I do. But she’s been on and on about you, so in a weak moment I said yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had weak moments.’

  She flushed. ‘It’s tomorrow night at eight. Will you come?’

  ‘If you want me to.’

  * * *

  Phillipa’s mother, Jane, was in her early forties. She was slim, tall, perfectly groomed, with a typically English prettiness. She looked nothing like her daughter. She wore a long red dress, and two thin diamond bracelets on each wrist. Her hair was swept back into a chignon, and in contrast to her husband she was the blueprint of good taste.

  Husband Sol, short and paunchy, with a giant cigar shoved obscenely between his lips, made no concession to the fact that they were having a party. He wore a gaudy Palm Beach shirt and baggy brown trousers.

  Jane extended an elegant hand and said, ‘I’m so delighted to meet you, Mr Brick. Phillipa talks of you all the time.’

  Sol shifted the cigar to the side of his mouth and rasped in pure Brooklynese, ‘Hey, Charlie, baby, good t’see ya. Name your poison.’

  Phillipa was nowhere in sight.

  Charlie made himself comfortable at the bar and chatted to Angela Carter and her escort.

  It was an hour before Phillipa appeared. Charlie hardly recognized her. Her normally long flowing hair was arranged in the semblance of a style, and instead of shaggy robes, she wore a white Victorian dress and shoes! Her face, with the small amount of make-up she had applied, was less interesting but more attractive.

  ‘You look great,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Do I?’ Suddenly she seemed like a rather shy eighteen-year-old and not the tough independent hippie he was used to.

  Her mother descended and threw up her hands in horror. ‘Phillipa, what are you wearing? Honestly, Mr. Brick, I just don’t know what to do about this girl, she always looks such a frightful mess.’

  A look of pain flitted quickly across Phillipa’s face and was just as quickly gone. She stepped out of her shoes defiantly. ‘Sorry, Jane, I know you hate the smell of my feet, but it’s so much more healthy!’

  Jane smiled. ‘Such a young girl, she’ll learn won’t she, Mr Brick? Or shall I call you Charlie? After all, when we were her age we had to go through this silly Bohemian phase too, I suppose, but it’s so boring while it lasts. Don’t you agree?’

  They stood on either side of him: Phillipa, eyes sulky and defiant; Jane, confident and poised. They waited to see whose side he would take.

  He sidestepped the issue and said, ‘This is a really lovely house. Have you lived here long?’

  When Jane went off to talk to other guests, Phillipa whispered, ‘Let’s go. This is really awful. I can’t stand all these phoney people.’

  Charlie was just about to agree when he spotted Dindi at the door. She was in a white satin pyjama-suit slashed to the waist, her suntanned bosom barely concealed, her blonde hair fluffy around her pouty face. She was with Steve Magnum and his entourage.

  Charlie felt a jolt of outrage at the sight of her. He would never forget the way she had spoken of Serafina the day before his dear mother died. He loathed her, and it also galled him that she was becoming so successful. She had used him, a fact he would always remember.

  Abruptly he downed the rest of his drink and said to Phillipa, who was absently picking at her long hair, ‘One more drink and we’ll be on our way. OK, love?’ He wasn’t about to slink out the moment Dindi appeared.

  Across the room she had noticed him, and in a loud voice she said to Steve, ‘Who on earth is Charlie with?’

  ‘Charlie who?’ Steve asked, swaying slightly.

  ‘You’d think he could do better than that,’ Dindi giggled, ‘I guess times are bad. I heard that they cancelled his next movie.’

  Steve wasn’t listening. He was hugging Jane, with whom he had once had an affair.

  Dindi headed across the room towards Charlie. ‘Hello,’ she said loudly.

  He wanted to ignore her, but sensed that that would give her more satisfaction than a cool greeting. He nodded at her coldly. ‘Dindi.’

  ‘Putting on a little weight, I see.’ She giggled in her customary manner.

  He smiled tightly. She had hit him where it hurt – his ego.

  Jane joined them at that point, kissing Dindi on both cheeks and gushing, ‘But of course you two know each other, don’t you? Really it’s quite difficult to keep up with who was married to whom in this town.’

  ‘You manage,’ Phillipa muttered under her
breath.

  ‘What, dear? Oh Dindi, darling, have you met my little girl? She makes me feel quite ancient. Phillipa, this is Dindi Synde.’ She smiled prettily at Charlie. ‘Mr Brick’s ex-wife, or are you divorced yet, one never knows?’

  Silently Charlie surveyed the three women: Jane, so sure of herself, a hint of bitchery gleaming in her flat grey eyes; Dindi, bursting out of her top, all blonde hair and nasty curled lips; Phillipa, flushed and a little panicky.

  He gripped Phillipa by her boney arm, saying, ‘I just remembered a very urgent appointment, thanks so much,’ and steered her across the room, through the hall, and out of the front door.

  ‘Thank God you did that,’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t think I could have stood it in there one more minute. Were you really married to her?’

  ‘It’s a short story,’ he mumbled quickly. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel and light up a nice big fat relaxing joint. I need to get the smell of that cow out of my nose.’

  ‘Who – Jane or Dindi?’

  ‘Both of them – they go together beautifully.’

  Later, when they were both pleasantly high, and the voice of Nina Simone filled the room, Charlie undressed her.

  It was time. They had been together weeks without really being together.

  She was painfully thin, and stiffened in his arms, although she never spoke a word of objection. She was rigid with distaste, tight, dry, unwelcoming.

  He produced a jar of Vaseline and she shied away in disgust. The whole thing was a mistake. It was wrong.

  Charlie felt all the desire drain away from him and he told her to get dressed.

  She muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I told you I didn’t like it. I warned you.’

  He shut himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Slowly he took off the trendy glasses he was wearing and snapped them in half. What was he trying to prove? That he was a young swinger? She would have liked it well enough if he had been some young stud.

  When he came out she was gone.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Claude Hussan arrived in town and checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  Sunday found out about it by reading the Hollywood Reporter.

  She was furious, and immediately called Carey from the set. ‘Can you have lunch?’ she asked. ‘I need your advice.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll be there at twelve.’ Carey hung up thoughtfully. She too had read the trades.

  The director was patient with Sunday that morning. She fluffed lines, dried up, and several times cut in on other actors. It was very unlike her.

  Carey was first in the studio restaurant. She smoked a cigarette and thought about what she would say.

  Sunday rushed in fifteen minutes late. She was wrapped in a pink silk housecoat, her long tan legs attracting everyone’s attention. She flopped down, ordered an orange juice and an egg salad, then said, ‘I just don’t understand it, it’s quite ridiculous. I’ve called the hotel but they say he left orders not to be disturbed. Carey – I don’t even care about me, but I’ve got his child! He hasn’t even called me once since I left Rio. That’s two weeks ago.’

  ‘Calm down.’ It was the first time Carey had seen Sunday blow her cool. ‘Just take it easy and I’ll give you the facts.’

  ‘What facts?’

  ‘He arrived yesterday morning with his wife. He’s apparently busy casting and interviewing all day long. Marshall has three clients seeing him today. As you know, his movie should start in three weeks and he still hasn’t gotten a star.’

  Sunday bit her lip. ‘His wife? But I thought they were separated, getting a divorce—’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No, but I just assumed. He never spoke of her except to say that she didn’t want Jean-Pierre. I just can’t believe they’re together. Why doesn’t he phone me – explain?’

  ‘I didn’t want to burst your bubble before, you seemed so happy. But this is a real mean guy. He has a horrible reputation, and frankly I was amazed at you getting caught up with him.’

  ‘You always think the worst of people. Claude is a beautiful, sensitive man.’ But even as she said it the words rang false. It wasn’t true. Claude was a surly, difficult bastard but she loved him.

  ‘Then why hasn’t he phoned you?’

  ‘There must be a reason. I’m sure there’s some perfectly logical explanation. Why, I’ll probably get home and find him playing with Jean-Pierre on the beach.’

  She picked at her egg salad.

  ‘How’s the movie going?’ Carey asked. ‘I thought I might spend some time on the set tomorrow morning.’

  ‘OK. By the way I’ve been getting more of those sick letters I told you about. Three this week – and whoever it is has my address.’

  ‘I’ve told you, tear them up and take no notice. It’s probably your friendly milkman. Those nuts never do anything. You get a stack of dirties at the office too.’

  ‘But this is the same person who was writing to me at the Château, I think I should—’

  ‘Hello, Carey.’ Charlie Brick stopped by the table. ‘Where’s Marshall?’

  ‘We’re not always together, you know. I expect he’s slaving away at the office. Charlie, do you know Sunday Simmons?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ He smiled at her; then remembering she was a friend of Dindi, his smile froze.

  ‘I sneaked onto your set the other day,’ Sunday said. ‘You were marvellous. When I was a kid I was a tremendous fan – in fact I still am.’ Why did it always sound so stupid when you were admiring someone?

  Christ Almighty! Was his life to be fraught with oblique references to his age? When she was a kid indeed! He had only been making films for ten years. ‘Thank you. Come over again, I’ll buy you a coffee.’

  ‘I’d love to. Next time I have a break I’ll be there.’

  ‘He’s very attractive in that funky English way,’ Carey remarked after he left. ‘When he’s playing himself, that is. I really dig that kind of subtle appeal. Marshall has it. I think we may actually get married any day now. He’s finally persuaded me.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. You never told me.’

  ‘Why should I? You’ve got enough problems. Anyway, I have made the fateful decision and now all I have to do is name the day. My mother will kill me!’

  * * *

  Sunday finished shooting early. The director cautioned her to go home and get a good night’s sleep. She drove twice past the Beverly Hills Hotel, trying to decide whether to go in. She knew it was the wrong way to approach Claude, yet she desperately wanted everything to be all right. Frustratedly she drove to Malibu.

  Jean-Pierre was playing on the beach with Katia, the young Mexican girl she had hired to look after him. Mr Hussan had not called.

  * * *

  Jack Milan arrived at six, for a drink, his youngest child, Victoria, with him. He owned a neighbouring beach house and had telephoned Sunday to ask if he could talk to her.

  ‘Good to see you. I was only saying to Ellie the other day how we should call you up and ask you over for dinner,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll take scotch on the rocks.’ He prowled around the tiny house. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, very cosy.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Yeah, you know I just found out you have a kid. You certainly know how to keep a secret.’

  ‘He’s not mine. I wish he was. I’m just looking after him for a friend.’

  ‘Sure,’ Jack said disbelievingly. ‘It’s a shame about you and Steve, you would have been great together. I was congratulating myself on playing Cupid.’

  She smiled again and wondered what he wanted. She was sure this was not a social call. The phone rang and automatically she picked it up.

  ‘I want to fuck you,’ a voice whispered. ‘I want to—’

  She quickly slammed down the receiver. ‘Oh God!’ The day had become too much for her and she burst into tears.

  ‘Hey, honey, what’s the
matter?’ Jack was embarrassed.

  ‘Jack, please go. I’m just tired, everything’s getting on top of me. Please understand.’

  The child was watching her with unconcealed interest.

  Jack got up reluctantly. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m really sorry. Forgive me.’

  ‘If you promise to have dinner with us next week. Ellie will call you.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  He left and she called the Beverly Hills Hotel, but Mr Hussan was unobtainable, so she left her name and number and went to bed.

  Outside an old grey Buick cruised slowly past her house.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Getting the job with Clay Allen was easy. Herbert answered the advertisement in the paper, went along wearing his one and only suit, showed the glowing references he had written himself, and he was in.

  It was an easy job. He spent most of the day lolling around the Allen’s kitchen, for neither of them seemed to go out much. As often as not, Clay spent most of the day writing in the poolhouse, and Natalie made only an occasional trip to Saks or Magnum’s. She sent the maid to the market, and sometimes he had to take the nanny and their child over to someone’s house. He kept himself to himself, communicating with neither the maid nor the nanny.

  Clay paid him an advance and he purchased an old grey Buick.

  If it were not for Marge, he would have been reasonably happy. She had become unbearable, bossy and demanding, nagging and shrill. Worst of all, she required his services sexually. This amazed him, after what he continually observed going on next door.

  Now that he had a car he made careful plans about how to do away with her. The first thing was to move away from those stinking neighbours, to somewhere where they were unknown. It would be no easy move, and Marge would be furious, but he had a plan, and now with a job and a car things were looking up.

  He found time to track down Sunday Simmons. He had read about her arriving back from Rio, and it was a simple matter to wait outside Carey St Martin’s office and follow her until she led him to Sunday and the house at the beach. After that, he followed her whenever he was free. He knew what time she usually left the studio, and if possible he was there. Sometimes he spent the night sleeping in his car near her house and he would follow her again at seven in the morning when she drove to the studio.