‘Anything you like,’ she replied blithely. She herself planned to cause a sensation in her red leather micro-dress, and the longshoreman’s overcoat which she had just bought at Flip on Melrose with money from her singing gigs.
‘Do y’wanna go?’ Eddie inquired, remembering how she felt about her famous mother.
‘I dunno,’ she replied, unsure for a moment. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I am her daughter.’
‘Uh… let’s do it then,’ he said.
‘Oh… I don’t know.’ She changed her mind quickly.
‘Aw, c’mon, H. Get on the track ’n’ stick to it.’
‘Maybe I will. I’ll call you back.’
She hung up on him before he could argue. She enjoyed playing games with Eddie. Especially now. Anyway, she couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted to go to her mother’s dumb party or not. On the one hand it might be a real blast to spy on the Hollywood set first-hand. On the other – who would Silver have there? Certainly not Rob Lowe and Sean Penn. More like a bunch of doddering old farts.
As if to make up her mind, her grandfather, George, appeared at the door of her room. He was a tall, thin man, with a shock of thick white hair and a preoccupied expression always in place on his deeply lined face. He didn’t look like Silver, and no way resembled Uncle Jack. He had a sort of nutty professor air about him. Heaven liked him a lot. For a grandfather he was ace. And he left her alone. Most important.
‘Are you home for dinner, dear?’ he asked, fiddling with his glasses which hung from a blue cord around his neck.
‘I think I’m going out, pops.’
‘Good, good,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘Then I can let Mrs Gunter go.’
Anything to let Mrs Gunter go. She was their housekeeper/cook/busybody, and she drove Heaven nuts.
I’m not bothering with dinner myself,’ George added vaguely. ‘I shall be in my workroom all night.’ His eyes fixed on a half-naked poster of Sting tacked to her closet. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Out with Eddie,’ she replied, deciding the hell with it – she would go to her mother’s party. Why shouldn’t she? ‘We’re playing a gig.’
‘Twelve o’clock curfew,’ George reminded.
‘Sure, pops,’ she agreed. She could walk in at four in the morning and he wouldn’t know it. Once he was in his workroom nothing disturbed him. Usually he carried on through the night, losing all track of time.
She didn’t mention Silver’s party. It would only upset him, and he might try to dissuade her from going. George and his famous daughter did not speak. It had been that way for thirty years.
Oh well… Heaven didn’t blame him… Maybe she shouldn’t talk to her mother either. Silver treated her as if she hardly existed. Never called. Never asked anything about her life when they did get together. Usually it was a twice-yearly dinner at La Scala with Nora in attendance. The woman was a bitch.
Big fucking deal. Who cared?
She did.
Chapter Fifteen
Clarissa Browning rented a secluded house on Benedict Canyon. She leased it from a young director who had gone to work in Europe for a year. The house was dark and old, surrounded by tall trees and untended grounds. Clarissa liked the coldness of the house, the bathrooms that were over fifty years old, the dark wood panelling everywhere, and the general gloom.
Even the swimming pool was not of the usual California variety. There was no jacuzzi. No floating pool furniture. It was always filled with leaves, as the filter rarely worked. And it was always ice cold, as the heater never worked. At night coyotes howled, and other small, wild animals scurried across the old tile roof. Sometimes snakes slithered into the pool and drowned.
Clarissa enjoyed lighting a log fire in the bedroom and reading from her extensive collection of classics. She liked to bundle up in a long flannel nightie with a hot mug of cocoa for company, and pretend she was back east.
Arriving home from the studio early Saturday evening she was pleased to see Jack Python’s dark green Ferrari parked out front. He had his own key to come and go whenever he pleased. It suited her. Clarissa never brought her homework to the house.
He was in the bedroom watching television. Or was he watching? On closer inspection she discovered he was asleep.
Silently she observed him for a moment – so still… so quiet. Usually Jack was always on the move. The green eyes probing, finding out things. The hard body ready, poised. The sharp mind, clickety clickety click.
He excited her. He always excited her.
The first time they met she had thought – Handsome son of a bitch with a hard cock and not much else. She had changed her mind soon enough. He had a hard cock all right, but that wasn’t all. Jack Python had energy and curiosity and a steel trap of a mind. He was a fast thinker with words to back up his thoughts. He was not just a pretty face.
They slept together immediately, in spite of friends warning her that Jack Python came and ran. Not with Clarissa Browning he didn’t. She had no intention of becoming just another name on his long list.
Patiently she attempted to get to know him. It wasn’t easy. Charming and warm and intelligent as he was, Jack never allowed anyone to get close. Clarissa understood. She was the same way herself.
She moved to California to do a movie, and when he eventually got around to calling, she played his game, and refused to see him. It soon became clear that Jack did not like rejection.
When they finally saw each other it was understood they were an item. They had been an item for over a year now. It suited both of them.
Clarissa scrubbed off her studio makeup, removed her clothes, and stood over the sleeping figure of her lover. She forgot about the young actor at the studio that morning. Merely business. Jack Python was pleasure. Such pure exquisite pleasure…
She shuddered in anticipation of what was to come. In bed he was a master. He had an uncanny knack of knowing her every need, combined with the most impressive staying power.
‘Just a trick,’ he said one day, when she asked him how he did it.
‘Tell me!’ she persisted.
‘Just call it mind over matter,’ he grinned.
Her presence was not waking him. She clicked off the hated television. (Hated by her, loved by him. ‘How can you not watch Hill Street?’ he demanded every Thursday night at ten o’clock.) The sudden silence disturbed him, and he rolled over, still asleep and still dressed in his usual weekend clothes of Levis and a sweater.
She unzipped his jeans with her teeth.
He woke up and groped for her.
Pushing his hands away she rolled his Levis down. He wore no undershorts. He never did. She bent her head to his sudden interest.
‘I surrender,’ he said, throwing his arms to the side.
‘I knew you would,’ she murmured.
Later they shared a cigarette and discussed their plans for the evening. There were several possibilities. A screening of a new Mel Brooks film. ‘I’m too tired to laugh,’ Clarissa demurred. An industry dinner honouring an old actor. ‘Why?’ Jack questioned. ‘He was a no-talent when he was young. What’s the trick in growing old?’ And dinner with Clarissa’s agent at Spago. ‘He’s a lunch,’ she decided.
‘What do you feel like doing?’ he asked, clicking on the television. ‘Want me to send out for Chinese?’
Clarissa flicked the television off. ‘What about going to your sister’s party?’
‘Huh?’ He was surprised. ‘How do you know about Silver’s party?’
‘I was invited.’
‘You don’t know her.’
‘Maybe I should.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s your sister, and I’ve never met any of your family. Not your father, or your niece. I think Silver Anderson is an interesting woman, and I’m intrigued to meet her.’
‘Shit!’ Jack said, jumping from the bed and pacing around the darkened bedroom.
‘Are we nervous of being in her company?’ Cla
rissa chided. ‘Does she make you feel inferior?’
‘You talk such crap sometimes.’
‘Yes? My psychiatrist says that to conquer fears you simply have to face them.’
‘You pay two hundred bucks an hour for advice you can get out of a Chinese fortune cookie?’
‘He’s helped me a lot.’
‘Hey – I’m not going to get into a fight over this. Silver doesn’t make me nervous. She doesn’t make me anything.’
‘Then we’ll go?’
‘If that’s how you want to spend your Saturday night.’
‘It is.’
He wasn’t going to fight it. Clarissa was a stubborn woman, and if she wanted to do something they usually ended up doing it.
He did not believe in fighting. He believed in exiting. Quietly. If it ever got to be too much.
Chapter Sixteen
Silver Anderson’s party was being paid for by City Television. Silver was notoriously tight with a buck, and there was no way she was shelling out thirty or forty thousand dollars – even if it was for her, and she could certainly afford it.
City was planning a big celebration for the cast of Palm Springs before the summer hiatus, when Nora suggested it might be a better idea to make it a party to celebrate Silver’s birthday. ‘Do I have something for you!’ she told them. ‘Glamour. Style. Stars. A media event with sensational coverage.’ They fell in love with the idea immediately, and once she had them hooked all she had to do was convince Silver.
It wasn’t difficult. Not when Silver discovered City Television was paying. ‘I’ll have the party,’ she agreed. ‘And when it’s all over and done with I want my entire house re-carpeted. A little gift. They can afford it.’ A dramatic pause. ‘Oh, and by the way, Nora, forty-five is my official age this year. Not a moment older.’
Nora didn’t want to get into that one. She reckoned City Television would certainly pay for the carpeting of Silver’s house. Where else could they get this kind of world-wide publicity for such a steal? And the coverage would be sensational. No problem. For Nora Carvell knew plenty about publicity. Television was taken care of, and then there were photographers from U.S.A. Today, People, Newsweek, and a personal photographer who would capture shots to be sent out world-wide on all the wire services. The paparazzi would be outside, flanking a red carpet and crash barriers to the house. Along with several of Beverly Hills finest, who would take care of the vigorous security.
Nora had personally supervised the guest list, inviting a hand-picked group of important industry people, and a mix of very famous actors, actresses, sports stars and assorted V.I.P.s from other fields.
Dressed in a plum velvet suit with clumsy pearl jewellery not complementing her short, untidy grey hair, she rushed back to Silver’s house early. Swamped in Ma Griffe scent and cigarette smoke she parked in the back next to Wes Money, who was just alighting from his old Lincoln.
‘Who’re you?’ she asked tartly, ever wary of uninvited spies from the National Enquirer or True Life Scandal.
‘I’m bar. Who’re you?’
‘I’m publicity. Pass the word. Anyone calling the supermarket rags with overheard gossip will not be working in this town again. Got it?’
Wes nodded. The old broad had just come up with a great idea for scoring extra bucks. She hurried off, and he took a leisurely stroll down a garden path to the back door, which led him into an overcrowded, very large kitchen.
‘I’m bar,’ he said to an elderly Chinese woman who stonewalled him with a glare. ‘Bar?’ he said to a big-bosomed girl in a white uniform.
She gestured vaguely towards a door.
He walked through into the house proper. Some house. Marble floors. Overstuffed couches. A series of luxurious rooms all leading into other luxurious rooms. And finally a glass wall overlooking a black-bottomed swimming pool, at the end of which was a curved black marble bar.
A frantic Rocky waved to him. ‘Hey, man, thank Christ you’re here,’ he said, busily unloading boxes of booze. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I had to find it, didn’t I?’ Wes complained. ‘Fucking Bel Air is like one of those mazes in an amusement park. You told me Bellagio. It goes on for fucking ever in every direction. You’re lucky I’m here at all.’
‘You really crack me up,’ said Rocky, who looked like a poor man’s Sylvester Stallone – hence the name. ‘Only you could get your ass lost in Bel Air.’
‘And only you give out shit directions,’ Wes responded. ‘I wasted gas driving up and down.’
‘Do me a favour – get to work,’ Rocky said, shoving a heavy box of wine in his direction. ‘We’ve only got an hour before blast-off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s a mixed box I’ve put together, it’s over there.’ He gestured. ‘Get it out to your car whenever seems like a good time. I’ll come by tomorrow to split it.’
‘Why my car?’ Wes asked peevishly.
‘’Cos it’s me they’ll be watching.’
Sure. If anyone was to be caught stealing booze it was good old Wes Money.
Screw Rocky. He must think he was some schmuck. But so what? He’d do it. Life was a risk, and in a kind of perverse way he enjoyed taking ’em.
* * *
Silver discarded five outfits before deciding on chiffon purple harem pants, a floating top embroidered with gold, and a long Cleopatra wig. She looked exotic, like an Egyptian queen. Especially when she added solid gold slave bracelets, giant hoop earrings, and several huge diamond rings.
She hadn’t touched a drink in months, but she certainly wasn’t an alcoholic, and she quite fancied a glass of ice cold Cristal to put her in the mood for the evening’s activities. Decisively she picked up the intercom and buzzed the kitchen.
Her houseman, Vladimir, elbowed the Chinese woman out of the way to answer his mistress’s call. The woman almost fell, and cursed in Chinese about rude American pigs. Vladimir, who spoke a little Chinese (thanks to a five-year live-in relationship with a Chinese waiter who unfortunately fell off Santa Monica pier and drowned) ignored her insults and cooed into the phone. ‘Yes, madame?’ His English was almost impeccable except for his mispronunciation of w as v. ‘Vat can I get for you?’
‘Champagne, Vladimir. Very cold. Very soon.’
‘Yes, madame.’ He grabbed Wes, who was passing by on his way to the back door with the box of contraband carefully prepared by Rocky. ‘You!’ he said sharply.
‘Who, me?’ replied Wes innocently, thinking – Oh fuck, now I’m caught.
‘Champagne. For Madame. Pronto.’ (The pronto came from an Italian waiter who shared his affections for two nights and screamed pronto, pronto every time he came, which was often.)
‘Madame who?’ asked Wes patiently, thinking the Russian queen probably meant Madame Wong who was glaring at both of them, and what had she done to deserve champagne?
‘Madame Silver,’ said Vladimir, raising a scornful eyebrow at this cretin’s ignorance. ‘Cristal. In a Baccarat glass. And make sure it’s icy. Hurry, hurry!’
‘I’ll be right back,’ Wes said cheerfully, realizing the game was not yet up. He hurried out to his car with the box and loaded it into his trunk.
When he returned to the kitchen, Vladimir screamed, ‘Vere is it?’
‘What?’
‘The champagne for Madame.’
‘Oh. That. Just gettin’ it.’
‘Now!’ Vladimir leaped excitedly in the air. In his youth he had trained as a ballet dancer –long before he defected to the West and freedom.
Wes mock saluted. ‘Yes sir, Kapitan. One glass of bubbly comin’ right up.’
* * *
The 1965 Mustang spluttered to a full stop halfway up Coldwater Canyon.
‘Like I don’t believe this!’ Heaven screeched.
‘Jesus!’ groaned Eddie.
‘This can’t be happening,’ she yelled, jumping from the car.
‘Jesus!’ repeated Eddie, following her. ‘It was runnin’ fine when I picked you up.’
<
br /> ‘Like what are you gonna do?’ she demanded, venom in her voice.
‘What are we gonna do,’ he corrected.
‘It’s your fault,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s your dumb car.’ She kicked the side of the old Mustang with a sharp booted toe.
‘Don’t do that!’ he objected.
‘I will if I want,’ she replied in a childish sing-song, and for good measure she gave the car another solid kick.
He was incensed. ‘Cut it out. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’m pissed off,’ she said. ‘I’m really pissed off.’
‘You think I’m dancin’?’
They glared at each other. Heaven, with her spiky multi coloured locks. Eddie, with his black hair greased back in true sixties style.
‘This is like the bummer of all time,’ she announced flatly.
Eddie headed for the hood of the car. ‘Don’t worry ’bout a thing. I’ll fix it,’ he said, less hopeful than he sounded.
With an exasperated sigh she sank down on the grass verge muttering, ‘Yeah. You an’ who else?’
* * *
Silver did not like being kept waiting. When she wanted something she wanted it now. Ten minutes had elapsed since her request for champagne, and her taste buds were on full alert. With a snort of annoyance she buzzed the kitchen a second time, and Vladimir, who was knee deep in Chinese caterers, grabbed the phone.
‘Are you keeping me waiting, Vladimir?’ she asked icily.
‘Never, madame.’
‘Then why are you still in the kitchen?’
‘The bartender is on his way up to you at this very minute, madame,’ Vladimir lied.
‘I should hope so.’ She replaced the receiver with a crash.
Vladimir muttered ominous words of Russian under his breath. Reverting to his mother language relieved him when he was about to undergo a stress attack. ‘Bar!’ he screamed loudly.
Five minutes later Wes was found. Vladimir equipped him with a silver tray, a Baccarat glass brimming with chilled Cristal, and dispatched him upstairs to face Madame’s wrath. Vladimir knew when to make himself scarce.
Hollywood Husbands Page 9