Whistling a Beatles’ song as he negotiated the sweeping staircase, Wes reflected on the vagaries of life. That very morning he had woken up in a little house in the Valley with a cheap dyed blonde. Now he was heading – tray in hand – towards the bedroom of one of the biggest television stars in America, who lived in a frigging mansion! Pity he wouldn’t be sharing her bed. Although he would sooner it was Whitney Valentine Cable. Now there was a real stunner. Not that he watched television much – just sports and late movies if he was in the mood. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what Silver Anderson looked like. All he had was a vague memory of a big dark woman staring out at him from countless magazine covers.
Wes was in for a surprise. Silver Anderson was dark all right, with her long jet hair and almond-shaped heavily outlined eyes. But big she wasn’t. She was small and slender, almost petite. And beautiful in a dramatic and compelling way. He eyeballed her as she flung open the door of her bedroom as soon as he finished knocking.
She gave him an icy stare, and said coldly, ‘Exactly how long does it take to pour one glass of champagne and bring it up one flight of stairs?’
Walking past her into the purple wonderland of a bedroom, he looked for a place to put the tray. ‘Search me,’ he said cheerily. ‘Next time I’ll put a stopwatch on it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, hardly believing his cheek.
He spotted a mirrored dressing table and figured that was as good a place as any to dump the tray. As he placed it down, their eyes met in the mirror, and for a split second they held each other’s gaze.
Silver saw an unruly attractive man, with a certain restlessness about him and a don’t-give-a-damn attitude.
Wes saw a good-looking, if slightly older woman – and with unusual sensitivity for him, he sensed a mixture of need and loneliness coming off her in waves. The combination, with her mature beauty, was quite appealing.
Sexual chemistry was strong in the air.
He knew there was a moment to be seized, only it wasn’t his place to seize it. She had to be the one, and if she didn’t make a move he certainly wasn’t going to set himself up for rejection by some big-time television star. It was probably all his imagination anyway.
He gave her an opening shot, just to play the odds. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked, his words loaded with innuendo.
Silver was no fool. The last thing she needed was some deadbeat bartender hitting on her. She iced him off with her eyes and a cold ‘No.’
The moment was over. Leaving the star’s bedroom he returned downstairs.
Vladimir pounced on him. ‘Vas Madame happy?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Yeah,’ replied Wes easily. ‘Why?’ The Russian queen had obviously expected him to get torn off a strip. Tough tit. He was unscathed.
Or was he?
Chapter Seventeen
Rule One: Smile for the photographers.
Rule Two: Be charming for the television cameras.
Rule Three: Always leave a good impression among the staff. They are the people who made you famous in the first place, so never forget them.
Whitney Valentine Cable knew all the rules by heart. And so she should. They were her rules, and she abided by them religiously.
She alighted from Chuck Nielson’s red Porsche, and allowed the paparazzi to capture the widest smile in America. Chuck, who was boyishly handsome although he would never see thirty-five again, joined her, and the two of them posed.
The paparazzi clicked desperately. This was a hot picture, and one the entire world would want to see. The previous year Whitney Valentine Cable and Chuck Nielson had been an item – an on/off affair of epic proportions, complete with public fights and equally public reconciliations. Then they split, and Chuck stole the French actress wife of an English director – which made wonderful copy – while Whitney dated a series of different men – which also made wonderful copy. Now it appeared they were back together. A paparazzi’s dream! Second only to Whitney reuniting with Mannon Cable.
Slowly the two of them moved inside, and Jeanne Wolf for Entertainment Tonight greeted them effusively.
Meanwhile, Howard and Poppy Soloman drew up in a very long, very flashy limousine. Howard failed to see why he should drive himself at night when he could use a studio limo any time he pleased.
The paparazzi failed to spring to attention, which aggravated Howard and devastated Poppy.
A lone flash captured their consternation. And then all the photographers surged forward to focus on Michael Caine and his beautiful wife, Shakira.
Howard and Poppy entered the house, and the first person they saw was Whitney, sensational in a white strapless dress. Hollywood kisses were exchanged. Howard inhaled her scent and wondered if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
‘I’ve been thinking about a project you’d be just right for,’ he blurted, with a manic twitch.
Her gaze was direct and interested. ‘Have you, Howard?’
‘Are we speaking of the Weissman script?’ Poppy joined in.
He turned to her with a frown. What the fuck was she talking about? ‘What Weissman script?’
She clung to his arm. Poppy Soloman had decided that as the wife of a studio head she must make it her business not to get left out of anything. ‘The script on your desk, darling. I read it yesterday. Whitney would be wonderful as the girl. It’s such off casting.’ She planted a wifely kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re brilliant to think of her.’
He was brilliant and he didn’t know it! His comment to Whitney had just been a ploy to talk to her later. He had no project she was right for. Now he had the Weissman script. He’d better have someone read it for him fast and find out if there was anything for Whitney in it.
Howard did not read scripts. It was too time-consuming. He had three readers whose opinions he trusted, and they analysed every story and gave him a succinct two-page synopsis. Poppy was not one of them. He wouldn’t trust Poppy’s opinion of Army Archerd’s column in Variety, let alone a script!
‘Yeah, Whit,’ he said quickly. ‘I wanna have a word with you about it later.’
Whitney smiled. She hadn’t been wrong about Howard; he was interested in her as an actress and as a woman. Perfect.
Chuck Nielson appeared at her side with two glasses of orange juice; neither of them drank alcohol – one of the few things they had in common.
Howard was disturbed to see her back in his company. Chuck Nielson was a low-life and trouble. He specialized in stealing other men’s wives, and he couldn’t get himself arrested as far as starring in a movie was concerned. Nobody wanted to hire him. In the past he’d starred in a couple of hits. But that was five years ago, and in Hollywood memories are notoriously short.
The two men greeted each other affectionately – macho slaps on the back and mild insults. Poppy brightened considerably. She still thought Chuck was a star, which just showed how much she knew.
While she spoke animatedly to Chuck, Howard threw Whitney a low aside. ‘What are you doing back with him!’
She shrugged. She probably had the most beautiful shoulders in the world. ‘Desperation,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t get a date for tonight and I didn’t want to miss seeing you.’
Howard’s ego pumped. Whether the Weissman script was right or not he would make sure it was rewritten to accommodate the fabulous Miss Whitney Valentine Cable. And when she starred in the movie for Orpheus Studios he would also make sure she dropped the Cable. Who needed to be reminded of Mannon every time he heard her name?
* * *
Outside the gates of Silver Anderson’s estate, Mannon and Melanie-Shanna were fighting as they sat – captive prisoners in his blue Rolls-Royce – trapped in a line of expensive cars waiting to gain entry to the party. They were at least eight cars away from the uniformed guard at the gate, and Mannon was steaming.
‘If we’d left home on time,’ he said angrily, ‘we wouldn’t be caught in this mob scene.’
‘I was ready,’ �
�Melanie-Shanna protested, not prepared to take the blame for everything.
‘Then why didn’t you make sure that I was?’ he shouted.
She shut up. She had learned with Mannon that sometimes silence was the only way to handle his frequent temper tantrums. To the outside world being married to a superstar seemed like a dream. But the reality was far different. Sure there were advantages. Money. Position. And sharing the bed of a man millions of females wanted to sleep with.
There were plenty of disadvantages too. No privacy. No peace. The ever-present army of people to tend to his every need. The relentless come-on from every single woman he ever met. The bad moods only she witnessed. The insecurities – an affliction suffered by every actor, be he superstar or bit player.
Mannon was right at the peak of his career now. Melanie-Shanna shuddered to think what he would be like should his star ever dim. She hoped he would be thrilled when she told him about the baby.
She wasn’t sure he would be.
* * *
And so they came.
A legendary movie star with a rugged profile, foreign wife, and dead career.
A younger movie star (but only by a decade or two) with a starlet girlfriend, and a nearly dead career.
A cheating producer and his socialite wife.
A cheating wife with her gay husband.
A young hot actor with an even hotter coke habit.
A pretty young actress who only liked other pretty young actresses.
Nora was pleased by the turn-out. Everything was proceeding without a hitch. The only slight hiccough was Silver’s nonappearance. A late entrance wasn’t a major tragedy, only Nora wished the star would get her act together. Several times she had popped upstairs to check that all was well. Silver, dressed and ready, sat by a large picture window in the bedroom gazing out at the magnificent view, smoking a cigarette. Los Angeles at night, as seen from high in the hills, was a fairyland of twinkling lights – Silver seemed mesmerized.
At nine o’clock – the party started at eight – Nora trekked upstairs again.
‘Who’s here?’ Silver asked anxiously.
‘Everyone,’ Nora replied. ‘You can come down now.’
‘In a minute. Don’t rush me.’
Nora decided it was time to put the pressure on. ‘Now,’ she said pointedly. ‘Otherwise they’ll start going home.’
Silver sighed, and arose obediently. Moving over to a full-length mirror she inspected the image.
‘Perfect,’ flattered Nora.
Silver took a deep breath. ‘I should hope so. I work hard enough to create it.’
One last, lingering glance and she walked towards the door.
Silver Anderson was having a birthday party. She didn’t want to miss it.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Jack asked quizzically as his Ferrari negotiated the winding curves of Bel Air.
‘Yes,’ Clarissa replied curtly. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
He felt he was being tested and he wasn’t sure he liked it. ‘Because,’ he replied slowly, ‘parties have never been your favourite way to spend an evening. Especially not big glitzy bashes filled with press.’
She smoothed down the skirt of her tailored brown gaberdine suit. ‘I didn’t say this was my favourite way to spend an evening.’ She spoke in a measured tone. ‘I said I was interested in meeting your sister. I’m sure you must understand my curiosity.’
No. He didn’t understand at all.
‘You’ve never really explained why you don’t get along,’ she persisted.
And I have no intention of doing so now, he thought.
‘We’re different people,’ he said shortly.
‘I know that.’
‘So if you know it, let’s drop the subject.’
‘As you wish.’
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
* * *
When Jade partied she threw herself into the spirit of the evening. She knew that a night spent in Antonio’s company was not exactly a cultural event. It was more a blast, an experience, a let-it-all-hang-out-and-get-down! So she dressed accordingly in tight black satin pants tucked into matching boots. A long black shirt cinched at her twenty-two-inch waist with a wide belt. Fake jewellery galore from Butler & Wilson in London: gifts from Mark – he had a surprising knack for picking out just the right pieces. In retrospect she thought that maybe another woman had chosen them. Who knew? He no doubt had mistresses everywhere; she had just been his New York connection.
Piling her shaggy copper hair on top of her head, she secured it with a couple of pins, deftly arranging strands to fall artfully free. Then she applied tawny makeup, and emphasized her widely spaced gold-flecked eyes with brown shadow and thick kohl pencil. Plenty of lip gloss over a gold-toned lipstick, and she was ready when Antonio and three of his friends came piling into her apartment laden with flowers, record albums, bottles of wine and an assortment of gourmet Chinese tidbits picked up at Chinn Chinn on Sunset Boulevard.
‘I thought we were going out,’ she said, as they proceeded to make themselves at home.
‘We are, we are, precious,’ insisted Antonio, instructing his minions. One to the kitchen to warm the snacks in the microwave. One to the bar to open the wine. And a third to arrange the profusion of glorious flowers.
She began to laugh. ‘This is an invasion,’ she protested.
‘A welcome.’ Antonio showed off his neat, precise little grin. ‘To Los Angeles, bellissima.’
‘Won’t we be late for the party?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Who cares? Nothing happens until Antonio arrives!’
His companions all nodded their agreement as they fussed around.
Antonio kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘You look a dream, cara. A death in the family it suit you.’
‘You’re bad, Antonio.’
‘But of course!’
‘Very bad.’
‘Naturally!’
* * *
Nora greeted Mannon with a warm hug. ‘You are a prince,’ she whispered.
‘No, I’m a putz,’ he responded. ‘Have you any idea how long I’ve been sitting in my goddamn car waiting to get in here?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
She summoned a waiter. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Scotch. You’d better make it a double.’
Melanie-Shanna stood silently by his side. Nobody asked her what she would like to drink. Nobody cared, as long as Mister Superstar was taken care of.
‘I’d like a glass of white wine,’ she told the waiter quietly.
Mannon was still complaining. Nora listened attentively, then teased him and flattered him, and gradually Melanie-Shanna felt him relax. Until Whitney, his ex-wife, appeared, and Melanie-Shanna felt herself go hot and cold, for they had never met.
‘Christ!’ Mannon muttered to Nora. ‘What’s she doing here?’
‘I didn’t know you two weren’t talking,’ Nora said.
‘We’re talking,’ he replied gruffly, although he wasn’t sure if they were or not. The last time he’d seen her she had been distinctly cool. In fact, she had brushed him off completely. Well… understandable, really. He had just had a piece published in People where he called her a career-mad starlet, and Chuck Nielson a washed-up beach bum.
Thank Christ she was no longer with him. And as these thoughts crossed his mind, Chuck materialized beside her, and the very idea of his Whitney with Chuck Nielson again drove Mannon wild with fury.
‘Fuck!’ he mumbled under his breath.
‘What?’ asked Melanie-Shanna.
‘Nothing,’ came the surly reply.
They were on a collision course. There was no way they could avoid coming face to face.
Mannon steeled himself for confrontation.
* * *
‘I’m going,’ Heaven said impatiently, rising from the grass verge and brushing dead leaves and debris from her long o
vercoat.
‘Whattya gonna do – fly?’ demanded Eddie, as he fiddled with the engine of the Mustang, getting nowhere fast.
‘I’ll thumb a ride,’ she announced, now determined to get to her mother’s party.
‘You can’t do that, it’s not safe.’
‘Ohhh! Listen to daddy!’ she mocked. ‘I can look after myself, y’know.’
He straightened up. ‘Yeah – you get a ride from one of those mass murderer freaks an’ you’ll really be able t’look after yourself.’
‘Oh, sure. Every one of these cars goin’ by is just crammed with serial killers waitin’ to grab little ole me!’
‘Cut the crap,’ he said angrily. ‘You’re not taking any rides on your own. I’ll leave the Mustang here an’ come with you.’
‘About time!’ she huffed.
* * *
Working the party kept Wes busy. Whatever Rocky was paying him wasn’t enough. He grabbed a couple of beers behind the scenes, but basically he was sober. Well, he had to be, didn’t he? There was a lot of action going down.
First of all, Rocky was operating a lucrative sideline selling coke to a number of studio hot shots. And once the word got around, business was brisk. Rocky brought him in on a commission basis, and between the two of them they scammed the party pretty good.
Behind the bar out by the swimming pool, Wes didn’t get a lot of opportunity to observe Silver Anderson. But he saw her make a dramatic entrance at nine o’clock, and the assorted press went crazy.
‘Is she married?’ he asked.
‘Naw,’ Rocky drawled. ‘The fag in the kitchen tells me she has a different boyfriend every week.’
‘Who’s the one this week?’
Rocky belched. ‘What the fuck do y’think I am – a gossip hack?’
They both stopped talking to observe Whitney Valentine Cable as she undulated past.
‘Now there’s a broad.’ Rocky smacked his thick lips with relish. ‘I could stick it to that one any way, any day.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Wes.
Later he sold a gram of coke to Chuck Nielson. He felt like asking him about his gorgeous girlfriend, only he didn’t. Wes knew how far to go and with whom.
Hollywood Husbands Page 10