He might be settling in but she didn’t even know where or with whom. When she questioned him he was evasive. ‘Am I ever going to see where you live?’ she asked him pointedly one day.
‘Sure,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Very soon.’
Whenever she mentioned Marita, he clammed up. ‘What about little Corey Junior?’ she asked, referring to her eighteen-month-old nephew.
‘He’s in Hawaii.’
‘When are we going to see him?’
‘Soon.’
Everything was ‘soon’. And Corey was a pain. She called and complained to her mother. ‘He’s going through a bad time,’ her mother said sympathetically. ‘Leave him alone, he’ll come to you eventually.’
So she did. And he didn’t.
The good news was that Cloud Cosmetics had hired Antonio to do the photographs for the print ad campaign. A top video director, Shane Dickson, was to shoot the commercials, and she had been busy with hair, clothes, and makeup tests. The look had to be perfect.
Working with Antonio was always a joy. Not only did they have fun, but his photographs were a stunning visual treat. He combined the style of Norman Parkinson with the gloss of Scavullo and the sharpness and originality of Annie Leibovitz.
Jade found herself hanging out with him and his artistic group of friends more and more. They went to great restaurants, fun parties, and usually ended up on Friday and Saturday nights eating and dancing the night away at Tramp – a private club.
Getting out was excellent therapy. For years Mark Rand’s contract had been exclusive. Now she was a free agent again.
She tried not to think about Mark. Every time he came creeping into her thoughts she blanked him out. The affair was well and truly over. Finito.
Good.
On her travels around town with Antonio and his friends several propositions of a sexual nature came her way. A sallow-faced producer with bad teeth and hollow eyes made her an offer she could easily refuse. A permanently stoned Puerto Rican told her she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. A French hustler in baggy jeans and designer sweatshirt informed her he knew everyone and could make her a star.
Men. She had had enough for a while. And then she met Shane Dickson, and she thought – Well, maybe not quite enough… She needed someone to take her mind off Mark.
Shane Dickson was short, surly, dark-haired and bearded. She liked the fact that he didn’t fall all over her like most men did. For a while they circled around each other. He conducted her tests with a detached, professional air. He wanted a certain look for the series of commercials, and he didn’t plan to shoot one foot of film until he got it.
Eventually he asked her out to dinner so they could talk about what they were trying to achieve. He took her to Nucleus Nuance on Melrose, and spoke about commercials being the true art form of the cinema. ‘In a two-hour movie you have time to screw up, get back on track, screw up again. In a commercial or a video you’re going for gold in two minutes flat. There’s no room for mistakes.’
‘Are you married?’ she asked. Her skin was tingling, every nerve alert. It had been a long time between men, and she needed to feel wanted again.
‘Yes,’ he replied, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘But my wife and I are separated. She just doesn’t understand me.’
Were men actually still using that line? She couldn’t believe it.
He invited her back to his apartment – an invitation she declined. One married man in her life was enough.
And then, late one afternoon when she’d just returned from an all-day shoot and wanted nothing more than food and sleep, Mark phoned. ‘I’m in town,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, right now I’m standing in the lobby of your building. I have to talk to you, Jade. May I come up?’
Chapter Thirty
Whoever said all cats are alike in the dark must have been deaf, dumb, and blind. From her low moans of ecstasy to her litany of husky requests (Silver was not backward in telling him what she enjoyed), and her expensively perfumed flesh – everything was different. Try driving a Bentley after a succession of worn-down Toyotas.
Wes shifted position, allowing Silver to mount him. She had the tight, compact body of a teenager. Taut breasts, firm thighs (not rock hard like his Swede) and a flat stomach. She enjoyed sex with a gusto he was unused to. Reba lay on her back like a skewered fish. Other women talked dirty just for effect. When Silver said, ‘Fuck me hard, Wes,’ she meant it. And he did it. And they both got off on it.
She lowered a hard-nippled breast to his mouth while riding him fast. He sucked obligingly. She even tasted different.
He felt the ultimate trip beginning. Thoughts flashed through his head – it had all happened so quickly.
Exit Dennis.
Conversation.
Nothing heavy.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Her invitation.
His acceptance.
Once in the bedroom he went for the clinch.
She returned his kiss with teeth and probing tongue and an encouraging stroke of the frothing hound. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she had said.
This was hardly the time to tell her he was a busted-out sometime barman who lived in a run-down house in Venice and got it on with a variety of unattractive but very grateful women.
When she came back into the bedroom she looked quite different. Gone was the short thick hair – a wig, he realized – and in its place was her own shoulder-length dark hair. She had also removed her heavy false eyelashes, and now she appeared younger and softer. She wore a silk kimono.
‘This is the real Silver Anderson,’ she’d said without a trace of embarrassment. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’
Disappointed? He was pleasantly surprised. Taking her hand he’d guided it to where it would do her the most good. ‘Do I feel like a disappointed man?’
She’d laughed, low-down and dirty. ‘You feel like a man – that’s enough for me.’
And they set sail.
He climaxed with a ball-busting jolt which shuddered through his body like a fast-moving express train. ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ he groaned.
She was tight, holding him a steady captive. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’ she asked breathlessly.
* * *
Humiliated, Vladimir cleaned up Silver’s bathroom and fled from the house to his private retreat above the garage. How could he have been so careless? He shook his head. No, no, not careless, just caught. Usually when Madame went out she was gone for at least three hours. This time she had returned within the hour.
Too bad, Vladimir. You should have been more careful.
He was sure that she would fire him. The next morning there would be a curt dismissal from her personal assistant, and a severance cheque from her accountant’s office.
He was mortified. How he wished he could close his eyes, then open them and find the whole episode no more than a bad dream.
Before Silver, he had worked for a gay television producer who lived high in the Hollywood Hills. And before that, a retired couple who presented ideal domesticity to the world, and behind closed doors entertained their gay and lesbian lovers at non-stop weekend orgies.
Ah, Vladimir knew plenty. As a houseman he was privy to an Aladdin’s cave of secrets. Only what could he do with them? And who would believe him?
Silver Anderson was going to miss him, he was positive of that. For three years he had served her faithfully. He knew her likes and dislikes. He gauged her moods and never disturbed her solitude. He protected her privacy, made sure her house was in impeccable order, and was discreet about her men friends.
Opening his closet he peered mournfully at his clothes. He possessed two suits, a brown one and a blue. Several shirts, a few sports clothes, and a black rubber diving suit. Not that he indulged in underwater pursuits – the rubber suit was a gift from a former friend – a six-feet-four black jock, who loved playing water sports. Vladimir had lived with him for two months somewhere between the gay producer a
nd the ideal Hollywood couple. He preferred living alone in his own part of the fabulous mansions he serviced.
Lovingly he fingered the material of a floor-length purple beaded dress nestling in the back of the closet. One day Silver had given him a trunk-load of old clothes to be picked up by a charity organization. Upon perusing the contents, he had come across the dress. Naturally he kept it. Why not? It fitted him perfectly.
He pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed, and in a desultory fashion began to pack. When he was fired he would depart swiftly in a dignified manner. After all, by birth he was a Russian, and he had his pride.
* * *
Wes leaned across a sleeping Silver to reach his pants, dumped unceremoniously on the floor, and from the back pocket he recovered a crumpled pack of Camels, and lit up. Dragging reflectively on the cigarette, he wondered what was going to happen next. Laying the Big Star was one thing – mission accomplished – although it hadn’t really been a mission - more a mutual attraction which led to great sex. So what was the next play to be? He was hardly in a position to entertain her at Chasen’s, and somehow grabbing a bite at Kentucky Fried Chicken did not appear to be her scene.
Wes had a problem. He had just made love to a very famous lady indeed, and if she’d enjoyed it half as much as she seemed to, then they were on for more than a ten-cent ride.
What was he going to tell her? The truth? Or lie just a little.
He blew smoke rings towards the ceiling; and studied Silver Anderson in repose. She looked good, the old broad – and he’d had ’em at all ages. Some women after sex looked like they had just gone seven rounds with Joe Frazier – especially the over-thirty-fives. Well, Silver Anderson was certainly no juvenile, but she sure held up in the trenches.
As if she sensed his eyes upon her, she opened hers. For a moment he thought she was going to say ‘Who are you?’
She didn’t. She gave him a long, appraising stare, stretched in a very feline way, and stepped from the bed nude and proud of it.
He could tell she reckoned her body was something special the way she strutted to the mirrored bathroom door. Who was he to argue?
Taking another drag of lung-cancer-inducing smoke, he got out of bed and followed her.
Chapter Thirty-One
The production meeting was well underway. Once a month Jack and his team met specifically to discuss suitable guests for the upcoming shows. There was a bulletin board with suggestions, ideas, and a list of what Aldrich called ‘the current hot hundred’. The list was comprised of personalities from every field: politics, theatre, music, sports, movies, publishing, and so on. Since the show only aired for twenty-six weeks a year, there were only twenty-six guests required, and the struggle by publicists to get their clients a spot was competitive and vicious. Bribes were often offered. Bribes were always turned down. Face to Face with Python could sell a movie or a book or an event quicker than any other show on television. The bookings were done four weeks in advance, allowing Jack plenty of time to study the material on each guest.
‘Why can’t we have Mannon Cable?’ Aretha demanded. Nobody was surprised: she demanded it every month because she knew Jack and Mannon were close friends.
‘Not again,’ Jack groaned. ‘I’ve told you enough times, he always turns me down.’
‘Bet he wouldn’t if I got hold of him,’ Aretha joked in her sing-song voice. ‘Poppa! That man’ud have the best time he ever had in his whole damn life!’ She beamed happily at the thought. ‘Yessirree!!’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Jack dead-panned.
‘You always say that,’ Aretha chided. ‘How come he appears on Carson all the time, and you can’t get him?’
‘Because I don’t really want him,’ Jack replied lightly. ‘We know each other too well and too long. It wouldn’t work.’
‘Yes it would,’ she sang. ‘Stand back an’ watch our ratings riiiiiiise!’
‘Let’s get serious,’ Aldrich interrupted. ‘Eddie Murphy is a definite yes. Diane Keaton won’t commit. We can get April Crawford if we want her. And do we go for Fonda or not?’
‘We’re getting too show-bizzy,’ Jack complained. ‘There has to be balance between entertainment and information. Put April Crawford on hold. Fonda’s overexposed right now. How about Mailer? There’s that new biography on him; it’s interesting. I did a three-minute segment with him in Chicago years ago – now might be the right time to talk to him again.’
‘I’d sooner see Prince,’ sighed Aretha. ‘What a guy! A touch petite for me – heck, I can overcome that! He has such adorable buns!’
Aldrich ignored her. ‘I’ll get one of the researchers onto Norman Mailer,’ he said. ‘See what he’s up to.’
‘Do that.’ Jack pushed away from the conference table. ‘We can talk again on Monday. Right now I’ve got to see a man about a house.’
Both Aretha and Aldrich raised eyebrows and voices and chorused as one, ‘A house?’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, nothing serious. I thought it might be relaxing to take a summer rental at the beach.’
‘Very relaxing,’ murmured Aretha sarcastically. ‘All those steamy teenage bodies parading up and down your front lawn and frolicking in your pond!’
‘Trancas,’ Jack said. ‘Away from the madding crowd.’
* * *
It took him an hour to drive there from the television studio. And that was on a quiet Friday afternoon without much traffic. By the time he found the turn-off, parked his Ferrari, and walked down a series of stone steps hewn into the side of a mini-cliff, he wasn’t so sure this was such a sensational idea.
When he entered the house he changed his mind.
The rental agent let him in. She was a divorced woman in her forties who had dressed for the occasion in a jersey suit too tight for her spreading curves. Half a bottle of Estée wafted from her excited body. It wasn’t every day she got to show a house to Jack Python.
She greeted him effusively. He was twice as handsome off the little screen as on. His direct green eyes sent her into an absolute tizzy.
‘Are you alone?’ she asked, when she’d recovered her composure.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Why? Shouldn’t I be?’
‘No, no, it’s just that…’ She trailed off. Most celebrities travelled with an entourage of yes-people, and she was surprised that Jack Python obviously preferred solo. ‘Do come in,’ she gushed, remembering her manners. ‘The owners are out for the day. They’re leaving for Europe in three weeks, and they wanted me to assure you that all their personal items – clothes, etcetera, will be packed and put in storage. Right now the house has a lived-in feel. However, I’m sure you understand. Actually, I always think—’
Jack moved past her into a glorious circular glass-walled living room. Outside was a huge deck, with steps leading down to a deserted cove, and the Pacific Ocean in all its glory.
For a man who had never been house-hungry he fell in love instantly.
The rental agent launched into her hard-sell routine, completely wasted on Jack, who wasn’t listening as he strode to the glass walls and discovered they folded back to create a completely open environment.
He walked out onto the deck. It was a clear, windy day with high rollers and a very blue sky.
‘This location is absolutely private,’ the realtor said, following him outside. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve been here several times, and I’ve never seen another soul.’
He noticed a sunken hot-tub, a barbecue pit, and table tennis all set up.
‘No tennis court?’ he joked.
‘Actually,’ the woman said anxiously, ‘the owners are considering building one.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Not before their trip though.’
He gazed out at the blue sea. The waves and the soothing sound of the surf were almost hypnotizing. ‘How long will they rent it for?’ he asked.
‘It’s a six-month rental,’ she replied. ‘With an option to buy if they decide to stay in Europe.’
‘I’ll ta
ke it,’ he said decisively.
‘Mr Python, you haven’t even looked around.’
‘I’ve seen everything I need to see.’
‘You’re a very impetuous man, and a clever one. This is the best house in Trancas. I’ve already got two couples thinking about it – their cheques are only phone calls away.’
‘And mine’ – he slid his chequebook from his jacket pocket – ‘will be with you any second. The house is rented.’
Driving back to Beverly Hills he felt elated. His first house! Only a summer rental, but he had a feeling he might go for the buy if the couple stayed in Europe and decided to sell.
Driving directly to the Beverly Wilshire, he showered and changed clothes. Clarissa had finished her movie and taken off for New York. She had wanted him to accompany her. He had made ‘too much work’ noises, so she had gone without him.
Before leaving there had been a confrontation, something he had been unconsciously avoiding for months. They had attended a screening at the Academy, and stopped by the party at Tramp afterwards. The paparazzi trailed them with gusto. Unfortunately there were three of his former girlfriends present, all well-known females who greeted him warmly, while the paparazzi struggled to capture every moment.
‘I can’t stand this,’ Clarissa said angrily. ‘The trouble with you, Jack, is that you attract too much attention.’
‘Me? How about you? You’re the one with the Oscar on your shelf.’
‘I don’t court publicity.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Nonsense. You love every moment of it. You revel in it.’
‘That’s absolute bullshit and you know it.’
They were in the car, driving back to her house. It was raining, and the streets were slick.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said slowly.
‘What?’
‘I want to get married.’
The Ferrari hit a puddle of water and skidded. A car coming towards them sounded its horn. It took all his concentration to get the Ferrari under control.
Hollywood Husbands Page 16