Hollywood Husbands

by Jackie Collins

  ‘I like Gorman,’ Sally would join in. And then they would discuss the pros and cons of both boys for hours at a time.

  Occasionally they would both stare at the girl and demand belligerently, ‘Who do you like?’ When she didn’t answer they would dissolve into fits of giggles and whisper among themselves.

  The farmer’s wife was a kind woman. Her husband was a brusque man with bright red hair and matching beard. Their two sons, ten and twelve, were little rascals, up to tricks day and night. The girl settled into family life, and waited for the sheriff to find one of her brothers or sisters to take her in. She had no regrets about what she had done. Her father and his painted whore deserved it.

  Money in the farmer’s household was short, and it wasn’t long before the girl was asked to contribute to the family income by getting a job. She worked weekends as a box girl in the town’s only supermarket. Her sixteenth birthday came and went. She didn’t tell anyone. There was nobody who really cared.

  At night, in the room she shared with the two sisters, she would lie in bed and gaze at the ceiling for hours on end wondering what was to become of her. She had no intention of staying in the town, and secretly she started saving the tips she got at work. With her sixteenth birthday behind her, her body began to fill out at last. Her breasts grew, and her waist narrowed. Suddenly she looked like a woman, and the boys at school took a lot more notice of her than they ever had before. One boy in particular, Jimmy Steuban, started to follow her everywhere. He was seventeen, with black hair and an athletic build. The girl tried to ignore him, because she knew Jessica-May liked him. But he was very persistent – always asking her for a date, and hanging around outside her place of work.

  One night she let him walk her home. He grabbed her in the bushes near the farmhouse and tried to kiss her. She screamed so hard he ran like a frightened moose.

  But he didn’t give up, and against her better instincts she started to like him back, and before long they were girlfriend and boyfriend. Jessica-May was furious. Every day she pleaded with her mother to get rid of the unwanted boarder.

  ‘She has nowhere to go,’ the kindly woman pointed out. ‘No kin that anyone can find. We’re God-fearing people. We must keep her till she’s at least seventeen.’

  Jessica-May got angrier, and did everything she could to make life difficult for the girl. She put dead mice and cockroaches in her bed, messed up her school books, cut the buttons off her clothes, and generally bad-mouthed her. She elicited the help of her sister, Sally, who joined in gladly. Both of them wanted to see the back of her.

  Jimmy Steuban was her only solace. He treated her nicely. Took her to the movies and on picnics, and talked to her as though she was a decent human being. When he finally tried to make love to her, she found that she couldn’t say no. So she allowed him, one cold night in the back of his father’s rusty old Ford, to remove her blouse – and then her flimsy bra. He touched her breasts reverently, and spoke of how much he loved her. Then he lifted her skirt, pulled down her panties, and thrust his manhood into her.

  She was rigid with fear and anxiety, expecting it to be like it was with her father. Only somehow, with Jimmy, it was different, and she found herself relaxing and responding with more feeling than she’d ever had in her life.

  ‘You’re terrific!’ he gasped. ‘I really love you!’

  She really loved him too. And over the next few months they made love and plans on a regular basis. ‘What if I get pregnant?’ she asked him nervously one night, although deep down she was sure that she couldn’t, after what had happened.

  ‘I’ll marry you,’ he said gallantly. ‘We’ll live in a castle, and I’ll be your prince!’

  Six weeks later she discovered she was pregnant. She told Jimmy, who told his father. Two days after that Jimmy was sent out of town, and she never heard from him again.

  Jessica-May and Sally crowed the news from the rooftops. Shortly after, she was sent to a home for unwed mothers fifty miles away. The home was run by nuns – strict, unsmiling women, who demanded respect and obedience at all times. The sixty pregnant girls had to rise at five a.m., do two hours of penance on their knees in a freezing cold chapel with a concrete floor, and then housework until noon, when they were given a plate of soup, a piece of stale bread, and a cup of milk. The afternoon was study time, because most of the girls were under eighteen. Bed was seven p.m., and once every two weeks a florid-faced, bull-necked doctor arrived to examine them. The doctor had his own examining room in the house. Some of the inmates christened it the torture chamber.

  The girl dreaded his visits. She never slept the night before his always punctual arrival. He drove a dusty sedan, and was usually accompanied by a sour-faced nurse, who preferred to spend her time drinking cups of herb tea with the nuns. The doctor didn’t seem to mind. As girl after girl presented herself to him he always said the same thing. ‘Clothes off. On the table. Legs in the stirrups.’

  He never looked at their faces, or knew their names. He called them by numbers, and when one of them was carted off to the hospital and gave birth, he crossed her off his list, and added a different name in front of the number.

  The girl drew number seven. It wasn’t her lucky number. She had never been to a gynaecologist, nor even heard of them – but a fat redhead confided that this was not the way it was supposed to be.

  First the doctor drew thin, rubber gloves onto his bony hands. Then he dipped his index finger into a jar of Vaseline, and plunged straight into whoever was on his table. He stayed inside a good five minutes, sometimes ten, probing, pushing, hurting – for he was never careful. Sometimes he bent his head down, grabbed a torch, and peered inside for a very long time. Once he arrived with a hat that looked like a miner’s, a flashlight perched on the top. This contraption enabled him to look and feel at the same time. Occasionally he forgot to put on his gloves. The worst times were when he inserted a wooden speculum and forced the labia wide. The girl had to stop herself from screaming because it hurt so much, and when she mentioned it he’d said, ‘Don’t be such a stupid child. You let your boyfriend get inside and have a good time. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be in this mess today.’

  The breast exam came next. A long session of fondling, pinching and squeezing.

  Businesslike, when he was finished, he would say, ‘Off the table, let me look at you.’ And whoever was in the room would have to endure a lecherous once-over from the rheumy-eyed doctor. Once a month he took a Polaroid picture. ‘For my files,’ he always said.

  ‘Dirty old man, he should be struck off or whatever they do to filthy old perverts,’ said one eighteen-year-old. But everyone found out that complaining got them nowhere. The nuns thought the good doctor was a saint, and would hear no ill of him.

  The girl endured her pregnancy as she had endured the rest of her life. She kept to herself and remained silent.

  ‘Fuckin’ stuck-up bitch!’ said a skinny brunette. ‘Think you’re too bloody good fer us, doncha?’

  She didn’t think. She knew. One day she was going to leave her humble beginnings far behind and make something of herself.

  When her baby was born, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, it was put up for immediate adoption. She suckled the infant for a mere six days, and then it was taken from her.

  ‘Sign this,’ said a big nurse with pop-eyes and a hairy chin.

  ‘I don’t th—’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  She signed, and was sent from the hospital to a foster home. While there, she learned that Jimmy Steuban had gotten Jessica-May pregnant and that they were to be married immediately. No exile for Jessica-May – far from it. The wedding was a lively affair, with four bridesmaids and a two-tier cake. The girl read a report in the local paper. And there was a picture of the happy couple. Jessica-May wore a white dress her mother had sewed for her. And Jimmy Steuban looked fine – if slightly uncomfortable – in a rented tuxedo.

  The girl waited until she was eighteen before doing
anything about it. She waited quietly and patiently. Then one night, when the moon was full and shining like a beacon, she borrowed her foster brother’s bicycle, stole a can of gasoline from the local gas station, and rode seven miles to the tiny house where Jessica-May and Jimmy Steuban lived with their new baby.

  Quietly, methodically, she shook the gasoline around the house.

  Lighting the first match was easy…

  BOOK THREE

  Hollywood, California

  August 1985

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Poppy Soloman had changed her outfit five times. She was in a panic and simply could not make up her mind. Should she wear the Valentino? The Chanel? The Saint Laurent?

  She stamped her foot and let out a blood-curdling yell of frustration.

  Howard came running into her dressing room from his bathroom. He wore boxer shorts, his usual manic expression, no toupee, and a dribble of white powder between his nose and his upper lip. ‘What the fuck happened?’ he shouted excitedly.

  Poppy, clad in nothing more than sheer beige panty-hose and a magnificent diamond necklace, her long blonde hair swept up in an elaborate style, pouted. ‘Baby can’t decide what to wear!’ she wailed.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he roared. ‘I thought you were being murdered!’ He waved lethal-looking scissors in the air. ‘I nearly cut my friggin’ balls off!’

  ‘What were you doing with scissors near your balls?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Trimmin’ the grass,’ he replied sarcastically. ‘What do you think I was doing?’

  Poppy sighed. She was in no mood for one of Howard’s silly outbursts. ‘You’ve got to help me, sweet-buns.’ She picked up a deep pink Bill Blass creation from the floor. ‘Tell me truthfully which dress you like best.’

  ‘Pick the most expensive,’ he said sourly.

  ‘I don’t keep the receipts in my head,’ she replied tartly. ‘Now, please be sensible and cooperate. Otherwise we’ll be late.’

  ‘You can’t be late for your own dinner party,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Exactly!’ she agreed.

  Twenty-five minutes later, after he’d had to endure a mini fashion parade, the choice was made. An exquisite Oscar de la Renta short silk jacket in a kaleidoscope pattern of shimmering beads over a black velvet long dress. It had cost him nearly six thousand bucks, and she’d never worn it!

  ‘Thank you, honeybunch.’ She gave him a hug, and then noticed that he was still in his undershorts. ‘Get dressed, Howard!’ she exclaimed crossly. ‘If you make us late I’ll kill you!’

  Muttering ominously, he locked himself securely in his bathroom. Poppy could drive a man nuts! This dinner party had changed dates, venues, and guest lists ten times. Now it was all set. An intimate little sit-down for seventy-five people, and it was tonight. Although why they should be the ones giving an exclusive wedding dinner in the upstairs room at the Bistro for Silver Anderson and her mystery bridegroom, was beyond him. He hardly knew Silver, and she and Poppy were certainly not close. Of course, he had realized two minutes into his marriage that Poppy combined the most ferocious qualities of a social climber and a star fuck. Personally he didn’t give a rat’s ass. Whatever made her happy.

  Reaching for his rug he plopped it in place, securing the two clips that held it in position, then combing his own hair over the join.

  The buzzer on the telephone next to his toilet signalled. He picked up the receiver and snapped a no-nonsense ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Klinger for you, Mr Soloman,’ said the housekeeper.

  Why was Zachary K. Klinger calling him at home on a Saturday night? The man was an erratic prick. Seven times he had threatened to fly out to the Coast for a meeting, and seven times he had cancelled. Good. Howard didn’t need him. He was doing very nicely without Zachary K. Klinger looking over his shoulder. Orpheus was in good shape. Three movies in production, and three more just about ready for preproduction, including Howard’s brilliant idea – the old-fashioned musical starring Carlos Brent, with Orville Gooseberger producing, and Whitney Valentine even now reading the script, a remake of an original classic.

  ‘Hiya, Zachary,’ he said, in the friendliest tone he could muster, waiting for the latest cancellation. Zachary was supposed to be arriving on Monday.

  ‘I’m surprising you, Howard,’ Zachary said. He spoke in a sinister whisper, sounding very much like Marlon Brando in The Godfather.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Howard replied easily. ‘You can’t make the meeting on Monday. It’s okay, Zach.’ He used the nickname with confidence. ‘We all understand. Everything’s buzzin’ along without you.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Zachary announced with no preamble. ‘I’d like to meet tonight.’

  ‘You’re here?’ Howard repeated hoarsely. ‘Really?’

  ‘Flew in fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘You did?’ Howard felt sweat break out all over his body. He didn’t need this kind of surprise. Months of farting around, and now the asshole had to appear on the night of Poppy’s big dinner for Silver Anderson. ‘Jesus, Zach. I wish you’d given me some warning.’

  ‘Why?’ Zachary asked mildly.

  Howard knew the unruffled voice was a front, concealing unbridled fury. When Zachary K. Klinger wanted something, a person didn’t argue. The stories about him were legendary.

  ‘Uh… my wife, Poppy, she’s giving this uh – black-tie dinner. It’s for Silver Anderson.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Broads! If I backed out of this one she’d be at Marvin Mitchelson’s before breakfast!’

  ‘No problem at all,’ said Zachary understandingly.

  Howard breathed again.

  ‘Fortunately, I always keep a tuxedo on both coasts,’ Zachary continued. ‘Which means I’ll be able to join you. What time? And where?’

  For a split second Howard was speechless. What time? And where? Poppy had spent three days seating this dinner. Three fucking days! Zachary K. Klinger’s appearance was going to throw her into a tizz she might never recover from. And he, Howard Soloman, would feel her wrath for weeks, months, maybe even years!

  ‘This is great news, Zach,’ he managed. ‘Will you be coming alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine, fine. It’s at the Bistro. Eight o’clock. Black tie, but you already know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ A pause. ‘And, Howard?’

  ‘What, Zach?’

  ‘I don’t like being called Zach. My name is Zachary, or Mr Klinger. Make your choice and stick with it.’

  The line went dead in Howard’s hand. ‘Shit!’ he screamed.

  Poppy would never give him head again!

  * * *

  Nervously Heaven peeked at the third contact sheet handed to her by one of Antonio’s assistants. She could not believe that the image she saw in stark black and white was herself. The photographs were staggering.

  ‘You like?’ asked the assistant, a butch-looking female.

  ‘Sensational!’ breathed Heaven. ‘Is this really me!’

  ‘Yeah. Antonio’s hot stuff with a camera. As long as he has someone to work with – an’ you’ve got it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Heaven asked modestly.

  ‘Just look at the pix. You give out attitude. The camera can play with you and have a good time.’

  She gazed reverently at the contacts. It was true. The success of the photographs was not just due to Antonio. Her personality shone through her eyes and gave the pictures real life. With a little help from a makeup artist, a hairdresser, and an incredible stylist. They had all done their bit.

  She was glad she’d persevered and not given up on Antonio’s promise to photograph her. It had taken some doing, but she had finally got herself in front of his camera – and the results were brilliant! She was sure he’d enjoyed the session as much as she had. He’d played loud rock music, and encouraged her to move to the beat and have fun.

  When signing the release she had made one stipulation – she had asked him to make sure that wherever
he placed the photos, there was no mention of Silver Anderson being her mother.

  ‘Bene,’ he had said, and that was that. She trusted him.

  Wow! Silver would freak out when she saw these pictures!

  ‘What’s he going to do with them?’ she asked Antonio’s assistant.

  The girl said, ‘No idea. Feel relieved that he likes them. He’s very particular.’

  ‘Can I order some?’

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you? Antonio never gives out prints. Sorry.’

  Heaven wondered if she could steal a contact sheet. What was the point of doing the pictures if she couldn’t get hold of any?

  ‘Well’ – the assistant relented a bit – ‘I’ll ask him what plans he has. Call me in a couple of weeks.’

  Reluctantly she left the studio half excited and half let down. At least it was a positive move. How many other girls of sixteen got to pose for the great Antonio? And how many other girls got to spend the summer at the beach with their famous uncle? She was elated about that, even though Jack’s house was definitely in the wrong direction. Santa Monica was where all the action was. Still it was probably a brilliant house and she couldn’t wait to see it. It was dynamite of him to invite her – she knew how busy he was.

  Her mother hadn’t even called to find out what she was doing for the summer.

  Her mother…

  Sometimes she wondered who her father was, and if she had known him would he have cared about her? Or would he be just like Silver?

  She was frightened to ask his identity. Anonymity was better than more rejection.

  Stopping at the big Rexall drugstore on the corner of La Cienega and Beverly, she stocked up on sun tan oils, and began to feel excited. At six o’clock that evening Uncle Jack was picking her up, and her summer at the beach would begin. As Jack had predicted, Grandfather George had hardly reacted at all. In fact, he had seemed quite pleased. Now she could look forward to six weeks of total freedom! Ah, if only she could get her career going everything would be perfect.

  Driving over the hill she thought about Eddie. He was such a dork. She didn’t like his guitar playing anymore, and she didn’t like him. Perhaps this was the break they both needed.