Hollywood Husbands

by Jackie Collins

  ‘What woman?’ Silver and Poppy chorused as one.

  ‘That bitch – Whitney Valentine. She’s ruining my life!’

  Poppy had never perceived Melanie-Shanna as anything but a docile little mouse. The anger she was exhibiting was a revelation. Not such a quiet one after all.

  ‘What has Whitney done?’ inquired Silver, only mildly interested in gossip unless it was directly related to her.

  Before Melanie-Shanna could reply, Ida White and Carmel Gooseberger barged through the door, both talking at once.

  ‘Poppy!’ Carmel boomed excitedly. ‘Don’t you know there’s a fight going on?’

  ‘Blood!’ exclaimed Ida in her deep, flat voice. ‘Everywhere!’

  It was getting too crowded for Silver; she edged her way towards the door.

  ‘A fight?’ wailed Poppy. ‘At my party.’

  ‘It’s that bitch’s fault,’ yelled Melanie-Shanna. ‘That fucking bitch! I’d like to break every bone in her body!’

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Regrets were immediate:

  Ms. Jade Johnson regrets. Making love with the English asshole one more time was a grave mistake.

  She stared at him, asleep in her bed. He lay on his back with his mouth slightly open, a whispery snore escaping from between his lips.

  It was seven o’clock in the morning and she was awake and alert, already reviewing the activities of the night before.

  Why had she called him?

  Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Naturally he’d been delighted to hear from her, and arrived at her apartment in what seemed like minutes, although half an hour probably elapsed.

  She had turned off all the lights and decorated the place with small votive candles. Springsteen made beautiful background on the stereo. A bottle of chilled Russian vodka and two shot glasses stood on a table by the bed. She greeted him in an oversize black tee-shirt and nothing else except Opium scent.

  He started to talk the moment he walked through the door.

  She wasn’t after conversation. Silencing him with a finger to his lips, she drew him towards the bedroom.

  It didn’t take long for him to get the message.

  The sex was okay. It was not sensational. If she wanted to be really truthful it was pretty damned ordinary. What were the words of that old song? The thrill is gone. The thrill is gone. I can feel it in your arms, see it in your eyes – the thrill is gone.

  Shutting the bedroom door behind her, she padded on bare feet into the kitchen, and switched the kettle on.

  At least she knew. It was over. As far as she was concerned there were no doubts about that.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve got to take a quick trip to New York,’ Jack informed Heaven. ‘Can you arrange for a girlfriend to stay here with you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  She thought about who she could invite, and rejected every possibility. Some of the girls at school were okay, but she really didn’t have much in common with any of them. Eddie was her best friend, only since Silver’s dumb party, where he had trailed after her mother like some moronic fan, she had gone right off him.

  ‘I’ll get someone over,’ she promised. ‘Just tell me when you’re going.’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  She nodded. ‘Terrific.’ And she thought – ‘I’ll stay here alone, I don’t mind.

  ‘Good, that’s settled. I’ll only be away for a couple of days.’

  She rather liked the idea of being by herself. Maybe she would have Eddie down and they could do some rehearsing. Lately their gigs together were pure garbage. Either he’d lost his touch or she was just bored with screaming out rock and roll.

  Uncle Jack had still not heard any of her tapes. It pissed her off. But… he was an okay dude – at least he cared about her, which was more than she could say for her mother.

  One day, when she was rich and famous and no longer treated like a dumb kid, she was going to confront Silver Dearest, and ask her plenty.

  Like – Who is my father?

  Like – Why don’t you give a damn about me?

  Like – Why did you shove me out of your life as if I didn’t matter?

  Anger and frustration welled up inside her. What kind of crap was it not to know the identity of your own father?

  * * *

  Mark emerged from the bedroom at nine-fifteen, tousled charm on full wattage.

  Jade sat in the kitchen, clad in jeans and a shirt, legs on the table, watching A.M. Los Angeles on television. She had a cup of black coffee by her side, and a cigarette (her new favourite habit) smouldering in an ashtray. She was thinking about Corey. Their lunch had been an uncomfortable experience for both of them, and now that she’d had time to mull things over, she knew she had to call him.

  ‘Good morning, lovely lady,’ Mark said, bending to kiss her, clad only in a pink bath towel knotted tightly around his waist, a look not suited to his skinny physique. He had spindly arms.

  ‘Hi.’ She tried a friendly smile. It wasn’t going to work – she never had been able to hide her feelings.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, immediately sensitive to her restless mood.

  Fixing him with a look, she said, ‘It’s over, Mark. This time it’s really over.’

  He preferred not to deal with her statement. ‘Why are you smoking?’ he asked sternly. ‘You gave it up years ago.’

  ‘How’s Fiona?’ she asked. ‘Is she upset about the divorce?’

  Mark considered her question. He was smart; he never liked to get himself caught in any traps. ‘She’s had an extremely bad case of the flu,’ he explained seriously. ‘It dragged on. Almost turned into pneumonia.’

  ‘Most unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes, very. Naturally, I wasn’t able to broach the subject of divorce.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  He gave a deep sigh. ‘Is that why you’re cross with me?’

  He was so English and refined. Cross with me. How quaint!

  ‘I had no idea Fiona wasn’t aware of your divorce plans,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘Ah, but I’m going to tell her on my next trip home.’

  ‘Will that be soon?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Not on my account, I hope.’

  He sat down beside her, and as he did so the towel parted, and she couldn’t help noticing his aristocratic balls blowing in the wind.

  ‘I am going to tell her, Jade, darling. And you and I are going to be married.’

  ‘There’s only one small snag.’

  ‘What’s that, sweetheart?’

  ‘It’s finito, Mark. Last night was the proof.’

  Tapping his fingers on the table, he was unsure of how to handle her. ‘You didn’t have an orgasm, did you?’ he asked at last.

  Typical! Change the subject. He was so full of shit.

  ‘The sex was great,’ she lied. ‘Don’t you see? It makes no difference. We’re history.’

  ‘Never,’ he insisted adamantly.

  ‘Believe it.’ She was equally adamant.

  ‘When Fiona and I are divorced you’ll feel differently,’ he said confidently.

  ‘No, Mark.’

  ‘Yes, Jade.’

  There seemed no point in continuing the argument. She didn’t have to. Mark Rand was definitely history.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Wes scooted from the house before anyone was up. He had told Silver the night before that he might go out early, and she had said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t wake me. I need plenty of sleep to recover from this debacle.’

  He was forced to admit that it had turned out to be some party – what with Mannon Cable and Chuck Nielson getting it on like they were the star players in a bar-room brawl. And Poppy Soloman having hysterics. And when the main event was over, Whitney Valentine and Melanie-Shanna Cable had indulged in a most unladylike screaming match. Wes couldn’t help noticing that when Whitney Valentine
got angry her tits swelled like a couple of melons, and her nipples headed straight for the entire male population’s eyeballs.

  So this was Hollywood high society. Not quite as boring as he had thought.

  Naturally, he had gotten involved. Well, he had to, didn’t he? Nobody else was doing anything about the battle of the movie stars, and Mannon Cable was beating the bejesus out of his new friend, Chuck Nielson, who was too stoned to defend himself. There was blood pouring from his nose, and he was reeling all over the place, while Mannon seemed intent on beating him to a pulp.

  ‘For God’s sake, somebody do something,’ Whitney had pleaded. That’s when Wes moved into action, with the help of a waiter or two. They pulled Mannon off with difficulty as Chuck sprawled groaning on the ground.

  By this time Poppy had emerged from the ladies’ room to view the demise of her wonderful party, and was yelling furiously at a bemused Howard Soloman. But the real surprise was Melanie-Shanna Cable, who hadn’t said a word all night. She followed Poppy from the ladies’ room, walked straight over to Whitney Valentine and shouted, ‘Leave my husband alone, you sex-crazed bitch! He’s not yours anymore. Just remember that, or you’ll be sorry!’

  Whereupon Whitney had responded with a pithy ‘Fuck you, cunt! Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’

  And they almost came to blows, only Mannon grabbed Melanie-Shanna and practically carried her off without a backward glance.

  ‘Makes Dynasty look positively tame,’ crowed Carmel Gooseberger, loving every minute.

  The party – as the saying goes – turned out to be a blast.

  Silver was strangely quiet on the drive home, which surprised Wes. Usually she liked discussing every moment of the excitement.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ she responded.

  I’m exhausted was her favourite expression – she used it constantly. It hadn’t taken him long to learn that she was only exhausted when it suited her.

  No longer confined to the Mercedes, he took Silver’s Rolls on his morning trip. He had decided to visit his former home, pack up his possessions, and officially move out. By this time it had to be safe. He was Mr Silver Anderson now. He was untouchable.

  * * *

  As soon as Wes left the house, Silver awoke. She had hardly slept all night, and felt dreadful. Reaching for the phone, unmindful of the early hour, she contacted Nora.

  ‘Guess what?’ she stated dramatically.

  ‘He ran off with all your money,’ yawned Nora.

  ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘How was the party?’ Nora was miffed she hadn’t been invited, but wise in the ways of Beverly Hills hostesses, she knew that some hostesses refused to accommodate the star’s entourage. And as Silver’s P.R., that’s what she was regarded as. If Silver had really wanted her there she would have been included, but obviously that was not the case. Since Wes Money’s entrance into her life, Nora’s presence was no longer required at every event.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll read all about it,’ Silver said dryly.

  ‘Does that mean you can’t be bothered to tell me?’

  ‘It means, my dear, that my party ended up being a fist fight between Mannon and Chuck. And a verbal battle between Whitney and Mannon’s present wife – who’s not the mild-mannered creature she appears to be.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘The real shock of the evening was my dinner companion.’

  ‘Who was it, the Ayatollah?’

  Silver laughed ruefully. ‘Just as bad. Zachary Klinger.’

  Nora knew when she was needed. ‘I’ll be right over,’ she said.

  * * *

  Parking Silver’s Rolls in a side street, Wes reflected that it might have been a mistake driving it into the seedier reaches of Venice. What if it got damaged?

  No big deal. Silver would just buy another one. He had to learn to think rich. All his life he’d counted dimes, now he could relax and stop worrying. He was married to a wealthy woman! Hey – shout it out!

  He walked briskly along the boardwalk towards his old house. It was a bright Californian day, early, but already hot, and a few serious skate-boarders were in action – girls in tight shorts and minuscule tank tops, and a few guys wearing even less. They were in pursuit of the perfect tan, and what better way to get it?

  Wes could think of a better way. Lying out beside Silver’s luxurious swimming pool with Vladimir serving him piña coladas, and a portable colour television at his elbow.

  It seemed funny, approaching his old house. Actually, it gave him a shudder or two. He had no desire to resume his former lifestyle; the present one suited him just fine.

  He groped for his front door key, fitted it in the lock, and was surprised to find it didn’t work.

  Sonofabitch! Somebody had changed the lock… Why was he surprised? Reba Winogratsky wanted her rent. She wasn’t going to allow him to walk in and cart off his stuff without paying. Good old Reba!

  He knocked on Unity’s door. Once he picked up the thousand bucks she was holding for him he would have to pay a good chunk of it straight over to Reba. Well, that was the breaks. It wasn’t like he needed it desperately.

  Nobody answered, so he knocked again.

  A drag queen flung the door wide. A six-foot drag queen with crew-cut hair, and the remnants of last night’s makeup smeared across his face. He wore a flowered bedspread and dusty pink toe-nail polish on inordinately large feet. ‘What the hell do you—’ The voice changed. He liked what he saw. ‘Hel-lo. Are you visiting or staying?’

  ‘Looking for Unity.’

  ‘Sounds divine. Is it a new religious cult?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do I have to join?’

  ‘Unity. She lives here.’

  The drag queen batted sturdy false eyelashes that had lasted through the night. ‘You remind me of my first lover,’ he said coyly. ‘Très butch.’

  Wes sighed. Fags loved him. He brought out their animal instincts – or so he’d been told on more than one occasion. Patiently he said, ‘I’m looking for a girl called Unity. She lives here, or used to. Where is she?’

  ‘Oh. Her. I think she did a moonlight disappearing act and stuck the landlady for the rent. This place looked like a prison when I moved in. Brown peeling paint and—’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  The drag queen shrugged. ‘Search me.’ A ribald laugh. ‘Please!’

  ‘Have you got a phone I can use?’

  ‘Ring my bell any time! Only how do I know you’re not going to rob and rape me?’

  Wes levelled him with a steely stare. ‘You’ll just have to live in hope.’

  * * *

  Over coffee, Silver and Nora discussed the ramifications of Zachary K. Klinger being in town.

  ‘He makes me sick!’ Silver exclaimed. ‘Sitting next to him was a terrible ordeal – I don’t know how I did it.’

  ‘Does Wes know about you and Zachary?’ Nora asked.

  ‘Certainly not. Nobody knows. Only you.’

  Nora, the perennial cigarette stuck to her lower lip, nodded. ‘If I were you I’d leave it that way.’

  Silver got up and paced the room. She was clad in a pale lilac tracksuit, with her hair pulled back and no makeup. Nora was constantly amazed at how good she looked unadorned. If she wasn’t so vain, and cared to tackle a non-glamorous role, she would probably surprise a lot of people.

  ‘The good news is that Zachary knows nothing about Heaven,’ Silver said, as if to reassure herself.

  Nora decided to step onto dangerous territory. ‘Why is that such good news? Surely the child asks you who her father is?’

  ‘She never asks. And if she does, I’ll tell her it’s none of her business,’ Silver snapped unreasonably.

  Nora sniffed her disapproval. They’d had this discussion before, and Silver always firmly maintained that it was her privilege to keep the knowledge of who Heaven’s father was to herself.

&nb
sp; ‘I fail to see what you gain by not telling her Zachary Klinger is her father. The man’s a billionaire with no children. You’re denying her the right to inherit an enormous fortune.’

  ‘He humiliated me,’ Silver said stubbornly. ‘I will never give him the satisfaction of knowing that my humiliation resulted in his becoming a father.’

  Sometimes Nora wished she had not been made privy to Silver’s big secret. She was the only person to know the truth, and it was a burden – for she understood only too well that it was completely unethical not to inform Heaven. With a heavy sigh she reached for the coffee pot.

  Outside the room, Vladimir strained to hear every word. Ever since the threat of dismissal when Silver discovered him in her bath, he had decided to take out a little insurance. His six-figure policy was a thick notebook filled with gossip about his famous employer. He noted her moods, phone conversations, purchases, clothes, and he had a whole section on her new husband – the ex-bartender. Now he had the most interesting and explosive material of all. Zachary K. Klinger was Heaven’s father! This information must be worth a small fortune! And Vladimir knew exactly how to get it.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel at eight o’clock in the morning was not exactly the ideal way for Howard Soloman to start his day. But breakfast it was, at Zachary K. Klinger’s command.

  Howard awoke late, threw himself in the shower, cut himself shaving, dressed too quickly, and with a fast snort of cocaine to see him on his way hurried from the house.

  Fortunately, Poppy still slept. She had kept him up half the night talking, and he couldn’t take a repeat performance. Personally he had enjoyed every minute of Mannon beating the shit out of that slime-bucket Chuck Nielson. Poppy had been destroyed. ‘It ruined my party,’ she moaned all night long.

  ‘It made your goddamn party,’ Howard had assured her. ‘People’ll be talkin’ about it for weeks.’

  The parking valet at The Beverly Hills Hotel took his car, and he rushed inside aware that he was ten minutes late, and if he knew old Zach like he thought he did the old bastard was bound to be a stickler for punctuality.