Hollywood Husbands

by Jackie Collins

  Companionably he fell into step beside her. ‘You look like ya need a friend,’ he said.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she replied, shivering as a blast of icy wind penetrated her light clothing.

  ‘Where ya from?’

  ‘California,’ she lied.

  ‘Yeah? I was there once. Got me a tan and a blonde cutie.’

  She stopped and turned towards him. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded bluntly.

  ‘Jest bein’ friendly,’ he replied, taken aback.

  ‘What do you want?’ she repeated.

  ‘Sex,’ he said hopefully. ‘I’ll give ya ten bucks, an’ tell ya where t’get connected.’

  ‘Connected?’

  ‘Y’ know, I’ll meetcha the right people. Ya need a job, doncha? An’ someplace ter park yer butt.’

  Sighing wearily she said, ‘Get lost.’

  He pulled up the collar of his warm sheepskin coat. ‘Ya turnin’ me down?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, fuck you,’ he spat. ‘See how far you’ll get without my help.’

  ‘Go away.’

  He walked off, muttering to himself.

  Waiting until he was out of sight, she leaned against the wall and clumsily opened her suitcase. Removing both her sweaters, she took off the nylon jacket and struggled into them, feeling warmer at once. Then she put her jacket back on, asked directions to Herald Square, and set off, walking briskly until she reached Macy’s, the famous department store she had read about. It was supposedly one of the biggest stores in the world – occupying a full square block of space.

  Inside, the activity was frantic, shoppers mingled with tourists, everyone rushing back and forth anxious to spend their money.

  Approaching a bored-looking redhead stationed behind one of the cosmetics counters, she asked, ‘Can you help me? Who do I see to get a job here?’

  The redhead stared. ‘You’re going job hunting with a suitcase?’ she questioned. ‘No chance.’

  ‘No chance of what?’

  ‘No chance of them hiring you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For a start, you look like you just got off the bus.’

  ‘I did.’

  The woman laughed derisively. ‘Holy cow! I suppose you’re broke, with nowhere to live, and probably knocked up.’

  ‘Two out of three. Any suggestions?’

  ‘I hope it’s the right two. Get a room at the Y overnight, and then catch the next bus home.’

  The girl did neither. She had made up her mind that in New York things were going to be different, and one way or another she was going to rise from her crummy beginnings and make a success of her life. No job and no place to stay were minor setbacks. She was a survivor. Hadn’t she proved it? Failing to land a job at Macy’s, she was able to get a room at the YWCA, where she deposited her suitcase, and then took a walk to Times Square. She looked around, finally noticing a DISHWASHER NEEDED sign in the window oƒ Red’s Deli, a huge, noisy restaurant.

  One thing she knew – she was never going to succumb to the easy money she could make selling her body. Even dishwashing was better than that.

  Washing dishes non-stop on a seven-hour shift was back-breaking work. The girl threw herself into it, in spite of the hostility of the other three dishwashers – all male. Even at such a low level of employment, men resented a female’s intrusion. They made sure she got the dirtiest work of all. The huge frying pans covered in hard grease. The garbage pails to clean out. She was even allotted the cockroach run – cleaning out the lower cupboards once a day, and getting rid of the mice and rat droppings before the health inspector appeared. Working hard, she kept to herself, discouraging the friendliness of several of the waiters and short-order cooks. The girl knew that relationships could get her into trouble.

  She never felt guilty about what she had done in the past – for all her victims deserved it. But she didn’t want to keep on having to punish people… and running… running…

  There was one waiter called Eli. He was black, gay, and unfailingly cheerful. He talked to her whether she wanted him to or not.

  ‘Woody Allen’s sitting at table four,’ he confided. ‘And yesterday Liza Minnelli was in – she just loves our apple strudel. It’s not fair that you don’t get to see anybody. Why don’t you ask for a job as a waitress? Stella’s quitting, there’ll be a vacancy. How about grabbing it?’

  ‘Does it pay more?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes!’

  She took his advice and asked for the job. And she got it.

  ‘Good,’ Eli said, ‘now you can come and live with me. I am in desperate need of someone to split my rent.’

  His kindness made her suspicious. Nobody had ever been kind to her unless they wanted something in return. Warily she moved into his cramped Greenwich Village apartment, paying half the rent, and waiting patiently to see what he was after.

  ‘I’m an actor,’ Eli confided. ‘And a dancer, and a singer. What are your ambitions?’

  Just to survive, she nearly said. Only Eli wouldn’t understand. Nobody would. The tragedy of her life was her secret, and she would never reveal it to anyone.

  BOOK FIVE

  Hollywood, California

  December 1985

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  A shout of annoyance from the general direction of Silver’s bathroom indicated she was not ready to leave the house. Wes cast an eye at the clock. They were running late for the wrap party of Romance. Nothing new about that. Silver ran late for everything. She and Elizabeth Taylor held the record for tardy arrivals.

  Yawning, he sat on the edge of the bed and clicked on the television. He’d been ready to go for forty-five minutes.

  Another scream. ‘Damn!’ Silver yelled, emerging from the bathroom. ‘I look like a hag!’

  She was clad in a beige suede gaucho outfit which didn’t suit her. The shoulders were too wide, the skirt too long, and the waist too cinched. It was an outfit suitable for a twenty-two-year-old six-foot model.

  ‘What do you think?’ she demanded belligerently, knowing full well it wasn’t right.

  ‘Great,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Liar!’ she shouted, and marched into her dressing room, slamming the door.

  Slipping off his shoes, he put his legs up on the bed. He could bet on at least another half-hour before she was ready. It didn’t bother him. He felt perfectly safe and secure lying on the bed waiting for her. The trip back to his past six weeks ago had straightened out any desire he might have had to go wandering. Getting beaten up in a seedy parking lot and dragged off to meet with some fat drug pimp was not exactly his idea of a wonderful time.

  He recalled the evening with distaste. The whole fucking evening, for they hadn’t released him until the next day.

  He was sure somebody had squealed on him when he went visiting his old haunts. And he had a hunch it was his pathetic hooker friend. Not that he blamed her – anything for a buck – although it would be interesting to find out what the going price for fingering him was.

  It was fortunate he possessed a concrete skull. The motherfuckers had hit him with something heavy, dragged him into the back of a car, and taken him to visit the black dude with the shit-eating grin and big white sunglasses.

  This time the meet was in a deserted warehouse. When he regained consciousness, he found he was slumped on a dusty concrete floor, his hands and feet bound with wire.

  For a moment real fear had taken over. Mr Silver Anderson was going to end his days alone and unloved – just as he had begun them.

  His heart jumped about like an out-of-control tennis ball, and he almost relieved himself in his pants.

  STAY CALM, a voice screamed in his head. THEY CAN’T DO ANYTHING TO YOU – YOU’RE A SOMEBODY NOW.

  ‘What you think, man?’ The black man prodded him with his foot. ‘You think we be dumb-ass fuckers? You think we gonna wait forever for our money?’

  He’d groaned, and quickly tried to collect his wits.
/>   ‘You owe us, white boy, an’ we ready to collect.’

  ‘I owe you fuck all,’ he managed. ‘You set me up.’

  ‘We want our money,’ the man said. ‘We be fair. You pay us the twenny-two thou an’ we forget about drugs you steal.’

  Struggling to free himself he said, ‘I don’t fucking believe this!’

  ‘You think fast ’bout payin’ money you owe.’

  A swift kick caught him in the lower abdomen, landing dangerously close to his balls, making him gag with pain.

  ‘Think carefully. I be back tomorra.’

  They left him, trussed like a chicken, all night long. In the morning a henchman returned to set him free. ‘Ya bring the money t’ the same parkin’ lot Tuesday nite, eight o’clock.’

  By the time he got the circulation going in his wrists and ankles, made his way back to the car, and drove to the house, Silver had departed for the studio. When she arrived home later that night to find him stretched out on the couch with an icepack on his forehead, she was furious.

  ‘Hangover? Serves you right,’ she had snapped coldly.

  ‘I got mugged,’ he objected.

  Sarcasm flowed. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘How about some sympathy?’

  ‘Whistle for it.’

  She had swept upstairs and ignored him for several days.

  Obviously, everything was okay on the set, for both Orville and Zeppo phoned to thank him. ‘I don’t know what you said to her,’ Orville chuckled. ‘Or did to her. But she and Carlos are behaving like best friends.’

  Concealing his surprise, he had accepted the congratulations as if they were his due. ‘I told you everything would be all right,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Any time you want her pulled back into line, just call on me.’

  Orville and Zeppo loved him. It took a while before Silver did again. She liked getting her own way – without exception. He had challenged her, and she did not enjoy the experience.

  Slowly he charmed his way back into her good graces. Sex. Silver needed it, wanted it, hated to be without it. But they had both learned a lesson from their brief estrangement.

  Meanwhile, he had no intention of paying back the twenty-two thousand dollars. Fuck ’em. They had planted the money on him, and as far as he was concerned it barely compensated for the screwed-up Laurel Canyon caper. Besides, it was his ‘fuck you’ money. He had it stashed in a safe-deposit box at the First Interstate Bank – minus the rent he had paid Reba – and he did not plan to go anywhere near it. There was nothing they could do. He was back in Bel Air, safe and protected by the new security system he had persuaded Silver to install. For insurance he took the gun – another souvenir of Laurel Canyon – out of hiding, and carried it for protection. No way was he getting caught again. Wes Money was back in the big time.

  At last Silver appeared, clad in a gold jacket worn over a short black dress. ‘Do come on,’ she sighed impatiently. ‘Aren’t you ready?’

  Ha! She was berating him. He had been ready for over an hour. Lately her mood had been lousy. He knew the reason. And the reason had a name. Heaven. Silver’s well-kept secret daughter was an emerging rock star, and it was driving her crazy.

  * * *

  Sound stage six at Orpheus Studios was set up for a party. There were balloons, round tables with pink cloths, a small combo playing music from the film, an open bar, and a buffet table covered with food. The party was crowded, but not with stars. A wrap party was a thank you from the producers to the cast and crew, and usually they were allowed to bring their respective mates.

  The stars generally put in an appearance. Always late. Certainly brief.

  Neither Silver nor Carlos had shown. However, Howard Soloman was there, a bejewelled Poppy in close attendance. She distributed largesse and sweetness. Poppy considered it excellent public relations to be nice to the ‘little people’. ‘After all,’ she told Howard earnestly, ‘I was once one myself.’

  Yeah, he remembered only too well the days when Poppy was his secretary. It hadn’t taken her long to change roles.

  Since getting back from Arizona, and his aborted affair with Whitney, Howard had been on a downhill slide. He was doing more coke than ever, spending the studio’s money rashly, and indulging in even more scams where the gains went straight into his own pocket.

  Paranoia reigned supreme – he thought that everyone was talking about him. And for the first time in his life he was off sex.

  Once that happened, Poppy noticed. ‘Howie, baby, is anything wrong?’

  ‘Work pressure.’

  ‘Poor sweetie. We need a vacation. Shall I book a suite at the Kahala in Hawaii?’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Going away was not the answer. He didn’t want to be stuck in confined quarters with Poppy, where she could find out about his habit. He had finally admitted to himself that it was a habit. Not an unbreakable one. He could stop any time he wanted.

  The problem was – he didn’t want to.

  * * *

  Carlos Brent made his entrance first – walking with the same swagger as in his youth. He travelled with two bodyguards, a secretary, a personal publicist, and his long-suffering girlfriend, Dee Dee Dionne.

  His attendants hovered around him like anxious butterflies.

  Shortly after, Silver arrived, with Wes and Nora. ‘I hate these things,’ she muttered to Nora. ‘All this smiling makes my face muscles ache.’ She waved to the lighting cameraman – always an actress’s best friend – and graciously stopped by his table to meet his wife.

  Now that the film was finished shooting she was feeling slight tingles of apprehension. Had she done the right thing leaving Palm Springs? A television soap gave her constant exposure to a more than fickle public. Would that same public go to see her in Romance? Would they watch her upcoming television special? Would they still love and adore her?

  She wasn’t ready for rejection. Silver needed adulation, just as Howard needed his cocaine.

  And Zeppo White was not Quinne Lattimore. Quinne used to be available for her calls day and night. She could summon him to attend to minor problems any time she wanted. Zeppo was another matter. As a star agent he refused to jump, and that annoyed her.

  ‘I’m not sure Zeppo is the right agent for me,’ she’d complained to Wes.

  Looking at her quizzically he’d said, ‘Zeppo is the tops. From now on it’s only the best for you.’

  She was harbouring guilty feelings about cheating on Wes with Carlos. What if he ever found out?

  Of course, he never would. How could he? And if he did, she would merely deny it. Nora was the only one who knew. Well, Nora was privy to all her secrets – why should this one be any different?

  ‘Can I beg a favour from you?’ the lighting cameraman’s wife asked.

  Silver smiled generously. The woman probably wanted an autographed photo – everyone did.

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  Of course not. It never is.

  ‘It’s for our grand-daughter.’

  Grand-daughter! Her fans were getting younger every day!

  Still smiling, she noticed Wes talking to Carlos and wondered what they were discussing.

  Hey – did you know I fucked your wife the other day?

  Really? I hope you enjoyed it.

  Yeah, why not? She’s a good old broad.

  ‘Little Marybethe will be thrilled to pieces if I can promise her an autographed picture of your daughter, Heaven. And if she can sign it – to Marybethe – M-A-R-Y-B-E-T-H-E.’

  Silver’s smile was fixed on her face like a concrete mask, while shivers of annoyance mixed with jealousy mixed with disbelief ran up and down her spine.

  Goddammit! What the hell had she ever done to deserve this?

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Getting away was the best tonic Jade could think of. Only it seemed that every time she made a trip, she was running from a bad relationship. Los Angeles to escape from Mark. Now
back to New York to forget Jack Python. Although she could hardly call him a relationship. More like a night of passion with a professional stud. Making conquests was obviously his hobby.

  How could she have been so gullible? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been around.

  In New York she tried to put the entire incident behind her, and threw herself into seeing old friends. There were lunches at the Russian Tea Room, Mortimer’s, and Le Cirque. Evenings at the Hard Rock Café, Twenty-One, and Elaine’s – depending on her mood. And crazy shopping trips to the three great B’s – Bendel’s, Bergdorfs, and Bloomingdale’s.

  Walking the streets she breathed the freezing city air and had a wonderful time doing it. Then she visited her parents in Connecticut for a long, blissful, promotion-free weekend.

  When she’d signed the Cloud deal, she had not fully realized the extent to which they expected her to sell their product. After complaining to her modelling agent, she was shown a copy of her contract, and there it was in black and white – Ms. Johnson will undertake eight weeks of personal appearances during a twelve-month period.

  Ms. Johnson had signed.

  Ms. Johnson had to do.

  She was certainly incredibly well compensated. The Cloud deal had set her up for life. Now she could venture into movies on her terms, or not at all.

  Zeppo White called to inform her that Howard Soloman had purchased the film rights to Married Alive, and that a top screenwriter was tailoring the script to accommodate her.

  ‘I got you the sweetest deal in the world,’ he crowed. ‘Everything you asked for an’ more. I’m couriering the contract to you overnight. Get it back to me right away, kiddo.’

  ‘How’s L.A.?’ she asked, shivering in the borrowed apartment of a friend.

  ‘Hot. Christmas is coming. I’m havin’ my turkey out by the pool. How about you?’

  ‘I’ll spend Christmas with my family and be back right after the holidays.’

  ‘Looking forward to it. Ida wants to throw a party for you.’

  She was all partied out. The Cloud Gala, held at the top of the World Trade building, had been a lavish affair attended by a mix of New York’s movers and shakers, plus press, and the most avid stylesetters.