• • •
Koko had a way with makeup that enhanced even Angel’s beauty.
“I didn’t know you were so clever!” she exclaimed, gazing at her reflection in the mirror.
“With you, dreamheart, it’s easy.”
She looked exquisite. He had pulled the front of her hair up and away from her face, leaving the rest to fall softly past her shoulders. He had flattered her with touches of gold scattered over her flawless skin. There was gold on her cheekbones, eyelids, even a touch on her lips. Her eyes he had emphasized with thick brown mascara on her long lashes, and pink and bronze shadow blended around the browbone. The effect was startling yet subtle.
She wore the black skirt he had chosen with a simple white off-the-shoulder blouse, and a white lace choker he had found.
“Hmmm . . .” He stood back to survey her. “Divine!”
The buzzer rang. It was Mrs. Liderman’s chauffeur.
“I’m so nervous,” she fluttered. “Are you sure I should be going?”
He kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “Have a wonderful time, dreamheart. Have a ball for both of us.”
• • •
“The hors d’oeuvres, Lina,” Elaine hissed through the kitchen door. “They must come out faster. See to it.”
Lina nodded. She had not, as threatened, walked. Instead she and her friends had changed into clean black dresses and frilled white aprons, and were happily helping out. When Mrs. Conti was home things ran smoothly and Lina did not have to take responsibility for anything. That was the way she liked it. Besides, rumor had it that Erik Estrada was an expected guest, and the very sound of his name brought tears to her eyes.
Elaine kissed Bridget and David Hedison, waved at Dyan Cannon, squeezed Ryan O’Neal’s hand, and moved in the direction of Sadie La Salle, who had just walked through the door. Ross was nowhere in sight. Last seen talking to Adam Sutton and Roger Moore, he had now vanished.
“Damn!” she muttered. He was never around at the right moment. “Hello, Sadie,” she gushed. “Don’t you look lovely. Do come in, I’m sure you must know absolutely everyone.”
• • •
“You’re late, Buddy,” Frances Cavendish said crisply, answering the door of her Spanish hacienda, then slamming it shut behind her. “Good grief! Is that your car?” She glanced at his ancient Pontiac parked in the street. “We can’t possibly arrive in that.”
“Why not?” he asked truculently.
“My God, dear. Isn’t it obvious?”
“It’s good enough for me, Francie.”
“Don’t call me Francie,” she snapped. “We’ll take my car. Wait here, I’ll get the keys.”
She marched back inside her house while he moodily marked time on the sidewalk.
She emerged shortly, and he noted that for the occasion she had dug out her diamanté-trimmed glasses.
He wondered if she had ever been married. Rumor had her listed as a dyke, but no little nymphet starlet had ever complained of her demanding a free pass to pussyland.
She handed him the keys to what turned out to be a very large, very old Mercedes, and they set off.
• • •
“This is Angel,” announced Mrs. Liderman to anyone who would listen. “She psyched my Frowie into coming back to me. Isn’t that clever of her?”
“Your what?” inquired a tall thin man who looked as if he had a perpetual bad smell under his nose.
“My Frowie. My poodle.”
Mrs. Liderman in purple taffeta was positively rattling with huge diamonds. They made Bibi Sutton’s emeralds look quite ordinary.
“Who that woman?” Bibi demanded jealously.
“I don’t know,” replied Elaine. “She must be from Pamela’s list.”
“And where are George and Pamela?” Bibi shook her head disparagingly. “They come too late, sweetie. The guests of honor should arrive first.”
How well Elaine knew it; she did not need Bibi to tell her. “They’re on their way,” she said testily, hoping desperately that indeed they were.
• • •
Montana zoomed her Volkswagen up the driveway and waited while the silver stretch Cadillac limo in front of her disgorged its passengers. She couldn’t have timed it better—or worse. George Lancaster and Pamela London were alighting from the Cadillac.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to skulk in her car waiting for them to get inside. Quickly she got out of the VW and walked over to Macho-man and Richo-wife.
“How’s it going, George?” she asked heartily. “I’m parched. Think you can get me a drink?”
• • •
The Zancussi Trio began to play tasteful background music at precisely eight o’clock. Ross, who had been doing a pretty good job of circulating, took the opportunity to sneak into the busy kitchen and stuff his mouth with canapés.
Elaine was not far behind. “Where have you been?” she hissed. “Pamela and George just arrived, and Sadie La Salle has been here twenty minutes. Is it too much trouble for you to put yourself out? Or do you intend to stay in the kitchen all night?”
“I’ve been talking to the de Cordovas, the Lazars, and the Wilders. What do you want from me—blood?” he said defensively.
“I want you to greet the guests of honor—if it’s not too much trouble.”
They glared at each other. Both trying to concentrate on the party. Both seething with their own personal thoughts.
“Right,” said Ross at last. “I’ll go kiss ass. If you cruise the room, Elaine, maybe you can rip off a purse or two.”
• • •
“And this is Angel,” said Mrs. Liderman to Pamela London. “She saved Frowie.”
“Christ, Essie,” sighed Pamela. “You still got that godawful canine—the one that peed all over my apartment in New York?”
“Frowie is thirteen years old,” Mrs. Liderman said proudly. “In human years that’s ninety-one. For ninety-one years of age she’s like a young pup.”
Pamela inspected Angel. The girl was far too beautiful, although she didn’t look like the usual predatory starlet. “And how did you save Frowie?” she asked mildly. “Because I don’t know, dear, whether you should be rewarded or shot. That dog is a spoiled little pest who ruined one of my Persian rugs.”
“Pamela!” exclaimed Mrs. Liderman affectionately.
The two women hugged. They had known each other since college days, and as Essie Liderman was almost as rich as Pamela, their friendship had survived. The very rich are only really comfortable with the very rich. A fact of life that both ladies had learned, although Essie enjoyed spreading it around more than Pamela.
Angel was dazzled by the house, the people, the atmosphere. She, Angel Hudson, was at a real Hollywood party. And there were stars there. She spotted James Caan, and Elliott Gould, and Liza Minnelli, and Richard Gere. Richard Gere! She could die now and feel perfectly satisfied.
If only Buddy were here to share it with her.
Buddy.
She frowned. He was not the man she had thought he was, nor the man she had married, and now she must forget him.
Essie and Pamela were reminiscing, oblivious to her presence. She looked around in awe.
“Hel-lo,” said an impressed male voice. “And where have I been hiding all your life?”
• • •
“I should never have turned down Raging Bull,” said the actor in the lizard-skin boots. “It was a key career mistake.”
“He pays me, I think it turns him on,” said the redhead in the mink-trimmed cape.
“I buy them dresses, take them to Acapulco—I have to give them head too?” asked an outraged stud.
Snatches of conversation as Montana made her way across the room to the bar. She looked incredibly striking. Six feet tall in white silk jodhpurs tucked into knee-high boots. A white silk blouse unbuttoned to the waist, and a long white leather vest fringed with Indian beads. Her jet hair was braided and decorated with beads and fringes. Around her neck she wore a
solid silver choker studded with turquoise and thin silver hoops hung from her ears.
Neil was not yet at the party to appreciate her look. But Oliver Easterne actually complimented her on her original style. Coming from Oliver, she wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or upset.
What a bunch of phonies, she thought, looking around. I had more fun at the beach today than they’ll have in a lifetime.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she spotted Neil’s ex-wife. Pretty, and blond. Groomed, and plasticized. The perfect Beverly Hills look.
Maralee must have felt Montana staring, for she turned and for a moment their eyes met, and Montana knew for sure it was the former Mrs. Gray.
• • •
“Sadie, I’m so glad you could come. It means a lot to me.” Direct stare. “You know that, don’t you?”
Sadie felt her stomach knot as it did whenever she saw him. But this time was different. This time she was going to do something about it. “Ross,” she said carefully, “it’s nice to be here.”
He pushed for a reaction. “Just nice?”
She met his gaze steadily. “I like your house.”
“Not bad, is it?” He leaned close. “You know—you are looking sensational.”
“Thank you,” she said, edging away. She needed another drink before dealing with him.
“My little Sadie, you really made it, didn’t you?”
Oh God! He was as corny as ever. She backed away farther, and with relief saw a friend approaching. “Do you know Emile Riley?” she asked quickly.
“Yes, sure. Emile, nice to see you.”
“You too, Ross,” replied Emile. “What a magnificent turnout. Love the flower arrangements. I must congratulate Elaine—where is she?”
Sadie quickly took his arm. “Let’s go and find her. We’ll see you later, Ross.”
Famous blues still projecting. “You can bet on that.”
He watched her cross the room. Powerful Sadie La Salle. She had been his for a moment—he was sure of it. And the evening was only just beginning.
Karen appeared at his side. “I want to talk to you.”
She wore gold lamé harem pajamas which did nothing to conceal her amazing nipples through the thin silky material. He had a strong impulse to touch them, but controlled himself.
“Welcome to the house of Conti,” he said.
“Welcome my ass. Did you know Elaine phoned me today looking for you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?”
“If I knew would I be asking?”
He frowned. “Something’s going on. Some asshole came up to me on Rodeo Drive today and thrust some pictures in my face.”
“What pictures?”
“Pictures of us. In bed.”
“Whaaaat?”
“Sweetie. Why you and Karen so close together? Naughty, naughty. I tell Elaine!” Bibi Sutton was joking, of course, but they leaped apart like scalded cats.
Wolfie Schweiker was not far behind, resplendent in a velvet suit, ruffled shirt, and embroidered evening slippers. His hair, recently permed, framed a round face with small bitter eyes, a snub nose, fleshy lips, and ferretlike teeth. Some said he resembled a feisty goldfish.
“It’s a very good party, Ross. Bibi and I were just saying.”
“Thanks, Wolfie.”
“Not at all. Bibi and I always give praise where praise is due.”
“That’s nice.” Ross couldn’t stand the man. He wondered how mild-mannered Adam Sutton even allowed him in the house.
Karen joined in the conversation. “Great dress, Bibi.”
“Yes? You think? It nothing, darling.”
“Nothing my ass,” said Karen. “It has to have set old Adam back at least two grand. If you got it, Bibi, flaunt it.”
“Darling, you so vulgar.”
“I’m my father’s daughter—and I don’t have to tell you what he’s like, huh, Bibi?”
• • •
What was the quickest way to dump Frances Cavendish?
Good question.
Buddy pondered the problem as he checked out the party. Talk about hitting the action. He was moving with the stars. The place was jammed.
“If you’re thinking of cruising the room, forget it,” said Frances acidly, as if reading his mind.
“Cruising? Who’s cruising?” he said indignantly.
“Just a warning.”
“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?”
“Now? We just got here.”
“What d’you want me to do—piss on my shoes?”
“Make it fast. I didn’t bring you with me so that I could stand around on my own.”
He clicked his heels together. “Yes, ma’am.”
• • •
“Hello, Elaine.”
“Hello, Ron.”
Why had she ever invited him? He looked quite out of place dressed.
“This is some . . . um . . . gathering,” he drawled.
“Thank you.”
“I’d sure like to meet Clint Eastwood.”
Who wouldn’t? Only she wasn’t going to take him by the hand and introduce him.
“Excuse me, Ron. I have a million things to do.”
“Stay loose, Elaine. Don’t let the tension get to you. Did you take those vitamins I recommended?”
She nodded brusquely. He reminded her of a large shaggy dog. How come in the privacy of his office she had never noticed the moles all over his face, and the coarse straw-colored hair growing out of his ears and nose?
How could you have, Elaine?
Any cock in a storm!
• • •
“. . . she’s like a Barbie Doll—you wind her up and she buys new clothes . . .”
“. . . he’d fuck a bush if he thought it would invest . . .”
Buddy weaved his way through the room. He felt higher than he had in a long time. This was where he belonged, and this is where he would be—permanently—if only he got the part in Street People.
He smiled at Ann-Margret and she smiled back. He said, “How’r’you doin’?” to Michael Caine and got a friendly reply. He was really flying!
And then he saw her. Angel. His Angel. He couldn’t believe it, but she was there.
• • •
Oliver Easterne engaged in a stilted conversation with Montana. Their dislike was mutual, but the movie bound them together.
“Where’s Neil?” Oliver asked, glancing at his watch.
“I thought you might know,” replied Montana. “He had a meeting. He’s supposed to see me here.”
Oliver was sweating, and he had a horrible feeling that he could smell it—in spite of two very thorough showers. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to go to the men’s room.”
He shut himself in the guest bathroom and ripped off his jacket and shirt. A quick sniff revealed the fact that he did indeed stink. Hastily he grabbed the cake of soap lying in a silver soap dish and lathered his offending armpits. Then he lowered his pants and swooped a soapy hand under his jockeys—just in case. He had not bothered to check the closed toilet, and when Pamela London emerged they stared at each other in shock.
“What are you doing?” inquired Pamela in piercing tones. She had no idea who he was.
He failed to recognize the wife of the soon-to-be star of his movie. “Fucking a goat,” he said swiftly. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
• • •
“Angel?”
“Buddy?”
For one moment they nearly fell into each other’s arms. Then Angel’s face clouded over, remembering her phone conversation with Shelly. And Buddy scowled, remembering Angel’s message via Shelly.
“What are you doing here?” they said in unison.
And the half-assed star of a television sit-com who had spent the previous hour coming on to Angel put a proprietary hand on her arm and said, “Everything all right, my lovely?”
My lovely! Buddy wanted to smash his
capped teeth right through the back of his obvious hairpiece.
“Fine, thank you,” she said politely.
“Uh, listen . . . maybe we can talk,” said Buddy quickly.
“I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean—you don’t know?”
“Well, I—”
“The lady means she doesn’t know,” said Mr. Sit-com. “So why don’t you check back later, sport?”
“Why don’t you butt out, sport?”
“Now look here—”
They were interrupted by a half-naked Oliver Easterne pursued by a madder-than-hell Pamela London emerging from the guest bathroom.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that—you dirty little man!” yelled Pamela, wielding a hairbrush.
“What’s the matter with you, you menopausal old bag? Get away from me! You’re fucking nuts!”
“What’s going on?” boomed George Lancaster, breaking away from a group of sycophants.
“This pathetic man was jerking off while I was in the toilet,” announced Pamela in ringing tones.
“This cunt is crazy,” screamed Oliver in a fury.
“This cunt is my wife,” announced George Lancaster. “Darling, have you met Oliver Easterne, my producer?”
34
There’s no fool like an old fool . . .
Or a young fool . . .
Or a middle-aged fool . . .
Clichés.
Gina Germaine was a cliché. She was also a hot, blond, sexy, big-breasted wonderful lay.
I am lost in her juices, thought Neil Gray. I have no defense to this case.
What kind of fool am I?
Who can I turn to?
Why think of Newley/Bricusse songs at a time like this? A time when America’s blonde of the year is sitting on my stiff organ, her private parts churning out an international message of lust.
Lustful thought.
The first woman I ever bedded was wearing black stockings and a suspender belt. Her name was Ethel and she hailed from Scotland. I was fifteen at the time and she was twenty-three. She had hairy legs and a predilection for cunnilingus.