Her body responded to his, but her mind remained above them, a detached onlooker.
Afterwards, when Claude went into the bathroom, she huddled on the floor, feeling the bites and scratches he had given her. Why did she still love him so much?
He emerged in good spirits. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said. ‘You’re better at it now. Who’s been teaching you?’
It insulted her that he did not care if she had been with other men.
‘I want you to do my film,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’re probably a terrible actress, but I’m a director who can do something for you. I don’t believe in false modesty. If you do it, it will make you as an actress. But you have to put yourself in my hands entirely. You have to live, eat and breathe Stefanie.’
She had read the script. She knew she could do the part, but she hadn’t thought in a million years he would ever think of her.
She stared at him for a long thoughtful moment, then she nodded. ‘Thank you, Claude, I know you won’t be sorry.’
* * *
Carey was not excited at the prospect of meeting Claude Hussan. She regarded as a no-good bastard any man who could treat Sunday the way he had done. She was also sceptical about Sunday doing his film. Was it the right vehicle for her? She read the script, and wasn’t sure. Sunday was too young and beautiful to fit the part. More important, was she a good enough actress? It was heavy stuff, and Carey wasn’t sure if Sunday could manage it. There were also explicit sex scenes. In the hands of an American director they would cause no embarrassment, but who knew what Hussan would expect his leading actress to do?
Sunday had phoned that morning, bubbling over with delight. As far as she was concerned, there were no uncertainties. She would make the picture, and that was that. Carey had to insist on having the script sent over at once, since Claude wanted to settle contracts and money that very afternoon.
‘Accept anything,’ Sunday had said. ‘I have to do it.’
Carey would have been a lot happier for her to do the film with Jack Milan. Now came this bombshell, Claude Hussan’s first American film.
He had insisted on meeting Carey in his suite, although she would have preferred to see him at her office.
A secretary answered the door, a girl typical of the many out-of-work actresses who also typed. She asked Carey to take a seat, then disappeared into the bedroom.
Carey leafed through a copy of Films and Filming.
The secretary re-emerged shortly, now clad in a polka-dot bikini. She collected some papers from the desk, said ‘Mr Hussan will be right with you,’ and wiggled out the door.
Carey’s first impression was of Hussan’s eyes. They were the eyes of a man who had made it, but done many things along the way to get there. Then she took in the rest of him, and suddenly Sunday’s hang-up became clear.
‘You want a drink?’ he offered.
She said no, annoyed at the fact that he neither bothered to introduce himself or even acknowledge the fact that he knew who she was. But she was being silly. Of course he knew who she was.
He lounged in a chair opposite her and stared.
She tried to establish control. ‘I’m not sure if this is the right part for my client,’ she began.
He interrupted her. ‘Neither am I. She’s probably a terrible actress, but in my hands that doesn’t matter. I know what I want and I am prepared to take a chance. This film will make her.’
‘She’s already made. I could sign contracts for her tomorrow that would keep her working solidly. She’s very much in demand.’
‘Crap, that’s all she’s done, commercial crap. I will develop this girl, and as an actress, not as a big-breasted wonder.’
‘I can’t argue,’ Carey said stiffly. ‘Sunday has made up her mind, as you well know. Her price will be high, the usual stipulations that she approves all publicity stills and material about her, no nude scenes, no—’
‘Don’t waste your breath. We will pay her fifty thousand dollars, plus she signs a personal contract with me. If I want her naked hanging from a light fixture, I’ll have her that way. Don’t you worry about it, just tell Sunday, she’ll agree.’ He went to the desk and picked up some papers. ‘Here’s the contract. I want it signed and back here tomorrow.’
* * *
Carey, shaking with anger, drove straight to the studio.
‘You can’t do it,’ she told Sunday when she came off the set. ‘He won’t pay your money, nor allow you any special clauses. You’ll be completely in his hands. He could ruin you.’
‘Relax, he won’t ruin me. Have you seen any of his films? He’s brilliant.’
‘But your money – if you drop your price now it will be bad. I know I can get you good money on the Milan film, and maybe even a piece of the action. I—’
‘Don’t knock yourself out, Carey. I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but whether you like it or not I just have to do Claude’s film.’
Carey sighed. ‘This man has some hold over you, and I bet I know where it is. Right between the legs.’
‘You’re wrong, it’s not that. Just be patient and go along with me. I know this film is right for me, and if it’s not,’ she smiled softly, ‘then I’ll get out of this business.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Lena, the Swedish starlet, was suing Charlie for three million dollars.
‘All she had was a couple of bruises,’ he told his lawyer incredulously.
‘She’s suing for back injury, permanent headaches, a scar on her leg and blurred vision.’
‘Why doesn’t she throw in a broken neck while she’s at it? Christ, these money-grabbing little hookers are unbelievable!’
‘Of course you’re not responsible. Insurance will cover you. I’ll keep you informed.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
He had finished shooting the movie, and was staying in a rented house in Palm Springs with Phillipa.
Under doctor’s orders he had to relax and take things easy for a few months. He didn’t know how he was going to do that, for after only a week of inactivity he was going mad.
Phillipa was no great help. She was there and that’s about all there was to the relationship – no sex, just companionship, and a strange companionship at that. She rarely spoke except to comment on some disaster somewhere in the world.
He often wondered why, if she were so concerned, she was not out doing something. She seemed quite content to exist with him in the very luxury she was always criticizing . . .
His day was routine. Up at nine, a work-out, a sauna, a swim. Then he read the papers by the pool until lunch was served by the maid. After lunch he had a sleep upstairs and then from four until dinner at seven he would potter about with his stereo sets or cameras.
Phillipa was a reluctant model for his photography. He had to shift her, complaining, out of her chair, and move her around almost by force. It made him laugh. It clearly showed the difference between actresses and other girls. Actresses were only too delighted to pose for innumerable photos, changing their clothes, their expressions, their hairstyles, anything just to continue their love affair with a camera lens.
He remembered one day he had started taking pictures of Dindi early in the morning and she had posed happily until eight o’clock at night. She had changed her outfit forty times!
After dinner they watched television, usually smoking a little grass.
Charlie wished he could do something creative, perhaps write or paint, but his talent lay strictly in performing.
He had never looked so good in his life – thin, suntanned, in great shape.
He spent a great deal of time on the phone, talking to his children, or chatting to George in hospital to cheer him up. He spoke to Lorna, who was obviously embarrassed about the letter she had sent him when she thought he might not recover. Their conversation was short and flustered.
Was she happy? he wondered. Or did she miss him and the excitement of their life together? Although what excitement had
she really had? It was always he who was doing everything. She was usually stuck at home with the kids.
She was certainly making more of a go with her second marriage than he had done with his. Maybe he should have knocked Dindi up, that might have kept her quiet and at home. But how did you knock up a girl who used a diaphragm and took the pill?
There were a lot of invitations – parties, dinners, barbecues – but Charlie was content to go nowhere, and Phillipa was certainly no social butterfly.
He felt, unconsciously, that their relationship was doing neither of them any good. She seemed to have opted out of everything, and while his day was full of minor activity of sorts, Phillipa just appeared in the morning, flopped out in a lounging chair in the shade, and slept the day away.
Then there was sex. She didn’t want to try again, and he didn’t want to force himself on her, but things were getting a bit desperate. His physical fitness seemed to increase his sexual appetite.
It was a tricky problem. He didn’t want to upset Phillipa, of whom he was very fond in a brotherly way, but his need was becoming more demanding every day.
He finally decided to have people to stay for the weekend: Natalie and Clay; Marshall and Carey; and Thames Mason, with a butch-looking queen called Marvin Mariboo who had worked in publicity on the last film. That should solve everything for the benefit of Phillipa, and with the promise of a part, Thames could be relied on to be discreet.
* * *
The weekend got off to a bad start. Carey turned up on Friday morning without Marshall. She said he was working and would arrive the next day. Clay arrived in the afternoon without Natalie, who felt queasy and had decided to stay at home. To make matters complete, Thames drove in on Friday night with the news that Marvin had been beaten up by a sailor and wouldn’t be coming at all!
Dinner on Friday night consisted of Clay chatting up first Carey and then Thames. He obviously fancied them both strongly.
Phillipa sat silently at one end of the table, making faces at Charlie, her way of telling him that she didn’t approve of any of his guests.
Carey put Clay down at every turn. She made it quite clear that he was going to get exactly nowhere with her.
Thames, however, found his line of chat particularly fascinating, especially when he said what a wonderful idea it would be to write a television series for her.
‘I’m surprised no one has suggested it before,’ he said, leaning closer to her across the asparagus. ‘Any idiot can see that you have great comic potential. You could be a young beautiful Lucille Ball.’
Thames visibly preened.
‘That’s you, Clay, old love, any idiot!’ Charlie said, furious at the sure-fire conclusion that Thames was going to be sharing Clay’s bed that evening, not his.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ Phillipa announced, suddenly getting up.
‘But dinner’s not finished,’ Charlie protested.
‘I’m not hungry. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He realized she was miserable. She knew why he had organized this weekend, and she obviously didn’t want to sit around and watch Clay and him bicker over Thames. He laughed out loud. The situation suddenly struck him as terribly funny.
‘What’s the matter?’ Carey asked.
He noticed what a fantastic coffee-cream colour her skin was. ‘Nothing, love, just thinking.’ She was very womanly. He had never had a . . . He stamped on his thoughts quickly. She was Marshall’s.
After dinner he went to the study to select some tapes.
Clay followed him, drunk and happy. ‘You don’t mind, old boy, do you?’ he asked. ‘She’s ripe and ready. Where on earth did you find her? Thank Christ Natalie didn’t come.’
Like everyone else, Clay imagined that Charlie and Phillipa were having an affair. It didn’t occur to him that Charlie had invited Thames for himself.
‘Go right ahead,’ Charlie said. ‘Do what the fuck you like.’ He was disgusted with Clay. Somehow it didn’t seem quite fair when your wife was lying at home, pregnant.
‘Of course, I really fancy the spade,’ Clay continued, ‘but there’s no free pussy being handed out in that direction.’
‘Tough,’ Charlie said, putting on Miles Davis good and loud.
* * *
The four of them sat in the living room, drinking, talking and listening to the sounds.
Charlie got out some pot and they all turned on, including Carey. She really wanted to go to bed, but she hadn’t smoked in a long time as it wasn’t quite Marshall’s scene. She felt like it. Having made the decision to marry Marshall didn’t mean that she had to stop living.
Thames was a mass of giggles. She would have let Clay strip her and have her in front of everyone if he had been so inclined, but he dragged all six feet of her off to his bedroom with a sheepish goodnight.
‘Where’s Phillipa?’ Carey asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Charlie was irritable. ‘She’s a funny girl. Probably walking around the desert.’
‘Do you know Claude Hussan? He’s a sonofabitch, a real mean bum,’ Carey’s thoughts became disjointed when she was stoned, and she switched from one subject to the next, never even waiting for an answer.
Charlie on the other hand, if he wasn’t involved in sexual activity, became rather melancholy and morbid. ‘What’s it all about, love?’ he suddenly asked. ‘Where are we all running to?’
‘Marshall likes you,’ Carey remarked. ‘Put on Aretha Franklin.’
He changed tapes to Carey’s request. He felt a very strong urge to make love to her. She was lying back in a chair, her eyes closed.
‘Didn’t you ever want to be an actress?’ he asked. ‘Most beautiful women, especially in this town, see it as their life’s ambition.’
She shook her head. ‘Hell, no. Who needs that shit? I could never have handled myself like Sunday. She really knows where it’s at, or at least I thought she did until Claude.’
‘What’s she like?’ he asked, with only vague interest. After all, he was thinking, Marshall isn’t that close a friend, and if we had a scene who would know?
‘Sunday is a marvellous girl. Very young in some ways, yet old in others. Sometimes she – Charlie, what are you doing?
He had approached her from behind and now he bent over, plunging his hands inside the neckline of her dress. She was wearing no bra and he was able to pop her small bosom out of the material before she could object.
She stood up quickly. ‘You bastard! I’m not some little Hollywood hooker, you know. How dare you!’
He hadn’t expected such a reaction. Being a movie star meant that most ladies were ready and willing.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled sheepishly, and moved quickly away from her. ‘I, er, just thought . . .’
‘Well, think again.’ Her anger was caused by the fact that she fancied him and was furious with herself. She had made up her mind that when she married Marshall, she would be faithful; there would be no screwing around on the side as was the case with all the unhappy married couples she knew.
He buried his head in his hands. ‘I have always found,’ he said sadly, ‘that the women I want in life are usually the ones I can’t have. I want a woman I can come home to and say, “Fuck you,” and she just says “Yes, darling, that’s right, let’s go to bed.” Sometimes I think it’s better to go with a hooker, at least you know where you are. All they want from you is your money.’
Adjusting her dress, Carey listened quietly. ‘You’re wrong, Charlie,’ she said. ‘There are plenty of girls who don’t just like you for who you are. You’re a very attractive man.’
‘Do you mean that?’ His face brightened.
‘Yes, I mean it. The trouble with you is you mix with the wrong people. I bet all your friends are show biz. That way you only meet people looking to be with a star. What about you and Phillipa?’
‘Platonic. Purely friendship. She’s a nice girl, but very young.’
Carey kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m going to bed
.’
He held her lightly around the waist. ‘No hard feelings?’
‘It’s forgotten. Let’s be friends, Charlie.’
‘All right, love, I’d like that, I really would.’
Chapter Forty-Six
It bothered Sunday that Carey didn’t approve of Claude. She knew that he wasn’t the most likeable of people at first acquaintance, but she was sure that if they met socially, the atmosphere between them would become less strained.
Of Carey, Claude said, ‘She’s just mad because she won’t be making much commission out of you. Only you would have the only black agent in town. She starts off with a chip on her shoulder.’
‘Carey doesn’t care about the money,’ Sunday defended. ‘She’s honestly not sure the part is for me.’
It was the weekend, and they were lying on Sunday’s patio. She had finally succeeded in getting him to come to her house, and he seemed to be enjoying himself lazing around and doing nothing. At first Jean-Pierre had been shy with him. Now he had gone off to swim with Katia.
‘The boy likes you,’ Claude remarked, ‘better than his mother.’
Sunday wanted to ask, ‘Was it true she was here with you?’ But instead she bit her lip, and said, ‘Don’t you think he should go back with you? The nanny is very good, she’ll stay.’
‘Fed up with him?’ he chided.
‘Don’t be silly, of course not. I would love him to stay here; I was just thinking of you.’
‘Think of the boy, he’s happier with you.’
‘What about the Palm Springs location? Shall he come with me or you?’
‘We’ll leave him here with the nanny. You are going to be working, creating a character. I don’t want you to have a child hanging around. It’s not going to be another easy piece of shit with the crew admiring you and you just showing your tits and looking beautiful. By the way, we’ll live at the house.’
‘What house?’
‘The house in Palm Springs I’m shooting the film in.’ He yawned. ‘It will be good for you, you’ll see.’
Later she reflected on their conversation. She wasn’t sure how she felt any more. Did she love him, or was it just a very physical attraction? He was spoilt, arrogant, rude, a bastard. How could she love a man like that?