She resigned herself to the fact that their relationship was transient and would probably only last as long as the movie.
I’m getting hard, she thought, I’m thinking only of what’s good for me. In a way I’m using Claude, but then he’s using me, so I suppose that makes us even.
* * *
The weather in Palm Springs was unbearably hot. The idea that Claude had of living and shooting in the same house was bizarre.
The house, surrounded on all sides by acres of desert, was nice enough. It had a swimming pool, tennis court, sauna, billiard room, all the usual extras that Los Angeles executives expected in their cosy desert retreats. However, Sunday found that Claude wanted them to sleep in the actual bedroom in which he was filming. It was horrible to sleep in a bed with a camera looming across the room, arc lights, cables, sound equipment everywhere.
‘I can’t stand this,’ she announced the first night. ‘We have no privacy, it’s like being in a shop window.’
He stared at her. ‘You want to be an actress for once, try and live the part without bitching.’
He was tough to work with, demanding, critical, rude.
Every detail had to be just so, every take perfect.
There were only three other actors on the location – the man who was playing her husband, and the two young men who broke into the house and raped her.
Claude’s eye for casting was uncanny. The three men fitted their roles perfectly. The husband was pot-bellied, weak and greedy-eyed. The first boy, thin, blond, Southern, with a slow evil smile, had green eyes. The second boy, the actor Claude had gone after in Rio, was dark, about twenty. He had long-lashed black eyes, a panther-like walk, and was intent, beautiful. His name was Carlos Lo.
Claude allowed Sunday no contact with them except when they were doing a scene together.
It was a clever move that worked beautifully.
The four actors became the characters in the film, and Claude merely manipulated them as he wanted.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Herbert read that Sunday Simmons was going to Palm Springs. Maybe he would follow her. Marge could be fobbed off with the excuse that the Allens were going, she was under the misguided impression that he still worked for them.
Perhaps this would be the answer to all his problems. He would find an opportunity to present himself to Sunday, who, with her money and influence, would be able to help him, perhaps take him to Europe, far away from Marge and her accusations.
The idea appealed to him.
That evening he trailed Sunday to Malibu. To his disgust she had a guest. Sitting in his parked car, he watched with annoyance as a long black Cadillac pulled up at her house and a man emerged. This meant she would not be going to bed early as she usually did, and he would have to wait for the man to leave before he could crawl along the side of the house and watch her while she slept.
He settled back in the driving seat, aware, with a slight sniff of distaste, that he needed a shower. It would have been good to have gone home earlier and taken one, but he was avoiding Marge as much as possible now that he was expected to perform disgusting sexual acts as soon as he entered the house.
The blowsy hag had become insatiable. Bile entered his throat at the very thought of her.
‘I’ve gotta talk t’ya, Herbie,’ she had whined that very morning. ‘Try and get home early.’
He was no fool. He knew why she wanted him home early.
He must have dozed, for when he looked at his watch it was one o’clock, and the Cadillac was still there, although the house was now in darkness.
His body was stiff and cramped. He slid out of the car and edged towards the house. It was silent. He crawled along the side, and crouched in his usual position at Sunday’s window.
She was asleep, lying on her back, naked. Beside her, one dark hairy arm thrown casually across her belly, was a man.
Herbert’s first reaction was pain – a pain so deep that he was forced to belch to get rid of it. He didn’t move, he just stared, his eyes taking in the contours of her perfect rounded breasts, her long tanned legs, and the thin white space where her bikini had covered her.
The pain convulsed him and he stayed very still and quiet until it gradually subsided and turned into a deep vicious hate.
Bitch! Why hadn’t she waited for him?
How he would love to see her face if he confronted her now. She would squirm, apologize, beg his forgiveness. It would all be too late.
He was suddenly seized with a great excitement, a feeling too difficult to hold back. With a convulsive jerk he relieved himself in his trousers. Then stealthily, silently, he crawled away, back to his car, back to Marge.
* * *
Marge was propped up in bed watching the late movie and determinedly eating her way through four Hershey bars, a giant-size bag of popcorn, three packets of nuts, and two bananas.
She needed it all. It presented some sort of defence against the barrage of fury that would come from Herbert when she told him that Louella knew everything.
She couldn’t postpone telling him any longer. Although she had given Louella the thousand dollars, Louella was pressing for the rest.
Eventually she fell asleep, the television still on, a half-peeled orange in her hand, the juice oozing slowly on to the bedspread.
Herbert, arriving home much later, was annoyed to see the lights still on. He had wanted to creep in unseen, dispose of his ruined trousers, and take a good hot shower. Now Marge would start fussing and grabbing him.
He was pleased to see she was asleep, and he crept about stealthily, hoping not to wake her.
It was very hard for him to believe that he had seen Sunday Simmons lying in the arms of another man. He knew that occasionally women – even respectable women – needed sex. But Sunday surely needed nothing more than the letters he had been sending her. She should have been prepared to wait. He had told her quite clearly that they would eventually be together. She deserved to be punished.
As soon as he switched off the television Marge awoke. Her mouth and eyes clogged with sleep, she immediately started to tell him the truth.
‘Herbie, I done a stupid thing, well, aw, it really ain’t all that stupid, I mean it was you that was stupid in the first place. Y’see . . .’
He listened in grim silence, his anger only slightly abated by the fact that at least he would no longer have to have sex with her, that he was once more in charge of the marriage. She was as frightened of Louella as he should have been. But he would find a way to deal with the blackmailing bitch next door.
Marge was blubbering and crying. He asked her very coldly, very matter-of-factly, who were all the men with whom she had been fornicating next door. She told him, between sobs, about Louella’s circle of friends.
He started to hit her, heavy, hate-filled slaps across her face and body.
She cowed under him, frightened to scream, and he continued to beat her until he felt better. Then he sat on the end of the bed and inspected his hands, thin white hands with carefully clipped nails.
Slowly ideas were forming in his head. Ideas that would take care of everyone. He could punish Sunday and at the same time pay Louella the two thousand dollars, get her off his back.
It was a bizarre idea, but one that could quite possibly work.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Inactivity did not agree with Charlie. He became uneasy and unsure. He needed the reassuring eye of the camera on him.
As far as he was concerned the doctors were full of crap, and after two tedious weeks of Palm Springs sunshine, he phoned Marshall to tell him so.
Marshall was unsympathetic. ‘You’re supposed to rest,’ he reminded him. ‘Anyhow, there’s nothing for you to do now.’
‘I’ll do a guest appearance,’ Charlie insisted. ‘A few days on something for a gag. How about a TV special?’
Marshall was quiet for a moment. ‘You wouldn’t enjoy it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, love, there m
ust be something.’
It had taken Phillipa two days to return after walking out of the dinner. She waited until the house guests left and then she came back.
‘Where were you?’ Charlie stormed:
She looked dirty and unkempt. ‘I stayed with some friends. We tripped out for two days non-stop, it was a beautiful experience. I got you some great hash.’
Her eyes were wide and starey and he knew she had been tripping on acid. He didn’t approve. Smoking pot was one thing, but anything else was playing with fire.
‘I’ve made a very interesting discovery,’ she said. ‘If I mix pot and speed I think I can make it.’
‘Make what?’ he asked sharply.
‘Fuck, of course. Have sex. You know what I mean – the thing you had that great fucking beanpole down here for.’
‘I think it’s time you went back to Mother. If you think I’m flattered by you telling me that you can only make it with me by being stoned out of your head, then think again.’
‘Well, you were so bloody desperate to get laid, and that horrible friend of yours, Clay what’sit, and that Carey woman, I hate your friends, they’re all phoney shit!’
‘And so are you, Phillipa, sweetheart, so are you. In fact, you’re a lot phonier than they are because you pretend to be something you’re absolutely not. You’re really screwed up, you know that, don’t you?’
‘You old man,’ she jeered. ‘You stupid old man. How about you, then? Dieting, and growing your hair, wearing freaky clothes, and only being accepted because you’re a movie star. People laugh at you. You’re ridiculous, so think about that.’
The call to Marshall was desperate. Being alone in the Palm Springs house was murder. If Marshall didn’t come up with something within the next few days, he thought seriously of going home to London.
It saddened him that every time a relationship ended he seemed to get snowed under with abuse. Even Phillipa had thrown in the crack about him only being accepted because he was Charlie Brick, film star. He had somehow never thought she regarded him in that way.
Dozy starlets or otherwise, they were all sisters under the skin, and it was a hell of a lot more fun with the starlets as far as sex was concerned.
* * *
Carey was in town and Charlie took her out to dinner.
She was seething. ‘That French superstar sonofabitch director is going to ruin Sunday’s career. He has her locked up in that house, and won’t even let me talk to her for more than ten minutes. He thinks he’s God.’
‘Carey, love, you’ve got to speak to Marsh, I’m going spare down here. I’ve worked all my life and this doing nothing bores the shit out of me. I’m fit as a fiddle. Tell him to fix up something for me.’
‘But the doctors said you were to rest.’
‘Fuck the bloody doctors, love, I have to work.’
‘I’ll talk to Marshall. I know he thinks you should take it easy for now: after all, you have two movies to do at the end of the year. Now, you are coming to our wedding?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it. Hey, love, I’ve got a marvellous idea. How many people are you inviting?’
‘Fifty. We’re going to insult most of Hollywood, but I just can’t stand a gang war. It’s strictly family and close friends.’
‘Why not have it here?’
‘Where?’
‘In my house here. In this highly expensive rented shack. The garden would be marvellous. We’ll hire a preacher. Bring everyone in on a special plane. It’s a great idea. My wedding present to you and Marsh.’
She laughed. ‘It’s a wild idea. Why not? We haven’t arranged anything.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I think it will be wonderful. Can we get it all together by Saturday?’
‘Leave it to me, it will give me something to do.’
* * *
Charlie wanted the wedding to be special. He had known Marshall for years and was very fond of him – and he liked Carey a lot.
He hired a secretary called Maggi to handle all the details, and issued instructions about what he wanted. She was a pugfaced redhead, covered in freckles. She stayed, keeping him company. She was a good listener and didn’t talk too much. Charlie had decided conversations were out.
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Take these pills.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t take pills. They make me sick, and anyhow I don’t need sleeping pills.’
Sunday was lying in bed with Claude, the camera looming over them like a third person. It was three in the morning and she was tired enough to close her eyes and fall into a deep sleep.
Claude had been in a strange mood all evening, talking to her about the film, the characters, what it all meant. Then at one o’clock he had wanted to make love, and she had never known him better, so controlled, so commanding. He kept on bringing them both to the brink, and then stopping, lighting a cigarette or prowling round the room for a few moments. Finally it was breathtaking. Now she felt very relaxed, and he was nagging her to take sleeping pills.
‘I want you to take them,’ he insisted. ‘There is a very important reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘Look, I have told you if you work well tomorrow morning, you can go to your friend’s wedding. OK. I do something for you – you do something for me. Now take them, and stop arguing like a baby.’ He thrust the two turquoise capsules at her.
‘No, Claude, I will not take pills. That’s it. Besides, if we’re to start shooting at seven I’ll still be asleep.’
He sighed. ‘Clever girl, half asleep, that’s how I want you, half asleep and groggy. I was going to surprise you, but since you’re being difficult . . . We are shooting the rape scene tomorrow, first thing. I don’t want you to get out of bed.’
‘Oh, come on!’ She didn’t believe him. ‘With unwashed face and dirty teeth?’
‘How the hell do you think Stefanie was when the boys broke in? She was in bed, wasn’t she? Asleep, wasn’t she? And she took sleeping pills, didn’t she? And that, my dear, is how we are going to shoot it. If you want to be an actress, then do it my way.’
Reluctantly she swallowed the pills and closed her eyes. There was no dialogue to the scene, just a lot of struggling. She wondered vaguely how Claude would shoot it. Close-ups, that would be his way, close-ups of her face, that’s why he wanted her to look real.
She fell asleep unworried. He was a brilliant director. She trusted him.
The first sensation was one of the covers being pulled off, and then weight, something heavy crawling on top of her.
She tried to move. Then tearing, her nightdress coming off.
She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt stuck together. Hands were covering her breasts, clumsy hands, rough hands. She heard a loud whirring noise, the camera. Where was Claude?
She managed to open her eyes but the blinding lights forced her to shut them quickly. She said, ‘Get off me,’ and in a haze opened her eyes again and stared bewildered at Carlos Lo’s face. He sat astride her, his hands on her bosom, his breath corning in short excited gasps.
Beside him the other actor crouched over her, laughing softly.
‘What is this?’ she protested. She felt weak, without strength, half asleep. ‘Oh, the bastard,’ she muttered, ‘the lousy bastard. He’s shooting this for real. He’s actually going to let these two punks rape me.’
She started to struggle but there was no strength to her movements.
One of the actors pinned her arms down, while the other forced her legs apart, and at the moment of entry Claude was above her with a hand-held camera, the lens as close to her face as was possible.
‘You bastards!’ she screamed weakly.
Then it was the thin one’s turn, evil green eyes smiling at her. She lay back. There was no point in struggling. She was no match for two of them.
He licked her face while he did it. Then he climbed off and the camera wandered over her like another lover.
She lay very still, ve
ry quiet, spreadeagled on the bed, the way they had left her.
I’ll never forgive you for this, Claude,’ she said, ‘never.’
‘Maybe when you read your glowing notices you might.’ He casually put his camera down and she noticed that the big camera was still going. The two actors had left.
‘By the way,’ Claude said, ‘I want you to meet my wife.’
A woman stepped out from behind the big camera, a thin pale blonde in her early thirties. She smiled good-naturedly. ‘Don’t worry about this, dear. It is Claude’s way. The end result is all that matters, I’m sure you agree.’
Sunday sat up, hugging her knees to her, rocking back and forth in disbelief.
‘We always knew you were right for Stefanie. You have a beautiful body. Claude is a very lucky man to have had the pleasure of that. But now, alas, things are different. I am sure you understand. Perhaps while we finish the film we can come to some new arrangement. Three can be – how you say? – très compatible. I am sure I would be able to show you a few things that even Claude couldn’t manage.’
‘You don’t honestly think I’m going to stay and finish this film?’ Sunday asked, trying to control her voice.
‘You would be a very silly girl if you didn’t. You would have nothing to gain and everything to lose.’
She laughed incredulously. The whole thing was like a bad dream, and she still felt groggy and half asleep, too tired to argue.
‘You really have no choice but to finish the film,’ Claude’s wife continued. ‘Firstly, we have a contract. Secondly, if you refuse, the film that we just shot will be used – you know what I mean – not in connection with this production, just Sunday Simmons off the set. That sort of thing has a big market.’
Sunday stared at Claude. ‘Why?’ she cried.
His wife replied for him. ‘Because Claude is an artist, a genius, everything must be perfect. In the stuff he shot this morning he will just use your eyes, your face. It will be perfect. You will be acclaimed as a great actress. You wait, my dear, when this film comes out you will be thanking us.’