Lulu found out about an acting class, and even sprung for the bucks for me to go. Nobody could ever accuse her of not being a sport.
After we’d been together a year, I came home early one day, and caught her in bed with another guy. My dad had warned me not to trust women. I figured he was wrong on that score, but then I’d never imagined they’d screw around on me.
Big surprise. There was Lulu with her legs in the air moaning and groaning. Horny little bitch.
I pulled the guy off her and he ran, shaking, from the apartment, because I looked mad enough to beat the crap out of him.
Lulu lay there, thighs spread, naked and scared, begging my forgiveness.
I knew then I had the power. I didn’t even slap her, although she deserved it. Instead I packed my things and made a fast exit. No woman was ever going to get one off on me again. Next time I’d make sure I did it first.
An unclothed Lulu chased me down the hallway yelling her guts out. ‘It was a mistake! You can’t go! Please! Don’t leave me!’
Too late. By that time I’d figured out what I wanted, and it wasn’t some cheating whore who didn’t know how to be faithful.
I wanted to be a movie star and own the whole fucking world.
I was sixteen, what did I know?
Chapter One
Lara Ivory stepped carefully towards the camera, managing to appear cool and collected under the crushing weight of a heavy crinoline gown, her slender waist cinched into an impossible seventeen-inch span, lush cleavage spilling forth.
Lara’s fellow actor in the shot, Harry Solitaire, a young Englishman with tousled hair and droopy bedroom eyes, walked beside her, delivering his lines with an enthusiasm that belied the fact that this was their seventh take.
It was eighty-four degrees in the South of France garden setting, and the entire crew stood silently on the sidelines, sweating, as they waited impatiently for Richard Barry, the veteran director, to call cut, so they could break for lunch.
Lara Ivory was, at thirty-two, an incandescent beauty with catlike green eyes, a small straight nose, full luscious lips, cut-glass cheekbones and honey-blonde hair – right now curled to within an inch of disaster. She had been a movie star at the top of her profession for nine years, and miraculously the fame and glory had never changed her, she was still as likeable and sweet as the devastatingly pretty girl who’d arrived in Hollywood at the age of twenty and been discovered by the director Miles Kieffer, who’d spotted her when she’d come in to audition for a minor role in his new film. Miles had taken one look and decided she was the actress he had to have to play the lead. Gorgeous and fresh, she’d portrayed a naive hooker in a Pretty Woman style movie – beguiling everyone from the critics to the public.
From that first film, Lara’s star had risen fast. It only took one special movie. Sandra Bullock was a prime example with Speed. Michelle Pfeiffer had gotten her break in Scarface. Sharon Stone with a spectacular performance – not to mention flashing her pussy – in Basic Instinct.
The public never forgot a star entrance. The trick was keeping up there.
Lara Ivory had managed it admirably.
At last Richard Barry called out the words everyone was waiting to hear. ‘Cut! Print it! That’s the one.’ Lara sighed with relief.
Richard had been a successful director for nearly thirty years. He was a tall, well-built man in his late fifties, with even features, a well-trimmed beard, longish brown hair flecked with grey at the temples, and crinkly blue eyes. He also had dry humour and a sardonic smile. Women found him extremely attractive.
‘Phew!’ Lara repeated her sigh, her smooth cheeks flushed. ‘Someone get me out of this dress!’
‘I’ll do it!’ Harry Solitaire volunteered with a lascivious leer, flirting as usual.
‘That’s OK,’ Lara retorted, smiling because she liked Harry, and if he wasn’t married he might have been a contender. She considered married men strictly off-limits, and refused to break her rule for anyone – even though she hadn’t had a date in six months, ever since she’d broken up with Lee Randolph, a first assistant director, who, after a year of togetherness, had been unable to take the pressure of being with so famous a woman. The sad truth was that what man enjoyed being background material? Relegated to second place? Attacked by crazed stalkers and fans? Referred to as Mr Ivory by waiters and limo drivers?
It took an exceptionally strong man to cope with that kind of deal – a man like Richard Barry, who’d handled it admirably for the four years he and Lara had been married.
She and Richard had gotten divorced three years ago, and along with Richard’s new wife, Nikki – a costume designer with whom he’d hooked up while shooting a movie on location in Chicago – they were now good friends.
Nikki was dark-haired, feisty and extremely pretty in a gamine-like way. She also knew how to bring out the best in Richard. Early on in their relationship she discovered that like most men he was a lot of work. Before she entered his life he’d been a smoker, a philanderer and a heavy drinker, plus he expected to get his own way at all times, and when he didn’t, he sulked. Nikki had taken stock of his strengths and weaknesses and decided he was worth the effort. Somehow she’d calmed him down, fulfilled all his needs, and now his biggest vice appeared to be work. He was a bankable director, much in demand, whose movies always made money, and in Hollywood that’s all that counts.
Lara considered Nikki her closest girlfriend. Right now they were all enjoying working together on French Summer – a beautifully scripted period film that Richard was passionate about. The three of them were sharing a rented villa on the six-week location. Lara hadn’t wanted to intrude, but Nikki had insisted, which secretly relieved Lara, because the loneliness of being by herself was sometimes hard to cope with.
‘That last take was magical,’ Richard said, coming to her side and squeezing her hand. ‘Definitely worth waiting for.’
Lara frowned; she was her own sternest critic. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked, worrying that she could have done better.
‘Sweetheart,’ Richard assured her, anticipating her concerns because he knew her so well, ‘seventh take perfect. Nothing to improve.’
‘You’re just being kind,’ she said, her frown deepening.
‘Not kind – truthful,’ he replied sincerely.
Her disarmingly honest green eyes met his. ‘Really?’ she asked.
Richard regarded his exquisite ex-wife and found himself wondering if her painful insecurity had contributed to the demise of their marriage.
Maybe. Although catching the make-up girl giving him head in his trailer had been the final nail in the coffin of his infidelities – that was one he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of.
For a year after their somewhat public and acrimonious divorce they hadn’t spoken. Then Richard met Nikki, and she’d insisted in her usual no-nonsense way that it was crazy they couldn’t all be friends. As usual, she was right. The three of them had gotten together for dinner and never regretted it.
Nikki strode over, looking enviably cool in baggy linen pants and a yellow cotton shirt knotted under her breasts, exposing her well-toned midriff. She was in her early thirties, shorter than Lara, with a lithe, worked-out body, cropped dark hair worn with long bangs, direct hazel eyes and an overly ripe mouth. Nobody would guess that she had a fifteen-year-old daughter.
Richard enjoyed the fact that Nikki was smart and sassy, and most of all that she wasn’t an actress. After losing Lara he’d considered never getting involved again, because there’d never be another woman who could live up to her. Nikki and her upbeat ways had changed his mind.
‘Get me out of this dress!’ Lara implored. ‘It’s cutting me in half. Worse torture than being married to Richard!’
‘Nothing can be worse than that!’ Nikki joked, rolling her expressive eyes.
‘Wasn’t Lara great in that last take?’ Richard interrupted, putting an arm around his current wife, trailing his fingers up and down her bare skin.
&nbs
p; ‘He’s just being kind,’ Lara said with one of her trademark deep sighs.
‘I know the feeling,’ Nikki responded crisply. ‘That’s exactly what he says when he praises my cooking.’
Lara widened her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you cook for him?’ she exclaimed. ‘I never did.’
Nikki pulled a face. ‘He forces me, you know how persuasive he can be.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lara agreed. They laughed conspiratorially.
Richard frowned, pretending to be annoyed. ‘It’s really irritating that you two are such good friends,’ he said. ‘I hate it!’ Truth was he loved having both women in his life.
‘No, you don’t,’ Nikki retorted, looking at him with the kind of expression a woman gets when she’s totally secure of her man. ‘You get off on it.’
With an amused shake of his head, he walked away. Nikki signalled one of her wardrobe assistants to follow them to Lara’s trailer. ‘For a grown man, Richard can be such a baby,’ she remarked.
‘That’s why our marriage didn’t work,’ Lara said lightly. ‘Two giant egos fighting for the best camera angle!’
‘And one of them screwing around like Charlie Sheen on a bad day.’
‘You cured him of that.’
‘I hope so!’ Nikki said forcefully. ‘The moment he points his dick in another direction, I’m gone.’
‘You’d leave him?’
‘Immediately,’ Nikki said without hesitation.
‘I bet you would,’ Lara said, wishing she had the inner strength her friend possessed.
‘Hey, listen,’ Nikki said, wrinkling her freckled nose. ‘I’d expect him to dump me if I screwed around, so why shouldn’t the same rule apply?’
Lara nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Why didn’t I do it? she thought. Why didn’t I tell him to take a hike the first time I suspected he was being unfaithful?
Because you’re a pushover.
No. I simply believe in second chances.
And third ones and fourth ones . . . Richard hadn’t known when to quit.
They’d met when he’d directed her in her third movie. Although by that time she was a star, she was still impressed at meeting the great Richard Barry – a man with quite a reputation. He moved in on her like a carnivorous snake. She was twenty-four and by Hollywood standards a total innocent. He was forty-six and difficult. Their wedding at her agent’s house in Malibu made headline news, with helicopters hovering overhead and paparazzi lurking in the trees. It was a media circus, which pleased neither of them. The divorce had been even worse.
‘We’re going to Tetou tonight,’ Nikki announced. ‘I hear the bouillabaisse is to die for.’
Lara shook her head. ‘I can’t do it. I have lines to learn and sleep to get, otherwise I’ll resemble an old hag in the morning.’
Nikki raised a disbelieving eyebrow. The irritating thing was that Lara acted as if she looked like any other mere mortal, even though she was certainly the most beautiful woman Nikki had ever seen – a woman who never acknowledged her powerful physical beauty. ‘You’re coming,’ Nikki said determinedly. ‘I’ve already checked – you have a late call tomorrow. It’s about time you forgot about this damn movie and had some fun.’
‘Fun – what’s that?’ Lara said innocently.
‘Exactly how long is it since you’ve gotten laid?’ Nikki asked, cocking her head to one side.
‘Too long,’ Lara muttered.
‘It doesn’t have to be a big thing, y’know,’ Nikki offered. ‘How about a one-nighter? There’s some hot-looking guys on the crew.’
‘Not my style,’ Lara said softly.
‘You gotta have a man’s mentality,’ Nikki said, with a knowing wink. ‘Fuck and run. I used to – before I married again.’
Richard was Nikki’s second husband. Her first was Sheldon Weston, whom she’d wed when she was sixteen and he was thirty-eight. ‘I was searching for a father figure,’ she often joked. ‘And I got stuck with an uptight shrink.’ Their daughter, Summer, lived in Chicago with her dad.
‘You’re different,’ Lara said. ‘You can do that and get away with it. I can’t. It has to be a committed relationship or I’m not interested.’
‘Whatever,’ Nikki replied vaguely, not understanding at all. ‘But you’re definitely coming tonight.’
About the Author
There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers – Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.
Jackie Collins has been called a ‘raunchy moralist’ by the late director Louis Malle and ‘Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust’ by Vanity Fair magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, and with some 28 New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insiders knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! ‘I write about real people in disguise,’ she says. ‘If anything, my characters are toned down – the truth is much more bizarre.’
Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her on Twitter at JackieJCollins and Facebook at www.facebook.com/jackiecollins.
Table of Contents
Praise for Jackie Collins
Also by Jackie Collins
Inscription
Title page
Copyright page
Half-title page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
About the Author
Jackie Collins, Sinners
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