His face was definitely familiar. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Are you a fan?’
‘Are you kidding?’
She was perplexed. Here she was, hurtling through the night in her car exchanging light banter with a complete stranger (although a familiar one), and she wasn’t the least bit apprehensive. In fact, she was enjoying herself. ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she said. ‘It could have been a nasty situation.’
‘I can see the headlines now,’ he said. ‘Five hundred faggots on top of Silver Anderson. Star gives in to the pressure.’
She couldn’t help being amused. ‘The gay population does not like being called faggots,’ she chided. ‘It’s not a very nice expression.’
‘Excuse me.’
She tried to decide what to do. Should she allow this refreshingly unimpressed man to drive her home? Or should she have him pull over to the side and get the hell out of her car? She was quite capable of driving herself. And maybe she should go back for Dennis. Poor Dennis. He must be frantic.
* * *
Sometimes Vladimir invaded Madame’s bedroom when he knew she was safely out for the evening. The maids, her secretary, her new assistant, and Nora Carvell had all gone home.
Vladimir danced into Madame’s private domain and ran the water in her luxurious jacuzzi tub. He stripped off his clothes, went into her dressing room and selected a short curly wig which he placed on top of his wheat-coloured hair. Next he played with a selection of her cosmetics and created a face for himself. When he was finished he had conjured up a great illusion. From a distance he had the Silver Anderson ‘look’ down pat.
* * *
‘Tell me,’ Silver asked. ‘Where have we met before?’
‘I was at your party,’ Wes replied truthfully.
‘Oh, of course.’ She decided she must have noticed him across a crowded room and had been attracted to him even then. Because there was no denying it, she did find him extremely attractive. Dennis Denby was a baby in bed. This one looked like a man. ‘Who were you there with?’
‘Rocky.’
Ah… he must have been with the Sylvester Stallone group. She relaxed. ‘Well, Wes. Since we’re old friends, you can take me home and I’ll give you a drink. I think it’s the least I can do. Without your quick action I don’t know what would have happened.’
He heard a definite invitation in her voice. Don’t tell me I’ve scored again, he thought. Only this time it was bingo all the way home.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Show me a strong woman an’ I’ll show you a dyke,’ Howard said to a room full of his key executives – two of them women. They exchanged looks of fury, but neither of them spoke up. It was difficult enough holding down a top job without making waves. Everybody knew Howard Soloman was coked up half the time; it was best to ignore his sexist remarks.
‘I don’t think she’s a dyke,’ the moon-faced head of production said. ‘I think she just needs to get laid!’
Guffaws all round. They were talking about the Swedish star of an Orpheus film currently shooting in Brazil. She was causing a lot of problems, and because of her the movie was behind schedule.
Howard stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘Listen,’ he said expansively. ‘If she doesn’t get her act together soon I’ll just have to go down there an’ shove my cock in her mouth – that’ll shut her up once and for all!’
More guffaws. More frozen looks between the women.
‘I’m only joking, girls,’ Howard said affably, patting one of them on the behind.
He waited until his office cleared then buzzed his secretary. ‘Any calls?’
‘Orville Gooseberger about the lunch date you’ve postponed three times. Mannon Cable – he mentioned Las Vegas last weekend and said you would know what he was talking about. And Burt Reynolds’s agent.’
‘Okay. Okay. Hold all calls again until I tell you.’
‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’
Howard went into his private bathroom and locked the door. Removing his stash of cocaine from its hiding place, he laid a small amount on a square-cut flat mirror. With a shaking hand he snorted first one nostril and then the other. Christ! Zachary K. Klinger was coming to town and he was a wreck. Only temporarily, though. Two minutes later and he was back in control, feeling like he could kick ass from here to Boston and back. Picking up the phone next to his john, he summoned his secretary. ‘Book me a table at Morton’s for tomorrow night. Eight people. Make sure it’s the front table. Tell ’em I’m bringing Zachary Klinger with me.’
‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’
‘And phone Fred, the jewellery store on Rodeo, and ask Lucy to pick out something nice for my wife. In fact tell her to pick out a couple of pieces, and maybe she can stop by the office tomorrow.’
‘When tomorrow, Mr Soloman? You’re busy all day.’
‘Schedule something. It’s important.’
‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’
‘Did you get that script over to Whitney Valentine?’
‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’
‘When?’
‘This morning, Mr Soloman. Just as you requested.’
Hanging up, he opened the medicine cabinet and swallowed some Maalox. Goddamn production meetings, they always upset his stomach. He didn’t know why, because he was born to run a studio – nothing fazed him – even the Swedish cunt in Brazil who was costing him fortunes.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button on his private line and called Whitney. Nothing had taken place between them yet. They had experienced one lunch and that was it. Sometimes, he decided, the waiting was even better than the happening.
Nobody answered Whitney’s private line, which meant she was out. He imagined her riding along the beach on her horse, hair flying, long limbs gleaming. Or maybe she was swimming in the ocean. No luxurious pools for Whitney – she was an outdoor girl.
Now, if he wished to locate Poppy, he would know exactly where to look. The Bistro Garden. She lunched there almost every day at her own special table, holding court among her circle of designer-clad friends. And later – Saks, Magnin’s, Lina Lee, Gucci. She could be tracked down easily at any of those establishments.
Poppy had once told him that being the wife of a studio head was not easy. There were charities to belong to, people to impress, and rigid standards to uphold.
Poppy’s commandments were: Thou shalt not be—
Too fat
Poorly dressed
Badly seated in a restaurant
or
Ignored by those who matter
The list of Those Who Matter changed weekly depending on a variety of things.
Poppy always managed to know.
Howard had no desire to locate his wife. He would see her later for dinner. He would make love to her if he felt like it, or if just imagining what Whitney was like in the sack got him hot enough.
Zachary K. Klinger was coming to town, and he had to be ready for him.
* * *
Mannon Cable had always wanted to be a father, so when Melanie-Shanna hit him with the news that she was pregnant, he was delighted. For about sixty seconds. And then the implications set in. How could he have a baby with Melanie-Shanna? Whitney was the love of his life, and Whitney was the only woman he wanted as mother of his children.
‘Are you sure?’ he’d demanded.
She had looked at him strangely. ‘Yes, I’m very sure. The doctor has confirmed it.’
He didn’t know what to say. For once in his life he was speechless. How could he mention divorce now? And an abortion was out of the question. Mannon had very strong views on that subject.
‘Aren’t you pleased?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, desperately trying to summon up the right degree of enthusiasm. ‘Thrilled.’
The next day he met with his lawyer and asked for advice.
‘Well,’ his lawyer had said, ‘if you don’t want her to get rid of the kid
, you’re stuck. You’ll have to wait out her pregnancy, and then stay around until the baby is a few months old at least. If you leave her before that the publicity will slaughter you.’
Glumly Mannon had to agree. He could see the headlines: MANNON CABLE AND STRANGE LOVE TRIANGLE! SUPERSTAR DUMPS PREGNANT WIFE FOR WHITNEY!
Oh yeah. The tabloids would have a grand jerk-off at his expense.
There were also Whitney’s feelings to consider. How was she going to react to this latest turn of events? It wasn’t exactly going to make her think he was pining away for her. They hadn’t spoken for a while. He had planned that the next time they did he would be a free man.
‘Financially this is quite a blow,’ his lawyer had said grimly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want her to have an abortion?’
He was sure.
They took a trip to New York, where he had to finish dubbing his last film. Melanie-Shanna was full of plans. ‘We’ll decorate the second guest room,’ she said. ‘Yellow will be the perfect colour. Or blue?’ She couldn’t make up her mind. ‘What do you think, Mannon? Yellow or blue?’
He shook his head, not wanting to get involved. The further away he stayed from this pregnancy and the resulting baby, the better.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Once inside her house, Silver was able to get a better look at Wes, and she liked what she saw. He was tall – she preferred big men. His hair was longish, brownish, not styled and sprayed like a lot of men around today. His eyes were extraordinary – sludge with touches of a murky seaweed green. He was distinctly masculine, and she felt the juices rising like they hadn’t risen in a while. Certainly not for Dennis Denby, who was about as exciting and unpredictable as bacon and eggs for breakfast.
‘Fix yourself a drink,’ she said, giving him an encouraging push towards the bar in the den. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Can I make you something?’ he asked politely.
‘Vodka,’ she said over her shoulder as she mounted the grand front staircase. ‘Lemon twist, no ice.’
Ah, maybe she’d remembered he was a barman. It certainly sounded like she did.
Choosing a Baccarat glass, he poured in an inch of vodka, added another one for good measure, and picked a slice of lemon from a small silver dish, expertly skewering it to the side of the glass. For himself he poured a cold beer. Best to make sure everything was primed and ready to go.
* * *
Luxuriating in the centre of Silver Anderson’s large jacuzzi tub, Vladimir presented a strange and wonderful sight. He sat ramrod straight, naked, bewigged, and fully made-up, while the water bubbled and jetted around him. Clamped around his head were the headphones of a small Sony Walkman. The music reaching his ears was an early Silver Anderson album, and he sang along, mimicking her voice to perfection.
So intent was he that he failed to notice Silver enter her own bathroom and stand transfixed. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ she said in complete amazement.
He did not hear her.
She stepped forward and ripped the headphones from him, flinging them across the room.
‘Madame!’ he shrieked in horror, and stood up.
‘Vladimir?’ She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Uttering a stream of Russian curses he tried to cover his most personal items with his hands. The effort was ineffectual, as Vladimir was hung like the proverbial bull.
‘God!’ Silver flung him a towel and said icily, ‘Get out of my bath and cover yourself.’
‘Madame! Madame!’ he wailed. ‘Will you forgive me for this? Vat can I ever do to beg your forgiveness?’
‘You can take off my wig for a start. And get out.’
Vladimir was almost weeping. ‘Is Madame firing me?’
Silver caught sight of herself in one of the many mirrors and was immediately distracted. She had come upstairs to prepare herself for what she hoped might be a rather interesting evening – not to argue with her obviously deranged houseman. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow,’ she said coldly. ‘Kindly get this bathroom cleaned up. Now! And then go to your quarters and stay there.’
He hung his head in shame as she swept out.
* * *
Wes was disappointed to note that she had not changed when she returned to the bar. He had hoped for the filmy black negligee, sheer stockings, garter belt (Down boy, down – not yet – don’t blow it) and high-heeled mules. Instead she was still wearing her fashionable red suit and unrevealing lace blouse.
‘Whew!’ she said, uncharacteristically flushed. ‘I just had the most bizarre experience. Hand me my drink. I need it.’
He gave her the glass of vodka and waited for an explanation.
Flopping down on the couch she sipped the clear alcohol. ‘Vladimir, my houseman, is crazed!’ she announced. ‘Quite obviously certifiable.’
Wes remembered her houseman well – a bossy Bolshoi with an eye for the waiters. ‘What happened?’ he asked expectantly.
She kicked off her shoes and savoured the moment. ‘He was in my bath. Wearing one of my wigs. A lot of my makeup. Singing one of my songs in my voice!’
Wes started to laugh. ‘What?’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘You heard.’
‘Was he dressed?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
They both began to laugh.
‘He looked ridiculous,’ she spluttered. ‘And when he stood up in the bath with the bubbles all over him—’
‘And the makeup and the hair?’ Wes joined in.
‘Yes. Yes. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.’
He was as caught up as she was in just imagining Vladimir – the star of such a scene.
‘What did you do?’ he roared.
‘I was too amazed to do anything!’ she retorted. ‘Oh God! It was so… so… funny!’
Her laughter was catching – he couldn’t stop either. This was not the cool bitch-goddess the newspapers and magazines wrote about with such awe – this was a warm and amusing woman.
‘I guess he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow,’ Wes said at last.
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘I might just keep him around for the entertainment value!’
More laughter, interrupted by the persistent buzz of the front gate.
Silver frowned. ‘I don’t know who this can be. Will you answer it for me?’ She picked up the intercom phone and handed it to him.
‘Silver Anderson’s residence,’ he said smoothly.
‘Dennis Denby,’ said an aggravated voice.
He covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. ‘Dennis Denby,’ he repeated.
‘Oh, no! I suppose you’d better buzz him in.’
He gave her a little eye contact. ‘Do I have to?’
She responded nicely. ‘I think we’d better, don’t you?’
All of a sudden it was we. He wasn’t being dismissed.
Dutifully he pressed the intercom while she slipped her shoes back on. And a minute later, a red-faced Dennis Denby arrived at the front door. He clutched Silver, glared at Wes, and said, ‘Thank God you’re all right!’
She disentangled herself from his grabbing hands. ‘I’m perfectly fine, Dennis.’ She indicated Wes. ‘Thanks to Mr—’
‘Money,’ Wes supplied obligingly.
Silver raised an amused eyebrow.
‘It’s an old English name,’ Wes explained airily.
‘Most unusual,’ she remarked.
‘Yeah… well… most things about me are unusual.’
She smiled. ‘They are?’
‘So I’ve been told.’ The woman had dynamite eyes – kind of probing and sexy. And Wes knew he wasn’t misreading the message in them.
Dennis couldn’t help noticing the interaction going on between them, and he asserted himself immediately. ‘Well, it was very obliging of Mr er… Money to bring you home. Although it really wasn’t necessary. Everything was under control.’
‘Whose control, Dennis?’ Silver inquired caus
tically. ‘Were you controlling the crowd when I was about to get crushed to death?’
‘Don’t exaggerate, dear,’ Dennis said in a condescending tone.
He had made two fatal mistakes. One was calling her “dear” – a patronizing term she hated, although she often used it herself. And two was doubting her ability to judge a situation. ‘You really are stupid, Dennis dear,’ she said. ‘You honestly had no idea what was going on, did you?’
‘I was calling Spago,’ he explained, oblivious to her insult. He looked at his watch. ‘And there’s a table waiting for us now.’ Turning to Wes he added, ‘So… Mr Money. If you’ll excuse us.’
‘Mr Money will not excuse us,’ Silver said crisply. ‘Because we – you and I, Dennis dear – are not going anywhere. In fact’– she took him by the arm and led him out of the room – ‘you are going home, and I am finishing my drink with Mr Money, who did have the presence of mind to see what was going on, and got me the hell out of there before I was bloody trampled underfoot!’
‘Silver!’ Dennis protested. ‘Why are you mad at me?’
‘I am not mad,’ she replied, propelling him towards the front door. ‘I am merely bored.’
He rallied desperately. ‘You can’t stay alone in the house with this… this person. Who is he? What do you know about him?’
‘That he has balls, Dennis dear. Which is more than I can say for you! Goodnight!’
She closed the front door on his objections, and returned to the den.
Wes faced her. ‘Uh huh,’ he said, ‘we’ve had the crazy Russian and the uptight boyfriend. What next?’
She smiled, slowly, seductively. The smile America loved to hate. ‘I think something’ll come up, don’t you?’
Who was he to argue?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jade fell into the rhythm of Los Angeles easily. She had thought she would hate it, but after a month in the city she decided she loved it. There was so much to do, and gorgeous weather to do it in.
With her books, records and possessions around her, the apartment soon felt like home, and the only downer was Corey. He was weird – something was going on in his life and he obviously had no intention of sharing it with her. She had only seen him a couple of times. ‘I’m real busy’ was his explanation. ‘What with the new job and settling in and everything.’