Hollywood Husbands

  Throwing up his hands, Mannon grinned. ‘I’m in demand! I love it!’

  He had been in demand for over fifteen years now, and he was still enjoying every minute, not to mention the public’s adoration and the millions of dollars he made.

  Mannon had everything he wanted. Except Whitney. She had left him just when he needed her most, and he was taking his time getting over her. His new wife, Melanie-Shanna, had not solved any problems. She was a recent Miss Texas Sunshine, pretty and sweet, but Whitney she wasn’t, and marrying her had been a grave mistake. If it wasn’t for alimony and community property, he would have dumped her a week after the wedding. Like a jerk he hadn’t gotten her to sign a pre-nuptial agreement limiting her demands. However, his lawyers were working on it, and as soon as he got the all-clear he was going for a divorce. Naturally, Melanie-Shanna knew nothing of his plans. It wouldn’t do to forewarn her. Let her think everything was perfect until D-Day – and then bye-bye, pretty little beauty queen.

  He must have been insane marrying her. It was a revenge strike aimed at Whitney, who had moved in with his ex-friend, a Malibu stud named Chuck Nielson. The guy couldn’t even act, and only appeared in the movies Mannon turned down. Fortunately their affair was shaky, and now Mannon (as soon as he could arrange a divorce) planned to win her back.

  ‘I can’t do your show,’ he said gravely. ‘You’re too serious.’

  ‘Serious!’ Jack shook his head. ‘I guess you missed me and Ms. Midler last week.’

  ‘Great tits!’ interjected Howard.

  ‘Great talent,’ scolded Jack.

  ‘And great tits,’ added Mannon.

  Jack couldn’t help laughing. ‘You two!’ he said. ‘Tits ’n’ ass. The story of your lives.’

  ‘And you never think about it, right?’ Howard and Mannon said as one.

  ‘Only when I’m horny,’ Jack replied, and the three friends laughed.

  * * *

  Whitney Valentine Cable had a spectacular body and a striking face. Her eyes were a dreamy aquamarine, her nose straight and freckled, her mouth drooped at the corners until she smiled, and when she did, Whitney Valentine Cable had the biggest, the best and the whitest smile in Hollywood.

  Her hair was blonde and long and fluffy. Grown men fantasized about her hair. And grown women copied whatever style she chose to wear her luxuriant tresses in.

  She was a personality and a star, but sad to report, Whitney Valentine Cable could not act.

  This did not seem to matter very much, for in the five years she had pursued an acting career she had ridden the crest of mild popularity. Countless magazine covers helped. And a year-long television sit-com, followed by a string of exploitation movies featuring her in various scanty outfits. Whitney had worn everything from three strategically placed fig leaves, to a mink peek-a-boo ball gown. She had never shown EVERYTHING. Oh no. Gorgeous as she was, Whitney knew the good sense in keeping something hidden. So the great unwashed public had never spied upon her luscious nipples or her silken furry bush. Even though Playboy and similar magazines had begged, pleaded, even cried for her to reveal all – offering vast sums of money for the privilege.

  It was never enough. If Whitney was going to show off the goods it would be for a million dollars or not at all. And that offer hadn’t materialized yet.

  * * *

  Whitney Valentine made the trek to Hollywood the easy way. Working as a hairdresser in a small town outside of Fort Worth, she was as eager as the rest of the town to watch the location shoot of a genuine Hollywood film taking place. She visited the outdoor set with her girlfriend on a Saturday afternoon, and immediately caught the eye of Mannon Cable, the macho star of the movie.

  It was not exactly love at first sight for Mannon. More If it moves – nail it. And delectable Whitney was the most nailable girl he’d seen all week. She was eighteen and innocent, or so she said when he tried to initiate her into the joys of going to bed with a movie star.

  Whitney was not happy living in a small town. She wanted out, and Mannon Cable seemed the perfect exit visa. Holding back, instinct told her, was the only way to get him. And she was right. He called her everything from a dumb broad to a prick-tease, but six weeks later he married her, and when the movie finished shooting he brought her to Beverly Hills as his bride.

  For five years Whitney played the model wife. Cooking, shopping, taking care of their Malibu ranch house, posing for photo layouts with her famous husband, and generally behaving like the woman every man wished was his.

  And then, one hot Malibu Sunday, with the jacuzzi going full force, and the waft of barbecue in the air, Mannon’s friend and agent, Howard Soloman, whispered in her ear that there was a role in a television pilot for which she would be perfect if only she were an actress.

  Excitement lit up her face. ‘Put me up for it, Howard,’ she begged. ‘Oh, please! You must!’

  ‘Mannon’ll kill me,’ he groaned.

  ‘And so will I if you don’t,’ she hissed.

  Secretly she tested for the role.

  Secretly she got the job.

  When all was revealed to Mannon he was furious. ‘You stupid asshole,’ he yelled at Howard. ‘The last thing I need is a starlet for a wife.’

  ‘It’s what she wants,’ Howard argued lamely.

  ‘Well, you’re no longer my agent, I can tell you that,’ Mannon screamed, then turned his wrath on Whitney.

  ‘I want to work,’ she told him calmly. ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘Bored!’ He was outraged. ‘You’re married to me, for crissake. How can you possibly be bored?’

  ‘You’re always working,’ she complained. ‘I have nothing to do all day. I’m lonely.’

  ‘So how about starting a family? We’ve talked about it enough times. You know it’s what I want.’

  ‘And I want to do something with my life before I settle down and have babies. Please, Mannon, you’ve got to understand that this is what I need.’

  Reluctantly he agreed that she could take a shot at it. Whitney was the only woman he wanted to spend his life with, and if she required a few months messing around in show biz, let her do it. She’d soon find out what a crap-shoot it all was.

  The first thing she did was dye her light brown hair blonde. And then she decided to call herself Whitney Valentine – adding the Cable to please Mannon (it also pleased the press department of her television show, but that’s another story).

  And so began her climb to stardom. It wasn’t difficult. The sit-com was a hit, she had all the right requirements in abundance, plus a very famous husband, and the publicity mill took it from there.

  Five years and five hundred magazine covers later she was a star – just as she’d wanted. And she and Mannon were history. She hadn’t planned to divorce him, but he was jealous of her success, and there was nothing she could do about that. They had been divorced for eighteen months. The moment the decree was final Mannon had married some Texas beauty queen. Whitney could not help feeling hurt, for it was she who had instigated the divorce, not Mannon, who had declared undying love right up until the moment he married again. For a while she was tempted to do the same with the guy she was living with – Chuck Nielson, an ex-friend of Mannon’s. But Chuck was great when he was straight, and insane when drugged out. Besides, she was enjoying her new-found freedom.

  * * *

  As she sipped a glass of iced tea beside her kidney-shaped swimming pool in the garden of her house on Loma Vista, Whitney thought about Howard Soloman. Who would ever have imagined that one day he would be running Orpheus Studios? When he was Mannon’s agent she couldn’t stand him. And when he launched her career she tolerated him, until he left agenting to form his own production company. A few powerful jobs later he was head of the studio. She was impressed.

  Extending a delicate foot, she admired the pearly glow of the polish on her pedicured toenails. Howard Soloman. One of Mannon’s best friends. Funny, vulgar, street-smart Howard.

  She shivered uncomfort
ably. Even thinking about going to bed with Howard was crazy; she had known him for too many years – and all four of his wives, including Poppy, the present one. And yet, last night at the Fields’ party, Howard and she got to talking – quietly, in a corner, with no one else around – and something had happened. He understood her. He understood her career needs. And sometimes that could be the most important part of any relationship.

  Chapter Five

  Springsteen belted, and Jade felt good. She had unpacked three boxes and already the apartment seemed more like home. The doorbell buzzed and she peered through the spy-hole – an old New York habit. ‘Who is it?’ she called out.

  ‘Pizza.’

  ‘I didn’t order any.’

  ‘You’ve always got an order of pizza on the way.’

  ‘Corey!’ She flung open the door. ‘What a sneak! You told me you couldn’t get here until next week.’

  ‘For you, sis, I worked magic.’

  He placed the box of pizza on the floor and hugged his sister. There was no family resemblance. Corey was shorter than Jade, and several years younger. He was pleasant looking, with uniform features and none of his sister’s mesmerizing charisma.

  ‘This is so great!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Me or the pizza?’

  ‘The pizza, what else? Let’s eat. I’m starving! It’s double mushroom, I hope?’

  ‘And cheese and bologna and meatballs and peppers. Does that suit you?’

  ‘Oh, Corey, baby – you suit me. It’s fantastic to see your silly smiling face.’

  He grinned. ‘Likewise, pretty sis. It’s been too long.’

  ‘I know.’

  He picked up the box of pizza. ‘Am I coming in?’ he asked jokingly. ‘Or are we eating out in the hall?’

  ‘Sorry! C’mon. In. Now. Food. And all the news. Right?’

  ‘You got it.’ He followed her into the ultra-modern kitchen and placed the box on a counter top.

  Jade reached for plates and a knife. ‘How’s Marita and the Johnson heir?’

  Corey looked around. ‘This is a really nice place,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘Better than my rabbit hole in New York, huh?’ she teased.

  ‘Bigger.’

  ‘What do you want to drink? Shall we live dangerously and open a bottle of wine?’

  He consulted his watch. ‘It’s only twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Y’know, sometimes I think you never moved to the big city.’

  He glanced out of the window. ‘Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.’ Turning towards her he added, ‘Have you spoken to Mom and Dad lately?’

  She handed him a bottle of white wine and an opener. ‘I’m going to call tomorrow. I always call on Sunday. If I change the routine they get panic-stricken and think God knows what. Why?’ her tone became anxious. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  He wrestled with the wine. ‘They’re fine. I spoke to Mom yesterday.’

  ‘Good.’ She busied herself with dividing the pizza into two huge pieces.

  Uncomfortably he said, ‘It’s just that I figured if you’d spoken to them you would’ve heard.’

  She fixed him with a sharp look. He had something to say and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Marita and I split up.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  Shrugging defensively he said, ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ she replied grimly. ‘You have a child. That makes it a very big deal.’

  He glared. ‘No lectures. Not unless you want me to talk about your situation.’

  ‘I’m out of my situation,’ she said pointedly, a determined set to her jaw.

  Sensing a weakness he pounced. ‘You’ve wasted six years of your life with a married guy, so if you’re planning to give me advice I’m not interested.’

  Anger filtered across her face. ‘Don’t get uptight with me,’ she snapped. ‘What you do and what I do are two different things.’

  As soon as she’d said it she wished she hadn’t. All his life Corey had played second to her. She was the successful one in the family. He’d never made it. She was at the top of her profession. He had a mediocre job with a public relations firm in San Francisco. He hadn’t even left home until he met and married Marita – who was Hawaiian – and moved with her to California four years ago.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I guess I’m upset. Marita and you seemed so terrific together. What happened?’

  He made a gesture of defeat. ‘I don’t know.’

  Jade found she had lost her appetite. Her brother’s happiness was important to her and his news was a bombshell. She couldn’t wait to get on the phone to her mother and discuss it.

  ‘I wanted to tell you myself,’ he said, getting up and restlessly pacing the kitchen. ‘Mom and Dad know, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Is it irrevocable?’

  ‘’Fraid so. I’m moving to L.A. I’ve got a transfer from the San Francisco office.’

  ‘At last some good news. You can move in with me.’

  Shaking his head he said, ‘I’ve got a place. I’m sharing a house with a friend.’

  The scene became clear. Corey was involved with another woman. Hopefully, when his hard-on wore off he would hurry back to Marita and the baby.

  ‘Can I give you some advice?’ she ventured.

  ‘No, thank you. Look, sis, I’ve got to run. There’s a lot of stuff I have to organize.’

  ‘You only just got here,’ she protested.

  Kissing her forehead he said, ‘We’ll be living in the same town. We haven’t done that since we were kids. It’ll be just like old times, won’t it?’

  The shine was off her day, but she nodded anyway.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, ‘as soon as I’m settled.’

  The moment he left she phoned her mother, who knew no more than she did, and was very upset about the situation.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to Marita?’ she asked.

  ‘Corey says she’s gone back to Hawaii with the baby to stay with her family,’ her mother said.

  ‘Not permanently, I hope?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  As soon as she hung up, she felt an urge to talk to Mark. They had been apart for five weeks and she still had withdrawal symptoms. For six years they had shared each other’s lives. Except he had led a separate life of his own in England, one she was supposed to know nothing about.

  Bastard.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t miss him if she wanted to.

  Without thinking she wolfed down the rest of the pizza, an act she immediately regretted. Mark would have laughed at her. Sometimes, when she went on eating binges, he called her the Fat American. Hardly a title suited to her slim curves. When they had fights – and it had not been a peaceful six years – she called him the Uptight Englishman. They used to joke about writing a sit-com with the two nicknames combined. ‘It’d be a smash!’ Jade would laugh.

  ‘Only with you in it,’ he’d reply.

  They always used to go on trips together. She enjoyed his world as much as he was fascinated by hers. Twice a year she had accompanied him to Africa on his photographic safaris, and she would certainly miss the breathtaking beauty of waking up in the wilderness with the most incredible dawn skies and the sounds of nature all around.

  Mark Rand.

  He was part of her past.

  She had to stop thinking about him.

  Chapter Six

  Wes Money shared a birthday with Silver Anderson, only he didn’t know it, and even if he had he wouldn’t have cared. He was thirty-three years old and getting nowhere fast. The trouble with Wes was that he had no direction in life. Having tried a little bit of everything, he had failed to succeed at anything.

  * * *

  Wes Money was born in a slum area of London to a sometime hooker and her part-time pimp. Childhood was not exactly made in Disneyland; growing up was a tough game, and Wes learned early on in life t
o play it fast and dirty. When he was twelve, his mother found herself a rich American (or at least she thought he was at the time), married him, and moved to New York. Wes thought he had died and gone to heaven. He was getting laid at thirteen (all the little high school girls just loved his cockney accent), getting arrested at fifteen (shoplifting – nothing lethal), and getting out at sixteen. He did not say goodbye to his mother – she probably never even noticed he was gone. By the time he split, she had divorced her husband and returned to her old ways. Hooking suited her better than cooking.

  Wes moved in with a buxom stripper who thought he was twenty. He did a little pimping of his own, but his heart wasn’t in it, and a small amount of drug dealing led him to the fringes of the rock business, and what he thought at the time was his true love – music. He discovered he could sing, unearthing a low throaty growl which lent itself to the heavy-metal sounds popular in the seventies. After toiling as a roadie for a year with a group called In the Lewd, his chance came when the lead singer came down with an acute case of the clap. Without hesitation Wes stepped into his shoes if not his pants.

  Ecstasy followed. He was twenty-two and singing with a group. Fourteen-year-old virgins threw themselves at him. He met Mick Jagger and Etta James. He was going to be famous!

  In the Lewd disbanded after ten months. They hadn’t even gotten a record deal. Wes was pissed off, although he quite expected other groups to be lining up to sign him.

  Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. So he moved to Miami in search of the sun, and took a job as a bartender in a night club where he met a Swedish divorcee of forty-two, with money, steel thighs, and no sense of humour. She kept him for three years, which was all right with him, especially as he was making it with her maid, a well-stacked Puerto Rican girl.

  Both relationships ended when the Swedish woman decided to get married again, and the bridegroom-to-be was not him.

  Reluctantly he went back to tending bar at one of the big hotels. A suitable job for someone who couldn’t make up his mind what to do next.

  Vicki entered his life when the last thing he was looking for was a woman with no money. Vicki was twenty and perfect. There was no way they couldn’t team up. Love was a new experience for him, and it made him uneasy. Vicki was a dancer in one of the lavish hotel shows, and unfortunately she made even less money than he did. They lived together in a tiny ocean-front apartment, and before long Vicki was making ominous mumblings about marriage.