Hollywood Husbands

  ‘Don’t forget my lunch tomorrow for Jade Johnson,’ she reminded everyone. ‘The Bistro Garden, at twelve-thirty.’

  She tried to decide whether to call Melanie-Shanna or not. No, she thought. Very soon Melanie-Shanna could be the ex Mrs Mannon Cable, and there was nothing more boring than having to pretend to be friends with an ex-wife. Once the husband was no longer around, what was the point?

  On the other hand, shouldn’t someone tell Melanie-Shanna about Mannon and Clarissa? After all, it was only fair that she should know. If Howard was dropping his pants elsewhere, Poppy would most certainly want to be alerted. And the poor girl was about to give birth any minute, so maybe Mannon wouldn’t dump her, and she would remain Mrs Cable.

  Poppy sighed. Ah, decisions, decisions. Her manicured hand reached for the phone.

  * * *

  Dirk Price, the director/writer of The Murder, met Howard at the airport in Arizona. He was a long-haired, twenty-eight-year-old graduate of UCLA Film School, and had made two other movies, both of them teen-oriented (naked virgins, horny boys and the trashing of public property) and both of them enormous money-makers. This was his first venture into grown-up territory, and the dailies – flown to Howard in Hollywood every day – were quite impressive. Especially Mannon’s performance: he was really marvellous, surprising everyone. Clarissa, of course, was incandescent as usual. And Whitney looked sensational and acted like she’d just got out of drama school.

  ‘I want to replace her,’ were the first words out of Dirk’s mouth. ‘She’s ruining my film.’

  ‘Our film,’ Howard corrected. ‘And we have a contract to honour.’

  ‘She’s not honouring her part of it,’ Dirk said heatedly. ‘I had to shoot around her all day, and it’s going to put us over budget.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Why can’t we just pay her off?’ Dirk demanded. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore one diamond stud earring.

  ‘Because,’ Howard replied patiently, feeling about eighty-five years old, ‘we can’t. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Fuck!’ snapped Dirk.

  Howard patted his toupee to make sure all was in place. Dirk had a receding hairline. What good was all that hair at the back going to do him when there was nothing left up front?

  They had booked him a room in the same hotel as Whitney, and he showered and changed clothes before going to visit her.

  The door of her suite was opened by her stand-in, who also doubled as her secretary. ‘Mr Soloman,’ the woman said. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. Whitney has been expecting you.’

  She waited, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed. She wore a pale pink tracksuit, pastel running shoes, and a petulant expression. Her trademark hair was tamed in two schoolgirlish braids, and her face was devoid of makeup, although with her healthy tan that didn’t matter.

  He felt a message from Father Christmas, and hoped that it wasn’t obvious in the light grey pants he had slipped on with a casual sweater.

  ‘Howard!’ she wailed. ‘They’re trying to crucify me!’

  ‘Who?’ he asked patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘All of them!’ Her aquamarine eyes filled with true tears.

  Ah… if she could only act on the screen like she could off it.

  ‘Tell me everything, baby,’ he soothed.

  Lower lip quivering, she came out with a litany of complaints. The director didn’t want her; Clarissa was a bitch; the crew weren’t friendly; Mannon was a bastard; everyone was ganging up against her.

  ‘After all, Howard,’ she finished off indignantly, ‘I accepted a cameo role in this movie, when I should have been playing the lead.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed sympathetically. ‘And you won’t regret it. This role will open up all the doors you ever wanted. You’re obliterating Clarissa in the dailies. It’s your film.’

  She brightened considerably. ‘Really?’

  ‘Would I lie?’

  ‘You know I trust you.’

  Trust me with this, he wanted to say, as his hard-on chafed uncomfortably in place.

  ‘Listen, baby,’ he said. ‘Don’t be your own worst enemy. Get your fanny back on the set tomorrow – pronto! You’re makin’ Clarissa a very happy woman by not showing up for work. She figures this way she’ll be able to squeeze you out.’ He paused, getting ready to nail a point. ‘And if you don’t… jeez, Whit, the lawyers are gonna move into action, an’ there’ll be nothing I can do. I’d hate to see you ruin your career with one dumb move.’

  She stared at him thoughtfully, mouth downturned and expression intent.

  And then – like the sun appearing from behind a cloud – she smiled. Whitney Valentine had the most dazzling smile in the world. A lot of teeth and very patriotic.

  ‘You’re damn right, Howard. And I love you for being so honest.’ Crawling across the bed she kissed him.

  The kiss was aimed at his cheek, only he managed to move quickly enough for it to land on his mouth. Grabbing her in a bear hug, he gave her the famous Howard Soloman smackerooney. In high school his kisses were the stuff legends were made of.

  She gave a little struggle – not too hard – and then he had her! She was responding. And there it was, a long, passionate, real soul kiss.

  Pushing him away at last she sighed, ‘Oh, Howard, we shouldn’t be doing this, you’re married.’

  ‘In name only,’ he said, faster than the speed of sound. ‘Since we had Roselight, Poppy can’t have sex. The doctors say it’s psychological. We’re working on it. Meanwhile I’m still a man, Whitney. And a lonely one.’

  ‘Surely not lonely? You have so many opportunities…’ She trailed off.

  ‘I’ve thought about this moment for years,’ he said excitedly. ‘You, me … Nobody else around…’

  She didn’t believe his story about Poppy for a minute; however, an affair with Howard would certainly secure her position on the set, and infuriate Mannon – who might not care about her anymore, but would no doubt be affected if she and another of his ex-best friends got together.

  ‘Later,’ she promised in a low whisper. ‘After dinner. Just you… and me…’

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  ‘Get that horrible dog away from me,’ Silver screamed. ‘For God’s sake, Wes, it’s filthy!’

  ‘He’s not,’ he argued, ruffling Mutt’s fur.

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me it doesn’t have fleas either?’

  ‘Naw. Except this one!’ He plucked an imaginary insect from Mutt’s shaggy coat and waved it at her.

  She shrieked hysterically, while he doubled up laughing. ‘Only joking,’ he confessed.

  Glaring at him she hissed, ‘You stupid bastard. I don’t know how I ended up marrying someone with the mentality of a ten-year-old.’

  ‘Easy. You married me for my money.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what it was.’

  ‘And my charm.’

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘And my big dick.’

  ‘I’ve seen bigger,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, cop a look at this, lady.’

  Soon they were playing games on her king-size bed, while Mutt raced excitedly up and down the carpet, barking.

  ‘Get… rid… of… it,’ she warned insistently.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to stop?’

  ‘Right now, Wes. I am not joking.’

  With a grunt of resignation he rolled off the bed, grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck, and gently shoved it out of the room.

  ‘I never want to see that animal in here again,’ she said, watching him intently as he walked back towards the bed. She never tired of checking out his body. He was so masculine. His strength impressed her, and his complete lack of ego when it came to his looks. An actor would kill to g
et near a mirror first. Wes couldn’t care less. He had a natural animal sexuality, and she loved it, and he knew it, which made them both very happy.

  So he was younger than her. She really didn’t give a damn. It was the ridiculous newspapers and gossip columns who made it into some sort of big deal. She was hardly snatching him from the cradle. Carlos Brent was sixty something, and his current girlfriend, Dee Dee Dionne, was in her early thirties. There was at least thirty years between them and nobody said a word.

  Wes climbed into bed and clicked the television on with the remote control.

  Silver took it from him and switched it off. ‘We were in the middle of something,’ she reminded.

  He looked surprised. ‘We were?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jeez… I got me a mother of a headache…’

  She threw a magazine at him. ‘Don’t start with me.’

  Grinning, he said, ‘I thought that’s exactly what you wanted.’

  * * *

  Downstairs, Vladimir prepared dinner, while Unity, out in the pool house office, fielded phone calls. They were coming in fast and strong: Orville Gooseberger to speak to Wes; Zachary KIinger for Silver; three calls from Zeppo White for Wes; Poppy Soloman for Silver; Nora for either Wes or Silver.

  However urgent any of them said it was, Unity had strict instructions never to disturb the happy couple while they were upstairs in the bedroom. Dutifully she took messages, and promised everyone their calls would be returned in due course.

  At six o’clock she decided she was finished for the day, and turned on the answering machine. This job was no big deal. Sure, she was grateful to Wes for helping at a time when she needed it – but the loneliness of living in the huge mansion with nobody to talk to was beginning to get to her. Queen Silver and ever-faithful Wes. Who needed it?

  She wandered into the kitchen, where Vladimir ignored her as usual. He had hardly spoken more than three full sentences to her since her arrival.

  ‘What are you making?’ she asked.

  ‘Chinese chicken salad,’ he replied resentfully. He hated having Unity around all the time, certain that she spied on him, making it difficult for him to smuggle in his transient lovers. Even in his own apartment above the garage he had no privacy. She had knocked on his door the other day for some inane reason. ‘It’s my time off,’ he had shouted through the closed door. ‘Vill you never please disturb me here again.’

  The Italian waiter he was servicing at that particular moment became paranoid that it was his wife searching for him, and was unable to get it up. Vladimir was livid.

  ‘Can I taste it?’ Unity asked. ‘It looks delicious.’

  ‘There’s not enough,’ Vladimir replied waspishly. ‘The cold spaghetti in the fridge is for you.’

  Mutt came bouncing into the kitchen, wagging his stubby tail.

  She bent to fuss the little dog.

  ‘No animals in the kitchen while I’m preparing food,’ snapped Vladimir.

  ‘I wish you could be halfway polite,’ she snapped back, surprising both of them. Up until now she had acted like a timid mouse and not complained about anything.

  He recovered at once. ‘Vat vill you do? Report me to your… cousin?’ he sneered.

  Her face reddened. ‘I’m not a spy,’ she retorted hotly.

  He was glad to hear that. But he made no comment, continuing to cut and slice and chop.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said sharply. ‘The truth is I hardly know my cousin. He’s just helping me out because I was in trouble.’

  Finally she had Vladimir’s interest. ‘Vat kind of trouble?’ he asked curiously. ‘Vere you pregnant?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. It was… drugs.’

  Vladimir perked up even more. Laying his work knife aside, he put a sympathetic arm around her shoulders. ‘Vhy don’t you tell me all about it?’

  * * *

  Wes left Silver to bathe and dress, and loped downstairs. He couldn’t smell anything cooking, which was a disappointment. Vladimir, in spite of his numerous faults, was at least a knockout cook – the one reason Wes hadn’t dismissed him the moment he moved in.

  Flinging open the door to the kitchen he was startled to find Unity and the gay Russian sitting at a table engaged in intimate conversation. He was startled. Up until now the two of them had managed to stay out of each other’s way, which suited him just fine. He didn’t want Unity revealing anything – especially about his past.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s dinner?’ he asked.

  Vladimir was on his feet in a second. ‘Is Madame ready to eat?’ he inquired solicitously.

  ‘Yeah, she’s ready,’ Wes replied. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Chinese chicken salad,’ Vladimir replied, scurrying back to his chopping board.

  ‘Chinese chicken what?’

  ‘Salad.’

  ‘You mean it isn’t hot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Madame requested it personally. She mentioned that in her opinion you could lose a pound or two.’ Vladimir knew he had scored a point and enjoyed Wes’s discomfort.

  ‘Did she?’ Wes stalked from the kitchen, followed by Unity, who relayed his messages to him. ‘Put them on my desk in the study,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll return the calls after dinner.’

  ‘Mr White said it was urgent. So did Mr Gooseberger.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Settling himself in the study he placed a call to Orville. The producer had never telephoned him before, and he was curious to know what it was about.

  ‘Did Silver tell you what she did today?’ shouted Orville.

  ‘No,’ Wes replied.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘Spit it out, Orville. I never liked Twenty Questions.’

  ‘We had to close the set down this afternoon. Silver had a chunk of garlic hidden in her mouth when she kissed Carlos. He went berserk and insulted her, and Zachary came to her defence. Carlos then insulted him, and Zachary knocked Carlos out.’

  Wes did not believe what he was hearing. All this had taken place and she hadn’t mentioned a word.

  ‘Go on,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Well,’ Orville continued, ‘between Zeppo, me and Howard Soloman, I think we got everyone calmed down. However, tomorrow is another day, and I don’t trust your wife. For some reason she’s got a knife at Carlos’s throat. I think she’d like him to walk off the picture. The gossip on the set is she thinks he’s too old for the part, and wants a younger co-star.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I don’t have to explain to you what it would mean to this production if Carlos Brent walks. You’re a businessman, you understand these things.’

  ‘I sure do.’

  ‘So… Howard, Zeppo and I thought it might be a good idea for you to accompany her to the set tomorrow and whenever you can, to keep an eye on things. If you’ll excuse my French – when you’ve got a difficult woman on your hands, the one who controls her is the one who’s fucking her. In my experience it always works.’

  Wes laughed without humour. ‘Yeah. I get your point. I’ll try an’ be there.’

  Orville thanked him effusively and hung up – whereupon Wes had an almost identical conversation with Zeppo White, who was slightly cruder than the old producer, but made exactly the same point.

  By the time he was finished with the two of them, he was furious. Why hadn’t she told him? What was he? The house-boy? The lackey to screw in the afternoon when she had nothing better to do? Didn’t she have any respect for him?

  Striding angrily into the hall, he picked up the keys of the Rolls and yelled, ‘Vladimir!’

  The flaxen-haired Russian appeared at the door of the kitchen.

  ‘Tell Madame that I will not be home for the Chinese chicken salad. And tell her that I won’t be back until later – much later. If at all.’

  With that he stalked out of the house.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight


  ‘’Ellooo, Jacques.’ The French actress with the inviting eyes and smoky voice was in the Green Room when he put his head around the door a few minutes before showtime. Tantalizingly she undulated across the room, kissing him on both cheeks with Gallic style, drenching him in a powerful musk scent. She was dressed all in scarlet.

  Senator Peter Richmond, his guest for the evening, jumped up and followed her over. ‘Jack.’ His handshake was hearty. ‘Good to see you again. I’m looking forward to crossing swords with you tonight. Only be gentle – it’s my first time – with you, that is,’ he added with a twinkle.

  Searching desperately for Aretha, Jack tried to figure out what was going on. Signals were crossed somewhere along the line. Aretha was supposed to have cancelled his date with Danielle Vadeeme, and unless she was here to be with the very married Senator Richmond he was in trouble.

  He gave them both the benefit of a friendly smile. ‘It’s my pleasure to have you here, Senator.’

  ‘I flew in specially.’ The Senator winked. ‘And Miss Vadeeme here has invited me to join you both for dinner. I keep on telling her the last thing you want is me along, but she absolutely insists. At least I’ll have something to look forward to while I endure a full hour’s torture!’

  ‘With time out for commercials,’ Jack said, automatic charm on full pilot, thinking how he would strangle Aretha when he found her, although murder was probably too gentle a punishment.

  Meanwhile, what was he supposed to do about Jade? He could hardly ask her along. And yet all he wanted was to be with her.

  ‘Five minutes, Mr Python,’ yelled Genie, the assistant floor manager.

  Senator Richmond’s researcher hurried to his side.

  Danielle leaned close to Jack. ‘Later, cheri,’she whispered seductively. ‘We get reeed of Meester Senator, an then we make the – how you say – beeeauteefool looove.’

  He had no desire to make anything again, unless it was with Jade. Christ! How did he ever get caught in this trap?

  ‘Where’s Aretha?’ he asked Genie, as he followed her to the studio ready to confront his expectant audience.