He was a famous Italian photographer, a star in his own right. Only Silver remembered when he’d photographed her before superstardom, and had treated her like shit. He’d also made her look like shit, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d only shot one roll of film, and any idiot knew you never got anything worthwhile until the third roll at least. He’d also forced her to use his own makeup and hair people. A bad mistake.
Now she was in charge, and enjoying every minute.
‘Antonio, dear,’ she said, stopping the click of his shutter. ‘Do you know that today is my birthday?’
Antonio threw up his hands as if she had just declared World War III. ‘Bellissima! You don’t have the birthday. You have the celebration!’
‘Exactly.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘So where’s the caviar and champagne?’
Antonio looked concerned. ‘You want some, cara?’
‘I’d love some, Antonio, dear. And if you are very good, I’ll invite you to my party later.’
He beckoned one of his assistants. ‘Champagne and caviar for Signorina Anderson. Pronto. Pronto.’
The assistant, a girl dressed like a boy, held out her hand. ‘I’ll need money,’ she said, wondering how much he would come up with. His stinginess was notorious.
A scowl flitted across Antonio’s small but perfectly formed fifty-five-year-old features. He reached into the back pocket of his impeccably cut trousers and reluctantly pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
Silver laughed loudly. ‘My God, Antonio, you’re as tight as your own ass! The poor girl will need more than that. Let me see—’ she played to her entourage – ‘there must be at least ten of us. We’ll want three bottles of Cristal, and a nice big jar of fish eggs. Give her your credit card.’
Give her yours, bitch! Antonio wanted to snarl. Only he didn’t. He knew she was getting her own back for the last session, and in a way he didn’t blame her. One had to admire Silver Anderson’s success. A few years ago she was washed up, completely finished. And now she was sizzling, at what – forty-three? Four? Nobody knew her exact age. She was up there somewhere and that’s all that mattered. In a town comprised mostly of big-bosomed twenty-two-year-olds, her achievement was certainly something.
He produced his MasterCard with a flourish. Let Silver see that the great Antonio accepted defeat with style.
She stretched languorously. ‘How about a break?’ she suggested in a low, husky voice, standing up before finishing the sentence, uninterested in whether Antonio cared to break or not.
‘My idea too, bellissima,’ he said quickly.
Strolling behind the camera she playfully peeked through the viewfinder. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Let me see the Polaroids again.’
Dutifully her hairdresser Fernando, her makeup artist Raoul, and the stylist for the shoot sprang forward – each waving an instant photo for her inspection.
She gazed at the pictures of herself like an uninvolved critic.
‘Your hair looks mahvellous,’ raved Fernando, who wore his own spiky locks in a currently fashionable purple Mohawk.
She touched her long wavy wig. ‘I’m not sure it’s dramatic enough.’
‘Ah, but it is! It is!’ he protested. ‘Very you.’
‘I like the short wig better.’
‘We can change it.’
Shaking her head she said, ‘I don’t know… I’m not sure. What do you think, Nora? Isn’t this style a little too young for me?’
Nora Carvell, a cigarette butt attached to her lower lip, squinted from her seat on the sidelines. ‘Cut the crap, Silver. You know you’re the youngest lookin’ broad over forty in this town. Y’can wear anything an’ get away with it.’
Nora had worked with Silver as her publicist for three years. One of the reasons they continued to get along was that Nora always spoke her mind and never kissed ass. Surrounded by sycophants, Silver respected and enjoyed Nora’s honesty. It was good to have someone around who wasn’t afraid of opening up her mouth.
Silver giggled. It was true. She looked early thirties, not a day over. All the husbands and lovers, fights and booze had left nary a mark. She was sensational for her age. Any age, in fact.
‘You’re right,’ she agreed, holding the Polaroid at a distance and squinting slightly. She needed glasses, but vanity would not permit it.
The rest of the shoot progressed without incident. Above all else Silver was a professional. So professional, in fact, that when the champagne and caviar arrived she touched neither, opting instead for a plain glass of Evian water.
Antonio was furious as he observed her entourage scoff the lot.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said sweetly, when offered a glass of Cristal and a tasty cracker with a mound of imported caviar on it. ‘Mustn’t smudge my makeup. Besides, I don’t want to feel hungover for my party tonight.’
* * *
‘You think it’s easy?’ the young girl with the multi-coloured punk hair demanded of the eighteen-year-old boy lounging against the side of an old Ford Mustang smoking a joint. ‘I am in like a very negative position,’ the girl continued, snatching the roach away from him and taking a healthy drag. ‘Like first of all I’m me. An’ then people find out all the garbage, an’ then I’m Silver Anderson’s daughter, or Jack Python’s niece. Sometimes I’m even George fucking Python’s grand-daughter – ever since he invented that stupid pool-cleaner.’ She looked outraged. ‘Get this action, Eddie. I’m over at a girlfriend’s house the other day totally sitting around bullshitting, and her father comes in the room – her father. So she says, “Daddy, I want you to meet Heaven.” And he says, “Aren’t you George Python’s grand-daughter? He’s saved my weekends with his machine.” I mean, I ask you. With a name like Heaven there’s no escape.’
‘Y’could change your name,’ Eddie mumbled, retrieving the joint from her multi-coloured fingernails.
Heaven widened startlingly amber eyes. ‘Why should I?’ she demanded. ‘It’s my name. My identity. It’s like the only positive thing in my life.’
‘Y’got me,’ Eddie said.
‘And my music,’ she added.
‘Our music,’ he corrected.
‘I write the songs,’ she pointed out. ‘And I sing ’em.’
‘Yeah, an’ who would you be singin’ ’em with if me an’ the guys didn’t back you?’
She wasn’t going to hurt his feelings, only she knew that the group meant nothing. She was the star when they appeared at local events, not Eddie and his group.
She yawned loudly and executed a little dance in the front yard of Eddie’s house.
He watched her through slitted eyes. She was a difficult girl to figure, most of the time she kept him confused. He liked her a lot, even if she was totally screwed up because of all her famous relatives. ‘Wanna go for a drive?’ he asked. ‘Get a hamburger?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, picking at the material of her jagged denim micro skirt.
‘What do you wanna do, then?’
‘I thought you said your parents were away this weekend.’
‘They are.’
‘So why can’t we go in your house an’ fix something? I won’t eat you.’
‘I wish you would,’ he leered, shifting his weight from the side of the car.
‘Eddie,’ she sighed, tipping her head to one side. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He wondered if she was teasing him as he felt the start of something big build up in his pants. Heaven had been flirting with him from the day they met three months ago, only every time he made a move she shoved him off. ‘C’mon,’ he said quickly. ‘In the house. I’ll show you who’s asking.’
She followed him inside. His sisters were out and the small neat house was very cool and quiet.
‘I wanna see your room,’ she said.
Hastily he thought about whether there was anything around to embarrass him. He decided it was all clear. She would just have to understand about the life-size poster of Daryl Hannah on his wall.
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His room was overloaded with stuff and very untidy.
‘Slob!’ she exclaimed. ‘Like I mean you totally get off on disgusting mess.’
Grabbing her from behind he rubbed his hands across her small breasts – bra-less beneath a baggy tee-shirt.
She didn’t push him away as usual; instead she stood very still allowing him the feel he had been waiting months for.
His hard-on chafed for escape as he slid his hands underneath the flimsy tee-shirt and reached bare tit.
Still she didn’t object.
He fingered the tips of her nipples and groaned, waiting for her to stop him.
She turned around and faced him. ‘Do you wanna do it?’ she asked, her eyes unusually bright.
Did he want to? There was smoke coming out of his ears as he tried to appear casual. On the surface he was Mister Cool, but in reality he was nervous as hell.
‘Do you?’ she persisted, amber eyes staring into his.
‘Yeah,’ he managed.
‘So do I,’ she said, slowly pulling her tee-shirt over her head.
* * *
‘You invited Heaven tonight, didn’t you?’ Nora asked in the limo on the way back to the house.
Silver gazed out of the tinted side window. ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ she replied coolly.
Nora grunted her disapproval, which caused Silver to come up with a list of reasons why she had not invited her only child to her birthday party. They ranged from ‘There’ll be nobody else her age there’ – which was a lie, because two of the actors from Palm Springs were under twenty, and they would certainly be there – to ‘She hates parties.’ Which was something Silver could not possibly guess, as she knew nothing of her daughter’s likes and dislikes. In fact, since being back in America, she had managed to see Heaven as little as possible. ‘It wouldn’t be wise for me to disrupt her life,’ she told anyone who asked. And then she would add with a conspiratorial laugh and a knowing wink, ‘Besides, I’m hardly a mother figure, am I?’
The truth was that having a teenage daughter did not suit Silver one bit. It made her feel her age, and anything that made her feel that was banished from her life.
Nora projected silent disapproval.
‘Why?’ Silver asked at last. ‘Do you think I should have?’
‘Given that you’ve invited a hundred and fifty of your closest friends, and more than a smattering of the press, I don’t think it’s such a terrible idea. After all, she’ll be reading about it in every gossip column in town, so maybe you should give her the choice of attending or not. There’s still time to ask her.’
‘God!’ Silver sighed dramatically. ‘As if I don’t have enough problems!’
Chapter Nine
Unpacking boxes had lost its thrill. Corey’s visit had upset Jade and she found that she could no longer concentrate. In frustration she sat down and consulted the LA. pages of her phone book. Several of the friends listed belonged to Mark, so she left them alone, and tried a fellow model and ex-roommate, black and exotic Beverly D’Amo. Beverly had moved to Los Angeles two years ago to pursue an acting career, and was now, according to her answering service, in Peru, and not expected back for a while. Disappointed, Jade called another model friend from New York. The girl kept her on the phone for thirty-five minutes complaining about an errant husband. Next, she spoke to a married girlfriend; this one was in the throes of a messy divorce. Man trouble was obviously catching.
A more fun group seemed to be the way to go, so she telephoned Antonio – the photographer, an amusing friend once you got over his I am a star photographer trip. They had worked together often and enjoyed many a great night out in New York when he visited.
‘I’m here,’ she announced. ‘And the good news is that I’m a free agent, so let’s get together. Preferably tonight.’
‘Bellissima!’ he crooned. ‘My bella Jade. What dee-lightful pleasure to hear your voice.’
‘You too, baby. How’s Dix?’
‘Dead!’ was the dramatic retort.
‘Another one hits the dust, huh?’ She was not surprised. Antonio had a new boyfriend every month, and according to him they all let him down.
‘He was Eeenglish,’ Antonio snorted, as if that explained everything.
‘Well…’ she said. ‘That makes two of us with dead boyfriends. I gave Mark back to his wife.’
‘Bene. He was Eeenglish. Tonight I take you to the birthday part of the true beetch.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Seelver Anderson. The woman kill when she see you. Dress up, bella.’
Hanging up the phone she decided a big Hollywood party in the company of the waspish Antonio was just what she needed. Usually the word party produced an instant excuse. Mark shied away from them – probably because he did not wish to risk being photographed with her.
What had he told his wife? They had often been caught by stray paparazzi leaving Elaine’s restaurant in New York, or attending the opening of a new art gallery. Knowing Mark, he no doubt passed her off as a casual acquaintance, and aristocratic Lady Fiona must have believed every lying word. Mark and his clever lies. God!
Pouring a glass of wine, she allowed herself the pleasure of reliving the denouement.
* * *
Lord Mark Rand returned from a photographic trip, his thin features flushed with enjoyment, his brown wavy hair untidy – like a little boy’s. He was almost fifty, but looked no more than thirty-five. The plan was that he spend six days in New York with her, and then return to London. Usually he divided his time between England and America, with numerous foreign assignments in between.
Dropping various camera cases, he put both arms around her. ‘Hello, lovely lady. Are you ready to give home and comfort to an extremely tired Englishman?’
Six years was just about to be part of her past. She didn’t want to rush it. ‘You smell like a camel,’ she remarked, wrinkling her nose.
Laughing, he said, ‘Bathe me. Cover me with sweet oils. Massage my tired body and I shall be yours forever.’
What a corny English asshole. Why had it never bothered her before?
He walked into the crowded living room of her Village apartment. Quite a few times he had suggested she move uptown to a more expensive place. ‘You can afford it,’ he would complain. ‘Why stay here?’ Never once had he offered to share the rent. Not that she needed his money, she did very nicely on her own. Still… the offer would have shown commitment.
It never bothered her until they split.
‘How was the trip?’ she asked.
‘God, it was unbelievable!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Sunsets the like of which even I have never seen before.’
‘And the girls?’ She referred to the three models he had been photographing for an upmarket nude calendar layout.
‘Young. Boring. And stupid.’
‘Did you sleep with them?’
Raising an eyebrow he looked at her quizzically. ‘What a strange question.’
‘Do you sleep with your wife?’
Frowning, he said, ‘What is the matter with you? You know I don’t. We’ve discussed it many times.’
She stared at him. ‘I want you to tell me again.’
Shaking his head he chanted, ‘I did not sleep with my three dopey little model girls. And I do not sleep with my wife.’ He paused. ‘Does that satisfy you?’
‘How long is it since you have slept with her?’
‘Jade—’ an edge crept into his voice – ‘I’m tired and I’m very hungry. It’s been an arduous journey and I would like to relax.’
‘How long, Mark?’
She was giving him one last chance to be truthful and tell her everything.
‘Fiona and I have not slept together since I met you,’ he snapped. ‘You know that perfectly well, and I resent being questioned in this way.’
Her eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Not even once?’
He returned her gaze unblinkingly. ‘Not even twice.’ Removing his jacket
he added, ‘Now, please may I have a scotch and soda. A hot bath. And the unadulterated pleasure of your beautiful body. In that order.’
It was over, but why not prolong it? Make him suffer, as he had done to her.
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said lightly. ‘One large scotch with a dash of soda coming up. And I’ll get your bath ready.’
He relaxed. ‘What a girl!’
What an English asshole!
In the bathroom she turned on the water to fill the tub – only the hot. Then she went into the kitchen and poured Kentucky bourbon into a plastic glass – Mark hated plastic glasses almost as much as he hated bourbon – and added two cubes of ice – which he couldn’t stand.
Whistling, and looking ridiculous in baggy boxer shorts, Mark strolled into the bathroom. She followed him with his drink.
Stripping off his shorts he stepped into the steaming tub. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he screamed, hopping out immediately. ‘It’s scalding hot!’
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, handing him his drink.
‘He took a healthy sip and almost gagged. ‘This is bourbon,’ he said accusingly. ‘You know I hate bourbon.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She stared at him without feeling. He was not the most attractive sight in the world standing in her bathroom, naked. His legs were too skinny, and bright red feet and calves from the boiling hot bath water did not help matters. He had a limp penis, a slight paunch, and a chest matted with gingery hair flecked with grey.
This was exactly how she wanted to remember him.
‘There appears to be something on your mind,’ he said at last. Apparently he was not completely insensitive to her feelings.
Reaching into her pocket she pulled out the crumpled clipping of Lady Fiona cradling the latest little Lord or whatever it was.
Keeping his cool, he glanced at it. ‘Oh,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s a printing error. Damned silly mistake. This is a picture of Fiona with my brother’s child.’
He must think she was an idiot. And why not, indeed? She had behaved like one for six years.
‘I checked,’ she said coldly. This is your son.’