‘You likee my dress?’ she asked.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to say that she looked like a short, tiered Christmas cake. He wanted to say, cut your hair, lose fifteen pounds and put on a plain black dress. He wanted to say – Bring back the old tits, I liked them better.
‘Dynamite!’ he exclaimed, wondering if Whitney would be at the party.
She smiled happily. ‘I knew you’d like it.’
When she was his secretary she had worn neat tailored suits and plain, well-cut dresses. She had kept her hair up and featured little jewellery. Now she looked like a walking advertisement for a fancy jewellery store.
She held up a bracelet-laden wrist. ‘You likee?’
He inspected multiple diamonds. ‘Very nice.’
‘Very nice!’ she squealed, grabbing him in a hug. ‘You’re the most generous man in the world!’
Wasn’t he just! Even his accountant – a seasoned veteran of Hollywood marriages – was beginning to blanch at the constant stream of bills. ‘Can’t you keep her home at least one day a week?’ he’d complained. ‘The woman is a walking charge card!’
Howard saw no way of stopping her, short of breaking both her legs.
‘Get dressed, Howie,’ Poppy said. ‘It’s party time. We don’t want to be late, do we?’
It was the first time she had been ready before him in five years of marriage. He was too busy thinking about Whitney to wonder why.
Chapter Twelve
‘I invited her,’ Nora Carvell said.
Silver felt a small stab of annoyance. Who needed a teenage daughter to remind her of the creeping years? ‘Is she coming?’ was her casual response as she stripped off her clothes in the privacy of her bedroom and pulled on a silk robe.
Nora lit a fresh cigarette from the smouldering butt attached firmly to her lower lip. ‘She said she’ll try.’
What Heaven had actually said was a sarcastic ‘Why doesn’t she wait until it’s all over to ask me? Don’t count on me bein’ there. As if she gives a shit.’ For her years Heaven was quite eloquent.
‘Why don’t you try to get along with your mother?’ Nora had rasped. ‘You haven’t even sent her a card.’
Heaven’s laughter rang out. ‘She’s never sent one to me. In fact I’m lucky to get a cheque three weeks later when you remind her.’
Nora couldn’t deny the truth. ‘Try and make it tonight,’ she urged before hanging up.
There was nothing she would like better than to see mother and daughter get along. A lot of people – including Heaven – thought Silver was a bitch. Nora saw another side of her. She saw a successful woman alone in the world with no real friends. She saw an ambitious woman who had been hurt and used by men. She saw a woman who had alienated her family yet needed them desperately.
‘God!’ Silver exclaimed. ‘She’ll try, indeed! You would think she would run barefoot over hot coals to attend my party.’
Nora said, ‘I’m going home to change, I’ll be back in an hour.’
‘Fine,’ Silver responded, as she tried to decide whether to refresh the heavy makeup she had worn for the Antonio photo session, or take it all off and start again.
She compromised. Left the dramatic eye makeup intact, and cleansed her skin with cotton pads soaked in witch-hazel.
The cold lotion on her face was delightfully soothing. She walked over to her luxurious king-size bed and pulled down the purple satin cover. Pratesi sheets awaited. A welcome lie-down for fifteen minutes was just what she needed.
Her bedroom was peaceful and cool. Pale lilac silk walls complemented the deep purple of the carpet. Mirrors abounded.
Lying back on the bed she tried to empty her mind, but tonight it was impossible. All she could think about was Heaven’s father, and what a bastard he had been.
* * *
Silver Anderson met ‘The Businessman’, as she always referred to him, when she was thirty-one and he was fifty-two. He was extremely rich, very powerful, and naturally – married. Silver was starring on Broadway at the time. She was also divorcing her ex-stepfather and rekindling an affair with her co-star.
The Businessman walked into her life at a party and took over. He was a big man in every way: tall, portly, with heavy features and hooded eyes. Some whispered that his early connections included organized crime. Some whispered that he had the ear of the President. Some whispered that the late Marilyn Monroe was once a girlfriend.
His wife was a social lioness. Small and petite, forever clad in designer clothes, groomed to within an inch of her life, she ruled their three homes with an elegant iron fist.
‘We never fuck’ was one of the first things he revealed. Silver had heard that before, from every married man who ever cheated on his wife.
‘What do you do?’ she asked sweetly.
‘We socialize,’ he replied gruffly, and presented her with a hundred-thousand-dollar diamond necklace from Cartier.
The Businessman was a very demanding man when he found the time. His sexual appetite was voracious, and Silver, who was no slouch in the sexual stakes herself, found him hard to keep up with. He was rough and crude, but God he was exciting!
Silver fell in love with a married man twenty-one years her senior, and she fell hard. On the one hand he treated her like a whore. On the other he showered her with expensive gifts – the diamond necklace was just the beginning.
One day he arrived at the penthouse apartment they used as a meeting place, with two other women. A seductive-looking redhead, and a soigné black girl with the style of a fashion model. Instinctively Silver knew they were hookers. High-class ones, and very costly, but hookers all the same.
Angrily she cornered him in the kitchen after he had fixed them all drinks: ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, if you don’t want it to,’ he replied blandly.
She knew it was what he wanted and her stomach churned. Silver Anderson had been around, but never that much.
They returned to the living room and polite chat. The two girls were good, they knew their stuff. ‘Isn’t it a little hot in here?’ one of them murmured, taking off her light silk jacket.
‘Very hot,’ the other agreed, stretching out her legs and removing her shoes and stockings.
Silver felt The Businessman tense beside her on the couch.
The black girl stood up and smiled seductively. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked, unwrapping her crossover dress. Underneath she wore a scarlet lace G-string and that was all. Her breasts were pointed and polished like the finest onyx.
The redhead stood too. ‘I love to take off my clothes,’ she said softly. ‘I need to feel nothing between me and nature.’ She stretched, allowing her full breasts to fall free of her blouse.
The penthouse apartment was hardly the great outdoors, but Silver got the drift.
Idly the two girls began to touch each other. Fingers caressing breasts and other, more secret places. Tongues warm and soft. The secret places exposed for all to see.
The Businessman’s breathing was laboured. Beneath his trousers Silver saw the proof of his excitement. Without moving from the couch, and without taking his eyes off the two call-girls, he urged Silver to lift her skirt.
She had tried to remain unaffected by what was going on – an impossible task. And to her shame she knew she would do anything he asked. So while the women writhed together on the floor, Silver Anderson lifted her skirt, removed her panties, spread her legs, and allowed The Businessman to mount her and take his ride of perverted passion.
When it was over she felt dirty and humiliated. She was Silver Anderson, not some cheap tramp to be taken and used in front of whores. She was furious with him, and angry at herself for succumbing so easily.
The next day he sent her a ruby as big as an egg and a note. We’ll do it again soon. Like hell they would. She refused to see him in spite of his bombardments of gifts and flowers.
Six weeks later she realized she was pregnant.
The first thi
ng she did was consult her gynaecologist. ‘I don’t want this baby,’ she told him flatly.
He was a charming man with grey hair and a crinkly smile. ‘Why not, my dear? You’re in excellent health.’
‘I know that,’ she said irritably, searching for a suitable reason. ‘I’m not married.’ That would shut him up.
He laughed. Charmingly. ‘Silver, Silver,’ he sighed, placing the tips of his fingers together and rocking back and forth behind his desk. ‘You’re a very famous woman. What does it matter whether you’re married or not? You’ll have a beautiful baby with none of the inconveniences of a husband in the house.’ He chuckled at his own wisdom. ‘You’ll make single motherhood fashionable.’
She liked the idea. Silver Anderson, a pioneer for women! Also the thought of an abortion terrified her. Eventually she decided to go ahead and have the baby.
By the time she gave birth, The Businessman was gone from her life. She had threatened him with exposure to his wife if he didn’t leave her alone. He had no idea the baby was his.
The press went crazy in their quest to find out who the father was, but Silver remained silent. Three months after Heaven was born she moved to Rio with a Brazilian polo player. Heaven was left in New York with a nanny.
As Silver watched the child grow, she regretted giving birth. Every time she looked at Heaven, she was reminded of The Businessman and her unforgettable night of degradation.
Heaven had never asked who her father was. Jack did once, when he came to London to pick up the child. ‘He doesn’t exist,’ she’d said coldly.
Unfortunately he did.
* * *
Silver sighed and stretched. Opening her eyes she stared at the silk draped ceiling above her bed. If Heaven appeared tonight she was not going to be pleased. Damn Nora for asking the girl, and bringing back all the bad memories.
The Baccarat clock on the bedside table told her it was time to start getting ready for her party. She wished she could sleep for ten hours. When was the last time she’d done that? Work… Work… Work… Parties… Parties… Parties…
Ah, well… for great fame you paid a price…
It was worth it.
Almost.
Chapter Thirteen
Mannon Cable worked out in his private gym before getting ready for the party. He didn’t really want to go, he was not fond of parties. This was a favour for Nora Carvell. She had phoned a week before and asked him to attend. Nora was an old friend, and one of the few people in Hollywood he would do anything for. Well, not quite anything – however, if she wanted a favour, she was on. At the beginning of his career she was the one person who was always there for him. The crusty old publicist was in his corner from day one. He recalled walking into her office on the lot the day he signed for his first important movie. Fifteen years ago to be exact.
* * *
Mannon Cable was twenty-seven years old and the best-looking hunk ever to cross Nora Carvell’s path when he walked into her office. Not that she was interested. She preferred girls, always would. Only Mannon didn’t know that, so when he first set eyes on the middle-aged woman with the cropped hair and the permanent cigarette dangling from her lips, he went into his number. Sexy walk. Macho scowl. Cobalt blue eyes scorching everything in sight.
‘Take a seat,’ Nora snapped. ‘And tell me your life history. Then we’ll make something up.’ She shuffled some papers around on her desk. ‘Have you been over to the stills department yet?’
‘Nope.’ He shook his head.
She squinted at his sun-kissed good looks, trying to decide how to sell this new piece of beefcake. ‘Go ahead. Shoot.’
He told her about being born in Montana, coming to Los Angeles at nineteen. Studying at various acting classes, working as a waiter, an extra, a gas pump attendant, a repossessor of cars, and a stunt man.
‘Married?’ she asked.
‘Nope,’ he replied.
‘Homosexual?’ she persisted.
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you kidding?’
Pencil poised, she checked him out for signs of lying. ‘I’m not gonna make it public knowledge, sonny. I just have to know these things so I can protect you.’
‘I am not a queer,’ he said stiffly.
She scribbled on a piece of paper and said, ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ll have you all figured out.’
He returned the next day to be handed a typed sheet of imaginative accomplishments. He was a football hero, an English honours major who had been injured in a football game and told that he would never walk again. For two years he had lain in a hospital bed unable to move until – miracle of miracles – blind faith pulled him through and he came to Hollywood and was discovered for this very movie he was about to make.
‘This is all lies,’ he protested.
She shrugged. ‘So I bent the truth a little. Big deal.’
‘I don’t like it.’
Inhaling cigarette smoke she said, ‘You don’t havta like it, sonny, just remember it.’
He shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘It’s studio policy. Bio info’s gotta grab ’em. Whaddya think’s gonna grab ’em about your background?’ A cloud of smoke enveloped her and she began to cough. ‘Are you sure you’re not a fag? Y’live with two other guys. What’s the deal?’
‘Get fucked,’ he steamed, and walked out.
After that they became good friends. It was Nora’s idea that he do the Burt Reynolds spoof centrefold. He did it with a big, shit-eating grin and a large picture of a strutting cock (the barnyard variety) covering his strutting cock (the Mannon Cable variety). It caused quite a stir, and everyone knew who Mannon Cable was after that.
When Nora left the studio a few years later she came to work for him as his personal publicist. Eventually she went off to live in Italy with her companion of many years, and when her lover died she came back to America and took a job at City Television. Her first assignment was Silver Anderson. She had worked with her ever since.
* * *
Mannon finished a series of gruelling press-ups, and threw a towelling robe over his shorts. When he was married to Whitney, parties were a rare event. Whitney was content to stay at home on the ranch, just the two of them. She liked to ride their horses, walk on the beach, and join him in fixing a barbecue. Until she started her dumb career and fucked everything up. Now the Malibu ranch was sold, the horses too. Home was a formal mansion on Sunset Boulevard, and he wasn’t happy.
Melanie-Shanna waited in the games room, which featured a pool table, full western bar, and his collection of guns on the walls.
When Mannon had showered and dressed he joined her.
‘Hi, honey,’ she greeted him quietly. ‘Feeling good?’
‘Yeah, great.’
He didn’t know what it was about Melanie-Shanna – it wasn’t her fault, she just aggravated the hell out of him. Maybe it was because she was his wife and Whitney wasn’t. They had met when he went to Houston to make a movie. While he was there, recovering from Whitney’s walk-out and her subsequent affair with Chuck Nielson, he had judged a beauty contest. Melanie-Shanna, with her mane of auburn hair, her clean, long-limbed body, and her sweet smile, was the natural winner. He had taken her out to dinner a few times. Then he had taken her in to dinner. One thing led to another and he made love to her on the floor of his sumptuous suite. She was only twenty years old when they married a week later. Whitney was nearly thirty. Let her eat her heart out.
Basically Mannon married Melanie-Shanna to make Whitney jealous. It didn’t work. And it left him in the crapper with a young wife and no pre-nuptial agreement. To make matters even worse, Melanie-Shanna adored him.
‘Can I fix you a drink, honey?’ she asked.
‘Why do you always have to tag honey onto the end of every sentence?’ he said aggressively.
‘Sorry, hon – er, dear. I’m not aware that I do.’
‘Well, be aware,’ he warned. ‘It makes you sound like a cheap dance hostess.’
She turned away so that he couldn’t see her large eyes fill with tears. What was she doing wrong? For months he had hardly had a good word to say to her. When they first met he had been so loving and kind, truly the man of her dreams. He hadn’t known that for years she’d had his picture tacked on her wall after seeing him in Sweet Revenge. Mannon Cable had always been her favourite movie star.
Now she was Mrs Mannon Cable, and it wasn’t making either of them happy.
Quietly she poured scotch into a glass, added ice cubes and handed it to him.
He swallowed the drink in two gulps. ‘I suppose we’d better go,’ he said dourly, walking to the door. ‘And I’m warning you, I don’t want to stay late.’
‘Neither do I,’ she said, following him out. Tonight she wanted to come home early. Because tonight she was going to tell him they were expecting a baby.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Wanna go party?’ Heaven asked Eddie on the phone.
He laughed, low-down and dirty. ‘I thought we had our own party this afternoon.’
‘Some party,’ she giggled.
‘A blast, right?’
‘A big blast.’
‘You wanna repeat it?’
She paused. ‘I have another sort of party in mind.’
‘Aw…’ Eddie said. ‘I hate those open parties. They’re always full of kids, an’ I hate not gettin’ in the house, an’ being treated like garbage, an’—’
‘This is a proper party,’ she interrupted. ‘Like a Beverly Hills party, with movie stars and fancy food and probably some dumb band.’
‘Food?’ Eddie questioned. ‘Real food?’
‘I guess.’
‘Who invited us?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Nobody invited you,’ she responded tartly. ‘Only I can take you,’ she taunted. ‘That’s if I want to, an’ if your car’ll get us over the hill.’
‘Whose party is it?’
‘My mother finally remembered I’m alive.’
‘Silver Anderson?’
‘I’m not related to Linda Evans, you geek.’
There was a short silence while Eddie digested this information. Finally he said, ‘What’ud I have to wear?’