Hollywood Divorces / Hollywood Wives: The New Generation (3 page)

‘Oh,
sure,
’ Stella said, laughing derisively. ‘Like
Lissa
would audition.’

‘For Larry, I might,’ Lissa said, handing the waiter her credit card. ‘After all, he and Spielberg
are
the two finest directors around.’

‘I prefer them more cutting edge myself,’ Stella remarked, ‘such as Guy Ritchie or Sam Mendes.’

‘American Beauty
, an American classic.’ James sighed reverently. ‘Claude and I saw it four times.’

‘Really?’ Taylor said, with a bitchy edge. ‘And which one of you had the hots for Kevin Spacey?’

‘Pu-lease,’
James drawled. ‘He’s hardly my type.’

‘Everyone
’s your type,’ Kyndra joked.

James shot her an ‘I do not appreciate jokes at my expense’ look.

‘Personally I preferred
Snatch
,’ Lissa said. ‘Guy Ritchie has amazing style.’

‘We’
re using an excellent director on
our
new project,’ Stella said, picking a lychee from a dish set in the middle of the table. ‘A young English guy who’s shot several award-winning television commercials.’

‘Lots of luck, dear,’ James interjected. ‘TV directors are notorious for going way over budget–
especially
the English. Claude says they’re not worth the hype.’

‘Nobody’s going over budget with Seth and me on his case,’ Stella boasted. ‘We know how to kick
major
ass.’

‘
Such
a lady,’ James murmured.

‘Just like you, dear,’ Stella retaliated.

Laughter all around.

The waiter returned with Lissa’s credit card. She signed the check and got up to leave.

‘Where’re you rushing off to, anyway?’ Kyndra asked.

Lissa decided there was no reason to tell them that she had a meeting with a private investigator. It was embarrassing enough that divorce number four might be lurking on the horizon–why tip it before it happened?

Not that any of them particularly liked Gregg. Even before she’d married him her friends had warned her. Kyndra had accused him of being a user; Taylor commented he hit on other women when he wasn’t with her; and Stella observed that he seemed to be extremely needy. How right they all were.

Nobody had mentioned that, apart from being a user, a flirt and needy, he was also stone-cold broke and had been going through her money at the speed of sound. He’d lost over a million dollars on the stock market, and that was just the beginning.

No more, because she was sure that the private investigator she’d hired would come up with plenty of incriminating evidence.

Call it woman’s instinct, but she knew that marriage number four was definitely over.

Shortly after Lissa left the restaurant, Taylor announced she had a meeting with her writer and had to rush.

‘Jesus!’ Stella exclaimed. ‘How long have you been working on this script of yours now?’

‘Too long,’ Taylor said, with a grimace. ‘And I’m
still
stuck in development hell.’

‘Surely Larry can help?’ James asked.

Yes
, Taylor thought grimly.
He can and he will.

When she’d first got involved with the project, she
hadn’t imagined that she’d require her husband’s assistance. She’d been determined to prove to Hollywood that there was more than
one
talent in the family, that she was quite capable of getting a movie off the ground by herself.

The truth was that–dammit–she couldn’t. Hollywood was basically a boys’ town, and even though she was married to one of the boys, when she was out there operating on her own, it didn’t make any difference.

This was infuriating, because more than anything Taylor craved recognition and her own identity. Hollywood knew her as Mrs Lawrence Singer, the wife of an extraordinarily multi-talented man who had three Oscars on his mantel and numerous other awards. A man who was well respected and well liked. And just because she was his wife (second), so was she.

Larry was, at fifty, only a mere sixteen years older than her–hardly an age-gap in Hollywood circles, where the norm was at least twenty years.

Successful men usually dumped their first wives within several years of making it big. Then they married the second much younger wife, and started another family, claiming that they would now be able to spend quality time with their new offspring–conveniently forgetting how much this self-serving statement pissed off their original children.

Stella’s husband, Seth, was a classic example.

Taylor had decided that children were not on her agenda for now. First, a kick-ass career, then maybe a kid or two. It wasn’t as if Larry was desperate–the one time they’d discussed it, he’d told her he didn’t care either way. He had a teenage daughter from his first marriage, and fortunately the girl resided in Hawaii with her mother, so Taylor hardly ever saw her.

She and Larry had been married for five years. They’d lived together for eighteen months before he’d got his divorce–a divorce that had cost him millions, but he
hadn’t seemed to mind. Taylor
had
minded. Especially when his lawyers stepped in and suggested that
she
sign a pre-nuptial. She’d moved out of his house in a rage, and not spoken to him for days. Her behaviour paid off. He’d begged her forgiveness and the pre-nup was never mentioned again.

They’d met on one of his movies. She’d had a small role and he was king of the set. She’d gone after him from day one. Married or not, Larry Singer was destined to be her ticket to ride on
all
the roundabouts.

Tracking him was easy–especially for an experienced player like Taylor, who’d been knocking around Hollywood for several years, snagging small roles in theatrical movies and starring in a couple of failed sit-coms.

Taylor was an ex-cheerleader who’d come to Hollywood after winning a beauty pageant. Once there, she’d managed to fuck her way to the middle.

Larry was an extraordinarily talented, rather plain man who’d never explored his sexual potential.

Taylor had helped him make the trip.

Now it was his turn to help her.

She had a script that was almost right, and so it should be: she’d been working on it for long enough, hiring and firing a succession of writers. When the script was exactly the way she wanted it, she planned on directing
and
playing the lead role of a strong woman. So far three studios had passed, and finally she’d been forced to ask Larry to come to her aid. With his kind of clout they both knew he could get anything done.

Pending script approval, he’d set up a deal for her at Orpheus Studios. God knows what he’d promised them to make the deal. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. It was her turn to shine. Her turn to get the recognition. She’d given up her acting career for Larry, and now it was time to get it back on track.

She stood outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring her car–a metallic blue Jaguar that Larry had given her on her last birthday.

In her mind she was just as talented as her famous husband, and it was about time the world realized it.

‘W
e gotta plan your bachelor party,’ Brian Richter remarked, as he finished rolling a joint. ‘Or rather
I
do. All you gotta do is gimme a night, and leave everything else to me.’

‘No party,’ Evan Richter answered stubbornly. They were sitting around a long table covered with scribbled-on script pages in a hotel room in Arizona, where they were on location for their current movie,
Space Blond
.

‘Why not?’ Brian said, lighting up the rolled joint.

‘I’ve been a bachelor forever,’ Evan said, annoyed that he had to explain. ‘Did enough partying to last a lifetime, so what’ve
I
got to prove?’

‘You gotta be shittin’ me?’ Brian said, with a disgusted look. ‘Bachelor parties are the only sane reason for getting married. If you’re gonna lock yourself up in pussy prison, you may as well fuck your balls off before your old lady
cuts
’em off.’

‘You’re sick,’ Evan muttered.

‘No.
I
’m normal,’ Brian retorted, dragging deeply on his joint. ‘
You
’re the fucked-up member of the family.’

‘It’s a tragedy we weren’t separated at birth,’ Evan muttered, wishing it were so.

‘That would’ve suited me just fine,’ Brian retorted. ‘And I’m sure Mom wouldn’t’ve minded.’

The Richter brothers. Fraternal twins. Totally unalike physically. Evan, quirky and nice-looking, but no hunk with his spiky brown hair and lanky frame. Whereas Brian was all piercing blue eyes, beach-blond shaggy hair and a hard body. In spite of Brian’s bad-boy habits–which included gambling, drinking too much, drugging a lot, and indiscriminately sleeping with a variety of nubile females–he was in excellent shape.

The Richter brothers. Hot properties in Hollywood. Hot and unpredictable. Some thought Evan was the one with all the talent because he appeared to be more serious than Brian. But Brian was the one with the best ideas. And Brian was the one who came up with the main story line and wrote most of the scripts. While Evan kept it all together, handled the financial aspects, could unfailingly close any deal, and made sure their movies came in on time and usually under budget.

The Richter brothers were always arguing. It amazed everyone who came in contact with them how they were able to maintain such a successful working relationship. Bicker, bicker, bicker. Day and night they went at it.

Often they threatened to dissolve their partnership and go their separate ways. But usually sanity prevailed, because why mess with something that was making them both more money than they could ever have imagined?

‘How
is
dear little Nicci?’ Brian asked sarcastically. ‘Still calling you six times a day?’

‘We alternate,’ Evan muttered, wondering why he was even bothering to explain.

‘Bullshit,’ Brian said disbelievingly.

‘How come you’re always on her case?’ Evan responded, frowning.

‘Cause she’s nothing but a needy kid.’

Evan glared at his brother. ‘Like
you
date adults,’ he said.

‘I
date
’em, don’t marry ’em,’ Brian pointed out. ‘Marriage is for old people who can’t get it up.’

Fortunately, Teena, their script assistant, rushed into the room, speaking into a cellphone. Short and in her thirties, she was an eccentric-looking woman with hair like straw, decorated with various coloured clips and slides, plus a bold blue streak. Her round face was made more so by the addition of huge wire-rimmed glasses, and she had a prominent snub nose.

‘What’s up?’ Evan said, happy for the interruption, because he was not about to get into a discussion about why he was marrying Nicci with his sex-crazed brother. It was none of his business.

‘Everything,’ Teena said, clicking off the phone and rolling her purple-shadowed eyes. ‘Abbey doesn’t care for her new lines. Harry is under the impression that his trailer is smaller than hers. And Chris can’t handle it. He’s apparently gone into a funk. We’d better get over to the location, pronto.’

Abbey Christian–a leggy twenty-two-year-old natural blonde, with a smile that could light up Christmas. Star of their latest movie. Major player. Major coke-head.

Harry Bello-big-deal comedy actor supreme. Rubber-faced and coming up to fifty. Paranoid about getting older and quite certain that Abbey was receiving better treatment than he was.

Chris Fortune. Boy-wonder director. The same age as Abbey and somewhat intimidated by his two stars–even though he’d directed the big sleeper hit of the previous summer.

‘Freakin’ actors,’ Brian grumbled, exhaling smoke. ‘We should be making
animated
movies.’

‘You finally came up with a decent idea,’ Evan said. ‘No more over-the-top salaries.’

‘Please, guys, let’s move it,’ Teena urged, almost jumping
up and down with agitation. ‘Abbey won’t come out of her trailer. Harry’s sulking. And Chris is heading for a panic attack. We
must
get over there.’

‘Let’s go,’ Brian said, carefully preserving his joint in a Kleenex for later. ‘Nothing like a view of Abbey’s tits to wake me up in the morning.’

‘Remember,’ Evan said ominously, ‘no fucking our star until the movie wraps.’

‘Hey,’ Brian said innocently, ‘I can look, can’t I?’

Lissa Roman went to great lengths to keep her private life private. Which was not easy considering she lived under constant media scrutiny. Danny, her assistant, was a big help. Earlier that day she’d instructed him to hire a car, leave it in the parking lot at Saks, and give her the ticket. He’d done so, no questions asked.

After lunch, she’d had Chuck drop her off at Barneys, instructed him to come back in two hours, walked across to Saks, got into the rented car and driven out to the valley. There was no way she planned to alert Gregg to what was going on, or anyone else for that matter. This was
her
business, and when Lissa wanted to keep something private, she knew how to do it.

Anyway, she was quite capable of driving to the valley on her own. She didn’t need security, just a pair of dark glasses and a baseball cap to hide her tell-tale platinum hair. Besides, it was an adventure doing something on her own for a change.

She put on talk radio and listened to the various call-ins, which was always a trip, until finally she arrived at the Robbins-Scorsinni offices on Ventura, where she was greeted by a plump, middle-aged Asian assistant in a flowered pant suit. The offices were old and kind of run-down, but Lissa felt quite comfortable. She wasn’t looking for one of those hotshot Hollywood PI agencies that knew everyone’s business. This low-key place suited her fine.

Quincy Robbins, who ran the private investigation/ security agency with his partner, Michael Scorsinni, was a pleasant, reliable man, whom Lissa had used on several other occasions for various matters. His partner and himself were ex-New York detectives, and that made her feel secure. When she’d moved into her house several years ago, she’d hired Quincy to be her chief security adviser. She’d never met his partner, but she knew that his reputation was also stellar.

‘Take a seat, please,’ the Asian woman said, with a gummy smile, revealing a row of uneven teeth. ‘I am Mai Lee. Michael will be with you soon.’

‘I’m not here to see Michael,’ Lissa said, anxious to get this over with. ‘Quincy is expecting me.’

‘Nobody contacted you?’ Mai Lee said, sounding surprised.

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Oh dear,’ Mai Lee said, now highly embarrassed. ‘I think
I
was supposed to call you.’

‘About what?’ Lissa said, fast losing her patience.

‘Quincy’s laid up at home,’ Mai Lee said, fluttering her hands. ‘He broke his leg.’

‘You’ve
got
to be kidding?’

‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

‘
When
did this happen?’

‘A few days ago. But not to worry, Michael took over your case. You’ll be happy with Michael, he is most capable.’

Lissa stood up. ‘I always deal with Quincy,’ she said tightly. ‘This could’ve waited if I’d known he wasn’t available.’

‘My fault,’ Mai Lee said, now taking full responsibility. ‘I was supposed to explain. You see, Quincy didn’t seem to think you would
want
to wait.’

Lissa wondered how much Mai Lee knew. This was so
embarrassing, she could see the headlines now–
LISSA ROMAN CATCHES ANOTHER CHEATING HUSBAND.

‘Oh, God!’ She sighed, realizing there was nothing she could do at this late stage. ‘I suppose I’ll have to see Michael. Where is he?’

‘Sorry,’ Mai Lee said apologetically. ‘He’s out of the office right now.’

This was ridiculous. She’d driven all the way out to the valley, and now she was getting a run-around. ‘Are you telling me that you expect me to sit here and wait?’ she said sharply. It wasn’t often she played the star, but one perk of star treatment was never having to wait.

‘He’ll be back soon,’ Mai Lee volunteered. ‘Very soon.’

‘Unbelievable!’ Lissa muttered irritably. ‘I drove over here especially.’

‘There’s plenty of magazines,’ Mai Lee offered soothingly. ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax?’

Why don’t
you
shove it up your ass
? Lissa wanted to say, but she didn’t. That would have been mean and petty, and one thing she was always careful about was preserving a good public image.

I’m nervous
, she thought.
I’m nervous because even though I know for sure that Gregg’s screwing around, it’s still difficult to deal with
. At least Quincy–big, black, comfortable Quincy–would have held her hand and said, ‘Listen, this is something you’re not gonna want to hear, but these are the facts.’

Now she had to hear it from a stranger.

Well, not exactly a stranger, Quincy had often mentioned his partner’s name. ‘My friend, Michael,’ he’d always say. ‘You should’ve seen us when we were detectives together in New York. Michael got shot, nearly bought it. You’ll like him. He’s one of the good guys.’

And yet, over the years, she’d never met him.

She sat down, picked up a magazine and flipped the pages impatiently, until suddenly the door was pushed open and a tall man strode in.

‘Michael,’ Mai Lee said, jumping up, ‘Ms Roman is here.’

He walked right over to her. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said. ‘Quincy insisted I shouldn’t make you wait, but it was unavoidable. I’m really sorry,’ he added, giving her a long, sincere stare.

He had the blackest eyes she’d ever seen, thick jet hair, and dark olive skin–with a two-day stubble. He was handsome, with a dangerous edge–an irresistible combination.

So this is Michael Scorsinni
, she thought.
Quincy never told me he looked like a movie star–only better.

‘Uh…hi,’ she said, and wondered if this might turn out to be easier than she’d thought.