Hollywood Divorces / Hollywood Wives: The New Generation (8 page)

E
ric Vernon whistled tunelessly as he followed the girl in her silver BMW, watching her as she went about her business–such as it was. After weeks of trailing her, he’d soon realized that she never did much of anything. Most mornings she attended a kickboxing class, picked up a styrofoam cup of coffee from Starbucks, then sometimes she went shopping along Melrose, or met a girlfriend for lunch. Most times she headed back up to her boyfriend’s house at the top of Mulholland where she lived, then spent the rest of the day lying by the pool, putting in time on her already perfect tan.

Lazy spoiled bitch. It was patently obvious she didn’t have to work for a living like most people–Eric Vernon included.

He resented her lifestyle. It wasn’t right that someone could go along week after week, month after month, doing exactly nothing.

Eric’s mother had been a maid to a rich family in Philadelphia. She’d had no husband to support her because his dad had walked when he was only a few months old. This meant that six days a week his mom was forced to clean up after two adults and three over-privileged children, two girls and a boy. The boy was the same age as him, and sometimes his mother had dragged him along with her to help scrub the tile floors.

Help with the floors, for crissakes. He was nine years old and down on his knees, while the other boy–the sneering, spoiled prick–was playing with an expensive model train set and laughing at him behind his back. When he’d complained to his mother, she’d beaten him with a broom and told him he was useless and a burden and should learn to shut up.

It wasn’t the first time she’d laid into him, and it certainly wasn’t the last. Beatings were a normal part of his day.

Eric learned anger at an early age. He also learned how to hide it.

Eric smiled when the lady of the house passed on her son’s hand-me-downs.

Eric smiled and pissed in their drinking water.

Eric smiled and systematically broke all of the children’s toys in such a way that nobody could ever point the finger at him.

Eric smiled and spat in their food kept in plastic containers in the fridge.

Eventually his mother was fired, no reason given, simply a month’s severance pay and a heartless, ‘We do not require your services any more.’

She died of heart failure within months. Eric didn’t particularly care. She was a mean bitch and at least he wouldn’t have to endure the daily beatings she handed out.

Years later he’d run into the son of the family she’d worked for at an after-hours club. He’d recognized him immediately, the same smug features and preppy clothes. Eric had paid an acquaintance two hundred dollars to beat the crap out of him. The result–permanent eye damage–was satisfying.

After his mother’s demise, Eric had been sent to live in a series of foster homes. Nobody kept him long. He was cited as being difficult, destructive and moody, not qualities
anyone welcomed. He spent time with a couple of state-certified shrinks who labelled him deeply disturbed and depressed.

Depressed? Shit. Didn’t the dumb bureaucrats get it? He was fucking furious.

At sixteen he was out on his own, making a living any way he could–delivering drugs, stealing cars, knocking off liquor stores. Until he got caught and suffered ten months in a correctional institution for juveniles, a place that
really
fired his anger.

As soon as he got out he was prepared for a life of crime. Realization had dawned that you sure as hell never got anything the legitimate way.

Within weeks he’d attached himself to a Puerto Rican drug dealer and his girlfriend. It didn’t take long before he was cheating the man on his profits and fucking his girlfriend.

When the dealer found out, the evil bastard had hired a couple of goons to break his arms and legs. They’d left him in a downtown dumpster like a piece of useless trash.

Eric had never forgotten the pain and humiliation he’d suffered. Seven years later he’d tracked the man down and beaten him to a pulp outside a restaurant. Then he’d stood there and laughed as the man choked to death on his own vomit.

Later, the bitch girlfriend had fingered him, but with the help of a good lawyer and his entire bankroll, he got away with manslaughter.

After that, prison. Six long, grim years. Years he would never forget. Years of harsh punishment and pain.

Revenge was a good thing.

Money was even better.

At thirty-two, Eric knew it was time to make the big score.

And that score was soon to be Nicci Stone.

B
y the time Lissa recovered her composure and came downstairs, she found Gregg lounging in the den watching football on the satellite TV as if nothing bad had happened.

Out of all her husbands he was definitely the worst. She’d married her first husband when she was a kid, so he didn’t really count. Number two, Antonio, was a charming womanizer who simply couldn’t help himself. And number three, the Washington businessman, had turned out to be more interested in business than her.

Yes, Gregg took the prize big-time. Not only was he screwing around, spending her money
and
putting her down, but he’d actually
forced
himself upon her,
raped
her, and she’d accepted it because she wanted to ease him out quietly.

She couldn’t wait until Friday. Couldn’t wait to never have to set eyes on him again.

‘We’re supposed to go over to James and Claude’s tonight,’ she said, forcing herself to speak in a civil fashion. ‘They’re running the new Mel Gibson film.’

‘
You
go,’ Gregg said, barely glancing at her. ‘It’s not my scene hanging out with a bunch of fags. Anyway, I’m working tonight.’

‘Really?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘What are you working on now?’

‘Don’t you ever listen?’ he fired back. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ he added sarcastically. ‘Unless it’s about
you,
Miss Famous Movie Star never hears a thing.’

‘So tell me again,’ she answered calmly.

‘A friend of mine is interested in me scoring his movie. He’s running a rough cut.’

Gregg’s lies were a joke. Up until now she’d accepted them because she hadn’t wanted to face up to the truth of another failed marriage.

‘Would this be the same friend who tells you you’re the best lover in the world and have the most beautiful cock?’ she wanted to ask. But she didn’t, she remained silent, remembering her promise to Michael that she wouldn’t initiate a fight. ‘Okay,’ she said, keeping it light. ‘I’ll see you later.’

She didn’t feel like going to James and Claude’s by herself, and she certainly had no desire to sit through a movie. But it sure beat the alternative, which would be watching Gregg get ready for a rendezvous with his latest girlfriend. And that, she knew, she couldn’t stand.

‘You’re distracted,’ Carol said, busily loading the dishwasher. ‘What’s up?’

‘Huh?’ Michael answered. They had recently finished an early steak dinner, which she’d cooked, and now they were contemplating catching a movie.

‘Distracted,’ Carol repeated. ‘Not here with me.’

Michael had a strong suspicion it was time for the speech.
You’re too good for me. I’m not ready for a relationship. I don’t want to hurt you. You’ll find someone better than me.
Sooner than anticipated, but he had a feeling that if he allowed Carol to get any closer, she’d be hard to shake.

Not that there was anything wrong with her. She was thirty-two, an attractive redhead with a pleasing personality and a good body. She was successful at her real estate job,
not too bitter about failing as an actress, an excellent cook, and very fond of him.

Too fond. He knew that any second she was about to come out with the L word, and he had to avoid that at all costs.
No thankyouverymuch.
The L word smacked of commitment, and Michael Scorsinni was a loner. That’s the way he liked it, and that’s the way it had to stay. ‘I’m not distracted,’ he said vaguely. ‘Just thinking.’

‘About what?’ Carol asked, as she finished loading the dishwasher.

‘About what movie we should see,’ he replied, annoyed that she was attempting to invade his private thoughts.

‘Oh,’ she said mockingly. ‘
Such
concentration.’

He couldn’t stand it when she tried to be cute. Carol was definitely beginning to grate.

‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the new Mel Gibson movie,’ he said, wondering why he always allowed himself to get caught in a trap.

‘It doesn’t open until Friday,’ she said, taking off her apron.

‘Clint Eastwood’s got a new one,’ he suggested.

‘Too violent for me.’

‘Hey,
you
choose,’ he said, thinking that’s what she was doing anyway.

‘Julia Roberts, of course,’ she said with an irritating smile. ‘The critics claim her latest is a woman’s film, but you can sleep if you get bored.’

He shot her a look. ‘Big of you.’

‘I’ll call the theatre, see what time it starts,’ she said, leaving the room.

Why did she have to call? Why couldn’t she look up the time in the paper like everyone else?

All night long he’d been thinking about Lissa Roman, wondering what was going on at her house. Was she doing okay? Should he phone and check?

No. That wouldn’t be cool. What if the husband answered? He had a bad feeling about Gregg Lynch. The guy was a jerk. How could any sane man cheat on Lissa? She was so talented and beautiful, and on top of that she seemed genuinely nice. A rare combination. Michael had come across a few movie stars in his line of work, and as far as he could tell, they were all neurotic wrecks who looked better on the screen than off.

Carol came back in, a sweater knotted loosely across her shoulders. ‘We’d better get a move on,’ she said briskly. ‘It starts in ten minutes.’

So now he had to sit through a woman’s movie. Great. But it was probably easier than giving Carol the break-up speech. He had to prepare himself for that. It took time and courage, and he wasn’t quite ready.

Claude St Lucia’s mansion in Hancock Park was lavish in the old Hollywood style. There was an enormous entry hall, an old-fashioned sweeping limestone staircase and several entertaining rooms all filled with an over-abundance of French Baroque furniture.

Dinner at James and Claude’s always included a mix of interesting and gifted people, most of whom were regulars. They dropped by once a week to have dinner and see the latest movie before it hit the theatres.

Lissa knew almost everyone. She circulated, trying her best to look as if she was having an enjoyable time. Mel Gibson’s agent, the always charming Ed Limato, was there. Lissa often wished he was
her
agent because he was the best, but so far she’d remained loyal to Craig Lloyd, the agent who’d negotiated her first big deal. She also spotted Anne and Arnold Kopelson, the superstar producing team. And across the room was the statuesque actress Anjelica Huston, one of Hollywood’s finest, with her imposing husband, the famed sculptor, Robert Graham.

James was the only one who sensed she wasn’t her usual self. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.

Now was not the time to tell him, he’d find out soon enough. ‘Everything’s fine, James,’ she said lightly. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Where’s Gregg?’ he asked, peering at her knowingly.

Out fucking his new girlfriend.

‘Uh…collaborating on the score for a movie.’

‘Isn’t
that
good news? Makes a pleasant change to hear he’s working.’

‘Don’t be bitchy.’

‘Why not?’ James said archly. ‘Surely you know it’s my thing.’

‘And he’s proud of it too,’ said Charlie Dollar, joining in. Charlie was a permanently stoned, award-winning movie star, with droopy eyelids and a lopsided grin. Charlie had been hitting on Lissa for years, but so far she’d resisted his fifty-something charms.

‘I got a movie for you an’ me t’ do together, kiddo,’ Charlie said with a sly wink. ‘An updated version of
Last Tango.
You an’ me, babe, add a pound or two of butter, an’ it’s got mega-hit written all over it.’

‘Think I’ll pass, Charlie.’

Another sly wink. ‘You’re makin’ a big mistake.’

‘I don’t think so,’ James said, hustling her away from Charlie’s lecherous leer.

Somehow she got through the evening, and when she arrived home she was relieved to find that Gregg was still out.

Only one more day and night
, she thought.
I can do it. And I will.

Early Thursday, Nicci sped out to the airport in her BMW to meet Evan. She was excited about seeing him. Even
more excited about seeing Brian-although her attraction to him was her deep dark secret, a secret she wouldn’t admit to anyone.

She watched the private jet land, and when the brothers alighted, trailed by Teena, she raced across the tarmac, arms outstretched.

Evan grabbed her in a bear hug and twirled her around. He genuinely loved her, she knew
that.
At least she was sure of
something.

Brian, walking behind, nodded in her direction. ‘Hey,’ he said abruptly.

‘Hey, Brian,’ she said, matching his mood. ‘Need a ride?’

‘Nope, I got one,’ he said, striding ahead of them, allowing her an excellent view of his tight butt in faded Levi’s.

She observed that his ride was a short-haired blonde in a convertible Mustang. ‘Hmm…’ she said to Evan, as they got in her car. ‘
Where
does he find them? I’ve like
never
seen him with the same one twice.’

‘Who cares?’ Evan said, throwing his carry-on bag onto the back seat. ‘As long as he doesn’t get them from the set.’

‘I’m
so
totally psyched you’re back!’ she exclaimed, trying to forget about Brian, although every time she was in his company he got her adrenaline pumping in a most unsettling way. ‘I hate it when you’re away.’

‘You should’ve come with me,’ he said, cracking his knuckles.

‘Not when you’re working.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Brian wouldn’t like it,’ she said, brushing her long bangs out of her eyes.

He threw her a quizzical look. ‘Since when do we care what Brian likes?’

I care
, she thought,
because even though I love you, I’ve got this stupid little crush on your brother, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sorry, Evan, I’ll get over it.

Eventually.

Lying in bed in her Pacific Palisades fifteen-million-dollar mansion, Taylor was in a reflective mood. Being Mrs Lawrence Singer was an easy job on account of everyone kissed her ass big-time.

Taylor knew why, and she also knew what would happen if she stopped being Mrs Singer. She would be out with a capital O.
Persona non grata.
Hollywood ranks would close, and that would be that.

There is nothing colder than the ex-Hollywood wife of a famous, powerful man. Unless that ex-wife creates her own particular brand of heat, she is useless to all her former best friends.

Oh, yes, Taylor knew there would be exceptions. Lissa for one. Lissa had known her when she was a working actress, before she hooked up with Larry, and in spite of her own enormous fame, Lissa had always been a loyal friend.

Stella, of course, would take off like a getaway car racing away from a heist. No way would Stella hang with someone who wasn’t in the upper echelons of the Hollywood hierarchy.

James would be ambiguous. He wouldn’t go out of his way to see her, and yet if they bumped into each other, he wouldn’t ignore her.

Kyndra could go either way. There was no anticipating anything Kyndra did.

Not that Taylor was thinking of ending her marriage. On the contrary, her marriage was the only secure thing she had. Plain fact of life–Larry adored her and would do anything she asked.

Well…almost anything. He wouldn’t put her in one
of his movies–claimed it would smack of nepotism. He wouldn’t offer to direct
her
movie. He wouldn’t even executive produce. When it came to all things career-wise, Larry stood firm.

Damn him for that. All she needed was a little help.

Okay, so he’d got her a deal at Orpheus pending script approval, but he could’ve done more. He
should
’ve done more.

That’s why I’m having an affair,
she rationalized.
To punish him for
not
doing more.

Last night she’d watched him being honoured again. She’d watched them all bow and scrape and hang onto his every word.

In the limo, on the way home, she’d closed the smoked-glass partition, shutting off their regular driver, and given Larry the blow job of his life.

Nobody gave a better blow job than Taylor. If they were giving out master’s degrees for blow jobs, she’d be top of the class.

She’d reduced Lawrence Singer–man of the moment–to a quivering wreck as her tongue and mouth teased him into an earth-shattering orgasm, made all the more exciting because they were in the car and the driver probably suspected what was going on.

When it came to sex, Taylor was in control. She had all the power in that department, and Larry was her willing slave.

Her thoughts turned to Oliver Rock. Falling asleep at his place yesterday had been quite dangerous. And the annoying thing was that they hadn’t even got around to discussing her script, which was supposed to be the reason she was there.

Today would be different. Work first, play second. And to make sure she didn’t fall asleep, she’d take her small Cartier alarm clock with her.

Oliver Rock.

She couldn’t get enough.

Sometimes Nicci wondered if Brian even knew she existed. His attitude at the airport had been typical, a cool ‘Hi’ and that was it. He
never
said more than a few words to her.

Was
that
the attraction? Could it be that he piqued her interest because he
was
so cool?

Usually men came on to her big-time. But not Brian. Oh, no. He acted as if she didn’t exist. And it was really weird because he obviously loved women since he was always with a different one.

So what the hell was wrong with
her
?

‘Brian doesn’t like me,’ she announced in the car on their drive back to the house.

‘Why would you say that?’ Evan asked, popping a breath mint.

‘He never
says
anything to me,’ she complained.

‘He never says anything to me either.’

‘That’s nuts,’ she said, shuddering the BMW to a sudden halt at a stop sign. ‘You two work together.’