Hollywood Husbands (19 page)

Unfortunately, Antonio was not at his studio. ‘He’s out on a location shoot,’ a bored receptionist told her. ‘You should really call first before coming here.’

‘I
have
called,’ Heaven pointed out. ‘Ten times!’

‘Make it eleven,’ said the receptionist. ‘Antonio is a very busy man.’

Heaven returned to the Valley, dejected but not deterred. She would get to him. Eventually. And when she did, things were going to happen.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A thousand thoughts went through Silver’s head. This man driving her Rolls could be a murderer, a kidnapper, a fan (God forbid!)…

She glanced at him sideways. He had an interesting profile, masculine and rugged. And the air of authority he had shown when rescuing her from the crush and spiriting her outside was quite… hmmm… dare she think it? Horny.

‘May I ask exactly who you are?’ she demanded haughtily.

‘Just call me Robin Hood,’ he replied.

‘Robin Hood stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Is that what
you
intend to do?’

He lightened his foot on the accelerator. ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ he said. ‘Really nice. You do a good deed and get kicked in the balls.’

She thought she detected the slight trace of a rough English accent. Maybe he was a reporter. She gave him a penetrating look. There was something vaguely familiar about him. ‘I’d like to know who you are,’ she repeated crisply. ‘And exactly where you think you are taking me.’

He glanced at her. She liked his eyes – they were knowledgeable eyes,
horny
eyes.

‘Listen, lady,’ he said. ‘You looked like you might be in a small spot of trouble – like getting crushed to death – y’know what I mean?’

‘Maybe,’ she allowed.

‘So I thought I’d do the Good Samaritan bit an’ get you out of there.’ He swerved the powerful car over to the side of the road. ‘I can always take you back if you like.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said quickly;

He set the car in motion again. ‘In that case I’ll take you home – an’ maybe you’ll give me cab fare to get back to my date, who is probably screamin’ thief on account of the fact that I ran off with the keys to her car
and
the ticket for her mink jacket.’

‘Did you leave your wallet behind along with your girlfriend?’ she inquired tartly.

‘Naw. I never carry a wallet.’

‘Where
do
you keep your money?’

‘Wherever it’ll do me the most good.’

She began to laugh. ‘Who
are
you?’ she asked for the third time.

‘Just call me Wes,’ he replied. ‘An’ don’t bother with the introductions ’cos I already know who you are.’

‘
Really?
’ Her sarcastic tone was lost on him. ‘In that case you are one up on me. I’m famous, you’re obviously not. What do you do… Wes?’

He was enjoying himself for a change. Having a conversation with a woman for a change. Christ, she smelled good. ‘What perfume are you wearing?’ he asked.

‘Giorgio. Do you like it?’

‘If I don’t get asphyxiated by the fumes.’

She laughed again. ‘What
do
you do?’

The Rolls was a dream to drive. He felt quite at home behind the wheel. ‘A little bit of this, a little bit of that.’

She hoped he wasn’t an actor.

He read her mind. ‘I’m not an actor.’

‘How did you know what I was thinking?’

‘It figures.’ He turned on Fairfax, and headed up towards Sunset.

‘I presume you know where I live,’ she said acidly.

‘Yeah, only you’ll have to direct me once we get into Bel Air. I always get lost.’

‘Exactly
how
do you know where I live?’ she persisted.

‘I bought a stars’ map. You were on it.’

‘Nonsense.’

He shot her another glance. She looked different from the night of her party. Then it struck him. ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ he remarked.

His face was definitely familiar. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Are you a fan?’

‘Are you kidding?’

She was perplexed. Here she was, hurtling through the night in her car exchanging light banter with a complete stranger (although a familiar one), and she wasn’t the least bit apprehensive. In fact, she was enjoying herself. ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she said. ‘It could have been a nasty situation.’

‘I can see the headlines now,’ he said. ‘Five hundred faggots on top of Silver Anderson. Star gives in to the pressure.’

She couldn’t help being amused. ‘The gay population does not like being called faggots,’ she chided. ‘It’s not a very nice expression.’

‘Excuse me.’

She tried to decide what to do. Should she allow this refreshingly unimpressed man to drive her home? Or should she have him pull over to the side and get the hell out of her car? She was quite capable of driving herself. And maybe she
should
go back for Dennis. Poor Dennis. He must be frantic.

* * *

Sometimes Vladimir invaded Madame’s bedroom when he knew she was safely out for the evening. The maids, her secretary, her new assistant, and Nora Carvell had all gone home.

Vladimir danced into Madame’s private domain and ran the water in her luxurious jacuzzi tub. He stripped off his clothes, went into her dressing room and selected a short curly wig which he placed on top of his wheat-coloured hair. Next he played with a selection of her cosmetics and created a face for himself. When he was finished he had conjured up a great illusion. From a distance he had the Silver Anderson ‘look’ down pat.

* * *

‘Tell me,’ Silver asked. ‘Where
have
we met before?’

‘I was at your party,’ Wes replied truthfully.

‘Oh, of course.’ She decided she must have noticed him across a crowded room and had been attracted to him even then. Because there was no denying it, she
did
find him extremely attractive. Dennis Denby was a baby in bed. This one looked like a man. ‘Who were you there with?’

‘Rocky.’

Ah… he must have been with the Sylvester Stallone group. She relaxed. ‘Well, Wes. Since we’re old friends, you can take me home and I’ll give you a drink. I think it’s the least I can do. Without your quick action I don’t know what would have happened.’

He heard a definite invitation in her voice.
Don’t tell me I’ve scored again
, he thought. Only this time it was
bingo
all the way home.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘Show me a strong woman an’ I’ll show you a dyke,’ Howard said to a room full of his key executives – two of them women. They exchanged looks of fury, but neither of them spoke up. It was difficult enough holding down a top job without making waves. Everybody knew Howard Soloman was coked up half the time; it was best to ignore his sexist remarks.

‘I don’t think she’s a dyke,’ the moon-faced head of production said. ‘I think she just needs to get laid!’

Guffaws all round. They were talking about the Swedish star of an Orpheus film currently shooting in Brazil. She was causing a lot of problems, and because of her the movie was behind schedule.

Howard stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘Listen,’ he said expansively. ‘If she doesn’t get her act together soon I’ll just have to go down there an’ shove my cock in her mouth – that’ll shut her up once and for all!’

More guffaws. More frozen looks between the women.

‘I’m only joking, girls,’ Howard said affably, patting one of them on the behind.

He waited until his office cleared then buzzed his secretary. ‘Any calls?’

‘Orville Gooseberger about the lunch date you’ve postponed three times. Mannon Cable – he mentioned Las Vegas last weekend and said you would know what he was talking about. And Burt Reynolds’s agent.’

‘Okay. Okay. Hold all calls again until I tell you.’

‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’

Howard went into his private bathroom and locked the door. Removing his stash of cocaine from its hiding place, he laid a small amount on a square-cut flat mirror. With a shaking hand he snorted first one nostril and then the other. Christ! Zachary K. Klinger was coming to town and he was a wreck. Only temporarily, though. Two minutes later and he was back in control, feeling like he could kick ass from here to Boston and back. Picking up the phone next to his john, he summoned his secretary. ‘Book me a table at Morton’s for tomorrow night. Eight people. Make sure it’s the front table. Tell ’em I’m bringing Zachary Klinger with me.’

‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’

‘And phone Fred, the jewellery store on Rodeo, and ask Lucy to pick out something nice for my wife. In fact tell her to pick out a couple of pieces, and maybe she can stop by the office tomorrow.’

‘When tomorrow, Mr Soloman? You’re busy all day.’

‘Schedule something. It’s important.’

‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’

‘Did you get that script over to Whitney Valentine?’

‘Yes, Mr Soloman.’

‘When?’

‘This morning, Mr Soloman. Just as you requested.’

Hanging up, he opened the medicine cabinet and swallowed some Maalox. Goddamn production meetings, they always upset his stomach. He didn’t know why, because he was born to run a studio – nothing fazed him – even the Swedish cunt in Brazil who was costing him fortunes.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button on his private line and called Whitney. Nothing had taken place between them yet. They had experienced one lunch and that was it. Sometimes, he decided, the waiting was even better than the happening.

Nobody answered Whitney’s private line, which meant she was out. He imagined her riding along the beach on her horse, hair flying, long limbs gleaming. Or maybe she was swimming in the ocean. No luxurious pools for Whitney – she was an outdoor girl.

Now, if he wished to locate Poppy, he would know
exactly
where to look. The Bistro Garden. She lunched there almost every day at her own special table, holding court among her circle of designer-clad friends. And later – Saks, Magnin’s, Lina Lee, Gucci. She could be tracked down easily at any of those establishments.

Poppy had once told him that being the wife of a studio head was not easy. There were charities to belong to, people to impress, and rigid standards to uphold.

Poppy’s commandments were: Thou shalt not be—

Too fat

Poorly dressed

Badly seated in a restaurant

or

Ignored by those who matter

The list of Those Who Matter changed weekly depending on a variety of things.

Poppy always managed to know.

Howard had no desire to locate his wife. He would see her later for dinner. He would make love to her if he felt like it, or if just imagining what Whitney was like in the sack got him hot enough.

Zachary K. Klinger was coming to town, and he had to be ready for him.

* * *

Mannon Cable had always wanted to be a father, so when Melanie-Shanna hit him with the news that she was pregnant, he was delighted. For about sixty seconds. And then the implications set in. How
could
he have a baby with Melanie-Shanna? Whitney was the love of his life, and Whitney was the only woman he wanted as mother of his children.

‘Are you sure?’ he’d demanded.

She had looked at him strangely. ‘Yes, I’m very sure. The doctor has confirmed it.’

He didn’t know what to say. For once in his life he was speechless. How could he mention divorce now? And an abortion was out of the question. Mannon had very strong views on that subject.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, desperately trying to summon up the right degree of enthusiasm. ‘Thrilled.’

The next day he met with his lawyer and asked for advice.

‘Well,’ his lawyer had said, ‘if you don’t want her to get rid of the kid, you’re stuck. You’ll have to wait out her pregnancy, and then stay around until the baby is a few months old at least. If you leave her before that the publicity will slaughter you.’

Glumly Mannon had to agree. He could see the headlines:
MANNON CABLE AND STRANGE LOVE TRIANGLE! SUPERSTAR DUMPS PREGNANT WIFE FOR WHITNEY!

Oh yeah. The tabloids would have a grand jerk-off at his expense.

There were also Whitney’s feelings to consider. How was she going to react to this latest turn of events? It wasn’t exactly going to make her think he was pining away for her. They hadn’t spoken for a while. He had planned that the next time they did he would be a free man.

‘Financially this is quite a blow,’ his lawyer had said grimly. ‘Are you
sure
you don’t want her to have an abortion?’

He was sure.

They took a trip to New York, where he had to finish dubbing his last film. Melanie-Shanna was full of plans. ‘We’ll decorate the second guest room,’ she said. ‘Yellow will be the perfect colour. Or blue?’ She couldn’t make up her mind. ‘What do you think, Mannon? Yellow or blue?’

He shook his head, not wanting to get involved. The further away he stayed from this pregnancy and the resulting baby, the better.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Once inside her house, Silver was able to get a better look at Wes, and she liked what she saw. He was tall – she preferred big men. His hair was longish, brownish, not styled and sprayed like a lot of men around today. His eyes were extraordinary – sludge with touches of a murky seaweed green. He was distinctly masculine, and she felt the juices rising like they hadn’t risen in a while. Certainly not for Dennis Denby, who was about as exciting and unpredictable as bacon and eggs for breakfast.

‘Fix yourself a drink,’ she said, giving him an encouraging push towards the bar in the den. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Can I make you something?’ he asked politely.

‘Vodka,’ she said over her shoulder as she mounted the grand front staircase. ‘Lemon twist, no ice.’

Ah, maybe she’d remembered he was a barman. It certainly sounded like she did.

Choosing a Baccarat glass, he poured in an inch of vodka, added another one for good measure, and picked a slice of lemon from a small silver dish, expertly skewering it to the side of the glass. For himself he poured a cold beer. Best to make sure everything was primed and ready to go.