Hollywood Husbands (58 page)

‘Are we ready to shoot?’ the director called nervously, wary of his stars coming to blows after yesterday’s debacle.

‘Whenever you are,’ Silver replied sweetly, extracting herself from Carlos’s embrace, and strolling in front of the camera.

Following her, Carlos walked with the jaunty swagger of great fame.

Silver had to admit that he was still an extremely attractive man, in spite of the hair transplant and extra pounds which filled out his once gaunt frame. And he was an American legend. Which is more than she could say for Wes Money – who wasn’t even American, let alone a legend.

She was furious with Wes. How
dare
he walk out on her last night. How
dare
he do such a thing.

And – even worse – he had not returned home. When she left for the studio in the morning, the bastard was still missing.

She had not married Wes Money for him to walk out on her. Oh, no. Absolutely not.

And she had no intention of letting him get away with such behaviour.

Vladimir had been quite triumphant about the whole episode. When she drifted downstairs last night with a faint smile and a languorous air, Vladimir was waiting to greet her. ‘Mr Money will not be dining with you tonight,’ he said smugly.

‘And why is that?’

‘Mr Money vent out for the night, madame. He instructed me to tell you he will not be back until later.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

Vladimir professed ignorance.

She tried to find out from Unity if
she
knew the reason for Wes’s sudden departure. Unity didn’t know, and what’s more she didn’t seem to care.

Silver felt uncomfortable with the girl: there was something about her she didn’t like – a cold, unspoken insolence. ‘Did Wes speak to anyone since coming downstairs?’ she had asked.

Unity shrugged. ‘I think he returned a couple of calls.’

‘To whom?’ Uneasily it occurred to her that maybe there was another woman in his life. After all, he was hardly keeping it zipped in his pants when she found him. He was probably embroiled in affairs with cheap women all over the place.

‘Orville Gooseberger left an urgent message to return his call, and so did Zeppo White,’ Unity said flatly.

The picture became clear. Orville and Zeppo telling tales. And Wes becoming miffed because
she
hadn’t told him.

With a sigh of annoyance she had tackled a solitary dinner, and waited for the return of her husband.

As far as she was concerned, she hadn’t been keeping any secrets. Why
should
she feel obliged to report everything to him?

Deep down she knew that she hadn’t told him because he would have said she behaved childishly. Screw him. Silver Anderson didn’t have to answer to
anyone
. She hated criticism, and wasn’t about to hear it from her own husband.

When he failed to come home, her anger grew. Just who exactly did Mr Money think he was dealing with?

On the way to the studio that morning she had decided to teach him a lesson. One he wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry.

The first thing she did was send a note of apology to Carlos, and then she sat back and waited for his reaction.

It was predictable: she knew Carlos of old.

After their mild exchange of insults on the set, he invited her to his dressing room for lunch.

She hadn’t had Carlos in twenty years. Why wait any longer?

* * *

After storming from the house, Wes headed straight for the nearest bar, where he downed a couple of fast scotches and took stock of the situation.

As he began to calm down he realized what Silver had done – or rather not done – was no big deal. She merely needed a little reminder that
he
was the boss of the household, and as such deserved some respect. By not telling him about the furore on the set she could have made him look like a prize jerk to Orville and Zeppo. Fortunately, he was a quick thinker, and had saved the situation by pretending he knew all about it when he spoke to the two of them on the phone.

It was about time Silver realized she couldn’t treat him as her latest resident stud and nothing else. If he stayed out late the lesson should be well learned. After all, it wasn’t like he was risking anything – they were married now, and there was nothing she could do about it.

He didn’t like the bar he had chosen. It was dimly lit and stuffy, filled with an assortment of secretaries trying to score, and men in three-piece suits. Deciding more familiar haunts would suit him better, he drove down to Venice, to a bar/restaurant he used to hang out at. The place was not Chasen’s, nor even Spago. It was rough and noisy, with a loud juke box, and an assortment of hookers and drug dealers hanging round the bar.

This was your life, Wes Money
, he said to himself – and he knew immediately how difficult it would be ever to go back.

* * *

One thing about Carlos, age had not slowed his sexual prowess. Once a cocksman, always. And Silver enjoyed the visit from an old friend.

A revenge fuck. Fast and furious. Ha! She would make sure Wes found out about it.

‘You’re one hell of a sexy old broad,’ Carlos said with a chuckle, as he pulled up his pants. ‘Why’d we ever break up?’

‘A matter of ego,’ she said crisply, adjusting her clothing. ‘Yours. It threatened to engulf both of us.’ Rising, she went straight to the mirror and inspected her makeup to make sure nothing was disturbed. ‘And kindly don’t call
me
old. You’re at least twenty years ahead of me. If
I’m
old, what does that make you?’

‘Men don’t get older, only better,’ he said boastfully.

‘Stuff it, Carlos dear.’

‘I thought I just did!’

Feeling strangely unsatisfied, and a tiny bit guilty, she decided that maybe she wouldn’t tell Wes after all.

Then she remembered he’d been out all night.

The hell with
him
.

* * *

He saw a few friends, only they didn’t seem so friendly. Brief exchanges stilted conversation.

‘What’s the matter with everyone?’ he asked his ex-local hooker.

Looking battered and worn, like an old used car, she mumbled, ‘Ya ain’t one of us anymore, Wes.’ She ran a hand through yellow hair with black roots. ‘Ya rich now, an’ famous.’

‘
I’m
not famous,’ he said. ‘My wife is.’

Staring at him curiously she asked, ‘What’s she like?’

‘Great,’ he replied, and found that he meant it. Silver could be surprisingly great when she dropped the ‘big star’ act.

The sad-looking hooker wagged a finger at him. ‘Ya got a break. A real lucky break.’

‘I know,’ he replied truthfully.

She scurried off, even though he wanted to buy her a drink. ‘Gotta get back t’work,’ she explained.

By the time she left he was deeply depressed, and he decided Silver had been punished enough. He was going home to Bel Air, where he belonged.

Outside, in the back parking lot, two men walked slowly towards him.

He smelled trouble before it happened, went to defend himself, and was felled by a heavy blunt instrument.

Oh, Christ, not again
, he thought, just before drifting uneasily into the Land of Nod.

Chapter Eighty-Two

Bazaar
hit the stands in the morning, and Heaven hit an unsuspecting public the next day with what was destined to become the hottest single of the year.

Her combination seventeenth birthday and
Gonna Eatcha Tonight!
promotion party turned out to be a blast, covered by
Entertainment Tonight
and a host of other media, as there was nothing else going on that night. It took place at Tramp, the private club. Giant blow-ups of her Antonio pictures covered the walls, while white and gold balloons inscribed
Heaven
and
Gonna Eatcha Tonight!
decorated the ceilings.

Heaven glimmered and glittered her way through the party – an irresistible mixture of innocence and seduction in a white lace body stocking worn with a black leather micro-skirt, lace-up gold boots, festoons of diamante jewellery, and a trailing gold trenchcoat.

Lindi, the publicity girl from College Records, had taken her on a shopping spree down Melrose, and the result was slightly bizarre, very individual and stylishly effective. ‘We’re calling it the Heaven look,’ Lindi told a group of hungry journalists – always on the alert for a new trend. ‘This kid’ll make Madonna look like a non-starter. Just wait until you hear her.’

Speaking to the press was a completely new experience. She knew her mother had complained about it all her life, but Heaven couldn’t see what was so bad, talking about herself non stop. Pushing her hands through her multi-coloured hair, she answered questions on clothes, style, fashion, school and background.

‘I spent my childhood in Europe with my parents,’ she half lied. ‘And now I live with my grandfather in the Valley.’

‘There’s a rumour going around that you’re Silver Anderson’s daughter,’ said a fat woman in a peasant blouse, with jangles of beads around her plump neck.

Heaven glared at her. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I guess I’ll be Cyndi Lauper’s
sister
next!’

Everyone laughed, and Lindi spirited her away to get ready for the debut of her record.

‘You know,’ Lindi said sympathetically, ‘we’re never going to be able to keep it under wraps.’

‘What?’

‘That you
are
Silver Anderson’s daughter. I know you want it kept a secret, but that’s not easy when your manager is going around telling everyone.’

She was aghast. ‘Rocky?’

‘’Fraidso.’

‘I could
kill
him.’

Lindi shrugged philosophically. ‘It
will
get out eventually, one way or another. So we may as well scoop it now, then at least it’s behind us.’

‘Why?’ she asked stubbornly.

‘Because if the media thinks you’re trying to hide something, they’ll
really
go all out. We don’t have to announce it – it’s just best you don’t deny it. Okay?’

She nodded resignedly. Deep down she had known it was an impossible secret to keep.

The debut of her record was planned for eight o’clock, and she was supposed to mime to it. Shaking with nerves she changed into a slinky leopard catsuit, and then slipped on a long black leather coat worn open. The Heaven look.

Several of the College Records executives crowded round her, wishing her good luck. Rocky appeared at her side, mumbling
his
encouragement.

This was it. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for.

She heard the opening beat of the record, and tensed up.

Lindi gave her a little push, propelling her in front of the disc jockey stand, where a spotlight hit her in the eyes.

Oh, no! She wanted to throw up! Everyone was staring at her expectantly. Waiting, watching, expecting great things!

And then, as the music enveloped her, she began to move her lips, stiffly at first, intimidated by the crowd and the lights. This wasn’t like performing at some high school dance with Eddie in attendance. This was it. This was the big time.

Get loose
, she told herself.
Lighten up.

Miraculously something clicked, and she was suddenly gloriously,
wonderfully
into the music.

I met a guy who’s big and strong – his muscles make me quiver

I look at him – he looks at me – Oh, wow, he makes me shiver.

There’s one thing I will do to him – because I know he wants it

I get real near – with message clear

I whisper low – all systems go

I’m a Maneater… yes I am…

Maneater… sure I am …

Maneater… and baby—

I’m gonna eatcha tonight!

By the time she finished her adrenalin was really pumping and she felt sensational. The crowd of guests gave her a rapturous reception. And Uncle Jack told her how proud he was of her.

‘You were
fantastic,
’ Lindi whispered, grabbing her arm as soon as Jack left. ‘Come with me, the photographers want a shot of you and Penn Sullivan.’

Heaven tried to hide her excitement. Penn Sullivan! The actor! He was
gorgeous
!

Things were
certainly
looking up.

Somewhere in New York…

Sometime in the seventies…

The girl arrived in New York on a freezing Saturday afternoon. Clad in a thin cotton dress and a cheap nylon jacket, with one small suitcase clutched in her hand, she stood in the Port Authority bus terminal and wondered where to go.

New York had seemed like such an exciting idea when she first hatched her plan to travel to the big city. Now, as she ventured out onto West Forty-second Street, she wasn’t so sure.

The street was filthy, full of garbage and dirt. A crazed bag lady hurried by – pushing a shopping cart full of brown paper bags and newspapers. A skinny black man in a pink jacket with matching eyes
hey-babied
her. Two punks eyed her suitcase, contemplating grab and run. They’d be very disappointed if they did, for their entire haul would consist of two old sweaters, some worn underwear, a pair of jeans, scuffed sneakers, and two packets of Oreo cookies.

Those were all her worldly possessions. And in the pocket of her nylon jacket she had eighty-four dollars in assorted bills.

That was it.

A police car screamed by, just as a sharp-nosed white man in a sheepskin coat approached her. ‘Hiya, sweetie.’

Ignoring him, she began to walk quickly along the street.

Companionably he fell into step beside her. ‘You look like ya need a friend,’ he said.

‘I’m okay,’ she replied, shivering as a blast of icy wind penetrated her light clothing.

‘Where ya from?’