Hollywood Husbands (7 page)

Clarissa wasn’t thrilled at the prospect. She was a city person, more comfortable with dust and smells and bustle. She was always complaining about Los Angeles as opposed to New York. And she hated the beach.

They had met in New York at a fund-raising party for a Democratic Senator, who he later found out she was sleeping with. Their meeting was no big deal, apart from the fact that she dumped the Senator and ended up in
his
bed. After that they saw each other intermittently for a couple of months, always pursued by frantic paparazzi.

When Clarissa appeared on his show it was considered a big deal, a first, because she didn’t do television talk shows. Struggling through an hour with her he understood why. She was a difficult guest, and he was sorry he’d asked.
Face to Face with Python
depended on a lively exchange of interesting conversation between Jack and his guest of the hour. He wanted people to feel that after they’d watched his show they walked away from their television set with a new knowledge and understanding of the person in the hot seat. With Clarissa they found out nothing. She was a brilliant actress, and a lousy interview.

Face to Face with Python
had been running with consistently excellent ratings for six years. The show aired once a week on Thursday nights, which left him plenty of time to pursue other activities. He had formed his own television production company five years before, and oversaw the making of docu-dramas with something important to say.

Jack had an image problem. He was too good-looking to be taken as seriously as he would like. And his womanizing reputation was hard to live down. But he was trying.

* * *

Howard Soloman drove a gold Mercedes 500 SEC. He stood, or rather fidgeted, beneath the portico of The Beverly Hills Hotel and waited for the valet to bring it round.

To his eternal disgust Howard was on the short side for a man. He barely made five feet six inches, although when he wore his specially made European shoes with the hidden lifts he could sometimes add another four inches, making him a respectable five feet ten inches. In his weekend uniform of sweat pants and Adidas jogging shoes, lifts were not possible. Yet Howard had asked his shoemaker in London to work on it.

Howard was also – at only thirty-nine – losing his hair. It had started to thin alarmingly years before, and prudently he had added a custom-designed hairpiece before people began to notice. The hairpiece was good, the only drawback being that it made him sweat. Once, on a weekend in Las Vegas, he had taken a girl to his hotel room. He had removed his clothes, shoes, and then his hairpiece, because it was so damned hot and she looked like a certain maniac who would pull crazily at his hair in moments of passion.

She had stared at him in amazement. ‘
Shee… it!
’ she exclaimed. ‘I came up here with a nice lookin’ guy, an’ I end up with a bald midget!’

Which, of course, had swiftly ended
that
night of sexual high jinks.

The only time Howard removed his hairpiece now was in the privacy of his own home with only his wife and visiting children to mock him.

There had been four wives – one of them current, three of them ex. And there were five children. Nobody could ever say that Howard Soloman didn’t have what it took. He was a walking hormone!

Wife number one was a black activist who moonlighted as an ‘artistic dancer’. In spite of Jack begging him not to, he married her when he was nineteen and she was forty. It was not a lasting marriage. They both decided it was a mistake, and after forty-eight hours of fucking their brains out they got an annulment.

Wife number two was somebody else’s wife when he met her. She was pretty and sweet – nothing to get into a lather over. Howard railroaded her into divorcing her husband. Then he married her, fathered three children by her, and divorced her – all in the space of five years. She was exhausted by the time it was over, and now lived in Pacific Palisades with the kids and a new husband.

Wife number three was an incredibly tall, sophisticated, Brazilian ball-breaker. She generously gave him a child and two years of her life, and then hit him for so much alimony he thought he might never recover from the shock.

Wife number four was Poppy, his former secretary. They had been married for three years and had a daughter named Roselight. Their daughter was the reason they married in the first place. Poppy did not believe in abortion, so when she became pregnant she put the screws to him and he married her. Well, what else could a nice Jewish boy do?

Poppy made the Brazilian ball-breaker look like the good fairy.

‘Howard!’ A hand clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You old son of a gun! I haven’t seen you in too long.’

Howard recognized Orville Gooseberger, the producer. He wished he had on his lifts: Orville was tall enough to make him feel uncomfortable. The only tall people he wasn’t uncomfortable with were women. That feeling of dominance was a turn-on. Once, he had made a very tall woman stand open-legged on a table while he went up on her. He got quite horny just thinking about it. It was definitely a scene to be repeated, only not with Poppy, who was short. And besides, there was no way he’d suggest an act like that to her – she thought he was perverted as it was.

‘You know, Howard,’ Orville boomed, ‘we have to do a project together. It’s about time.’

Why hadn’t it been time
before
Howard was head of Orpheus?

‘Why?’ said Howard.

‘What?’ said Orville.

Ah, the hell with it. Orville was an ace producer,
and
he brought his pictures in on time
and
within budget, which is more than you could say for most of the assholes running around calling themselves producers.

‘We’ll take a meeting,’ Howard said expansively, using Hollywoodese.

‘Lunch?’ Orville suggested. ‘Perhaps here. On Monday or Tuesday?’

‘I gotta check my book,’ Howard said. ‘Call the office on Monday. My girl knows every move I make better than I do.’

He realized he could see right up Orville’s nose and the view was not pleasant.

The parking valet zoomed up with his Mercedes. Howard slipped him a ten, impressed with his own generosity, and slid behind the wheel, inhaling the smell of the rich leather which never failed to please him. There was nothing like having money. No thrill in the world. Even naked ladies standing on table tops with their legs spread.

* * *

Mannon Cable drove a blue Rolls-Royce. The Roller, he called it.

He did not leave the hotel at the same time as Jack and Howard, because he had to pick up Melanie-Shanna in the hotel beauty shop.

She was not ready when he arrived, which infuriated him. Major movie stars were not supposed to cool their heels while ex-beauty queen wives primped and fussed.

Whitney had never spent hours in the beauty shop. She was naturally beautiful, and how could he have ever let her go?

The final split, when it came, was clean-cut. They had been fighting for months, mostly over her career, which had taken off with alarming speed – thanks to Howard Soloman, who Mannon barely spoke to for a while, until he got out of agenting and left Whitney alone. She had become an enormous television star and the demands on her time were insatiable. Mannon had just finished a difficult movie and needed to get away. ‘Let’s go to the south of France,’ he’d suggested.

‘I can’t,’ Whitney replied. ‘I’ve got fittings, interviews. Oh, and I promised to do the Bob Hope special.
And
the photo spread for
Life
magazine is being scheduled now.’

‘I can remember when I came first,’ he’d said angrily.

She had turned on him, all hair and teeth and pent-up frustration. ‘And I can remember when I wanted you to.’

‘Jesus! I took you out of hick town to be my wife, not some trumped-up starlet. I’ve giving you a choice, Whitney. It’s me or your career.’

He never weighed his words before saying them. In retrospect he wished he had, for they were both too stubborn to retreat.

‘You want me to choose?’ she’d said, very slowly.

‘Goddammit.
Yes
.’

‘Then I’ll take my career, thank you very much.’ Her eyes, filled with hurt and anger, challenged him to back down.

He didn’t. He packed a suitcase and left the house.

A week later she started divorce proceedings.

One thing about Whitney, she was scrupulously fair. No Hollywood Wife she. There were no demands. She didn’t want alimony or a settlement. She kept half the money from their house when it was sold, and that was it.

‘I don’t believe your luck!’ Howard had exclaimed.

‘I’d still be married if it wasn’t for you,’ Mannon growled.

He had never stopped wanting her back.

Chapter Eight

The photo session was going well. Lionel Richie tapes flooded the studio, and Silver, watched by a large entourage, put the photographer through his paces.

He was a famous Italian photographer, a star in his own right. Only Silver remembered when he’d photographed her
before
superstardom, and had treated her like shit. He’d also made her look like shit, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d only shot one roll of film, and any idiot knew you never got anything worthwhile until the third roll at least. He’d also forced her to use his own makeup and hair people. A bad mistake.

Now
she
was in charge, and enjoying every minute.

‘Antonio, dear,’ she said, stopping the click of his shutter. ‘Do you know that today is my birthday?’

Antonio threw up his hands as if she had just declared World War III. ‘
Bellissima!
You don’t have the birthday. You have the celebration!’

‘Exactly.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘So where’s the caviar and champagne?’

Antonio looked concerned. ‘You want some,
cara
?’

‘I’d love some, Antonio, dear. And if you are
very
good, I’ll invite you to my party later.’

He beckoned one of his assistants. ‘Champagne and caviar for Signorina Anderson.
Pronto.
Pronto.’

The assistant, a girl dressed like a boy, held out her hand. ‘I’ll need money,’ she said, wondering how much he would come up with. His stinginess was notorious.

A scowl flitted across Antonio’s small but perfectly formed fifty-five-year-old features. He reached into the back pocket of his impeccably cut trousers and reluctantly pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

Silver laughed loudly. ‘My God, Antonio, you’re as tight as your own ass! The poor girl will need more than that. Let me see—’ she played to her entourage – ‘there must be at least ten of us. We’ll want three bottles of Cristal, and a nice big jar of fish eggs. Give her your credit card.’

Give her yours, bitch!
Antonio wanted to snarl. Only he didn’t. He knew she was getting her own back for the last session, and in a way he didn’t blame her. One had to admire Silver Anderson’s success. A few years ago she was washed up, completely finished. And now she was sizzling, at what – forty-three? Four? Nobody knew her exact age. She was up there somewhere and that’s all that mattered. In a town comprised mostly of big-bosomed twenty-two-year-olds, her achievement was certainly something.

He produced his MasterCard with a flourish. Let Silver see that the great Antonio accepted defeat with style.

She stretched languorously. ‘How about a break?’ she suggested in a low, husky voice, standing up before finishing the sentence, uninterested in whether Antonio cared to break or not.

‘My idea too,
bellissima
,’ he said quickly.

Strolling behind the camera she playfully peeked through the viewfinder. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Let me see the Polaroids again.’

Dutifully her hairdresser Fernando, her makeup artist Raoul,
and
the stylist for the shoot sprang forward – each waving an instant photo for her inspection.

She gazed at the pictures of herself like an uninvolved critic.

‘Your hair looks
mah
vellous,’ raved Fernando, who wore his own spiky locks in a currently fashionable purple Mohawk.

She touched her long wavy wig. ‘I’m not sure it’s dramatic enough.’

‘Ah, but it is! It is!’ he protested. ‘Very
you
.’

‘I like the short wig better.’

‘We can change it.’

Shaking her head she said, ‘I don’t know… I’m not sure. What do
you
think, Nora? Isn’t this style a little too young for me?’

Nora Carvell, a cigarette butt attached to her lower lip, squinted from her seat on the sidelines. ‘Cut the crap, Silver. You know you’re the youngest lookin’ broad over forty in this town. Y’can wear anything an’ get away with it.’

Nora had worked with Silver as her publicist for three years. One of the reasons they continued to get along was that Nora always spoke her mind and never kissed ass. Surrounded by sycophants, Silver respected and enjoyed Nora’s honesty. It was good to have someone around who wasn’t afraid of opening up her mouth.

Silver giggled. It was true. She looked early thirties, not a day over. All the husbands and lovers, fights and booze had left nary a mark. She was sensational for her age. Any age, in fact.

‘You’re right,’ she agreed, holding the Polaroid at a distance and squinting slightly. She needed glasses, but vanity would not permit it.

The rest of the shoot progressed without incident. Above all else Silver was a professional. So professional, in fact, that when the champagne and caviar arrived she touched neither, opting instead for a plain glass of Evian water.

Antonio was furious as he observed her entourage scoff the lot.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said sweetly, when offered a glass of Cristal and a tasty cracker with a mound of imported caviar on it. ‘Mustn’t smudge my makeup. Besides, I don’t want to feel hungover for my party tonight.’

* * *

‘You think it’s easy?’ the young girl with the multi-coloured punk hair demanded of the eighteen-year-old boy lounging against the side of an old Ford Mustang smoking a joint. ‘I am in like a very negative position,’ the girl continued, snatching the roach away from him and taking a healthy drag. ‘Like first of all I’m
me
. An’ then people find out all the garbage, an’ then I’m Silver Anderson’s daughter, or Jack Python’s niece. Sometimes I’m even George fucking Python’s grand-daughter – ever since he invented that stupid pool-cleaner.’ She looked outraged. ‘Get this action, Eddie. I’m over at a girlfriend’s house the other day totally sitting around bullshitting, and her father comes in the room – her
father.
So she says, “Daddy, I want you to meet Heaven.” And
he
says, “Aren’t you George Python’s grand-daughter? He’s saved my weekends with his machine.” I mean, I ask you. With a name like Heaven there’s no escape.’