Lovers and Gamblers (39 page)

‘Why not?’

‘Because my body is not for sale – whatever the price.’

‘I could marry you…’

She sat up. ‘Could you really?’ Her voice dripped sarcasm.

‘Isn’t that what you want?’ He was puzzled and hurt.

What she wanted was to laugh in his face. Screw Cody for forcing her into a position like this. A proposal of marriage! Shit! From
the
Aarron Mack. Double shit! A few months ago this would have been it. The Golden Opportunity. Just lie back, open your legs – your mouth – whatever – and revel in the money. But things were different now. She was a person. An individual. And no one – but no one – could buy her.

‘I’m sorry, Aarron,’ she said in a kindly fashion, ‘I’m very flattered, but I just don’t want to get married.’

‘You don’t want to get married,’ he repeated blankly. ‘Then what do you want?’

She opened her arms to the sun, lay back. ‘To enjoy life. To do the things I want to do.’

‘Do you want to be the Mack girl?’

‘We just had that conversation.’

He hesitated. ‘No strings.’

‘No strings?’

‘You have my word. But we shall be friends, and maybe in time… who knows…’

She sat up again, her eyes shining. ‘Of course I would adore to be the Mack girl. And I thought you were just another dirty old man!’

He smiled tightly, his perfect false teeth gleaming brightly in the sun. ‘I’ll talk to your manager after lunch. There are a lot of things to be worked out.’

‘Thank you, Aarron.’ She stood up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, ‘You’re really a very nice man.’

* * *

Cody was elated. Persuading Dallas to spend the day in Palm Springs had been a master stroke on his part. He had personally seen to it that she never had to spend one minute alone in old man Mack’s company – and it had been easy really. All those interesting and influential people turning up for lunch, staying all afternoon, and then, when they left, Cody had reminded Aarron that Dallas had to get back to LA, and Aarron had put his plane at their disposal.

It was only when they were leaving the house and saying their goodbyes that Aarron took him to one side and told him that he wanted him to fly to New York to discuss a contract. ‘You’ll fly in with me on Tuesday,’ Aarron said. ‘That suit you?’

Yes, it suited him.

Negotiations took place. Cody made his points – business-wise he was sharp as a razor. Dallas ended up with a contract that would pay her more money than either Lauren Hutton and her famous Revlon deal, or Margaux Hemingway and Fabergé.

Once again Dallas was news. Every newspaper carried her photograph. Every magazine wanted to do a cover story on her.

Cody’s phone did not stop ringing. The deal he had made for his client was world-wide news, and whereas the
Man Made Woman
contract might have been a fluke, the Mack girl contract really clinched the fact that he was hot stuff. Suddenly clients were lining up to avail themselves of his services.

He didn’t plan to handle just anyone. He wanted a small stable of three or four clients who were the tops. Maybe his thinking was old-fashioned, but what he wanted to provide was a very personal service. He wanted to mould and guide and direct, and not push his artists into the hands of lackeys and hangers-on. If you were lucky enough to get taken on by Cody Hills – by God, you wouldn’t get lost in the shuffle.

In exchange he demanded a straight twenty-five per cent of all earnings. Considering some stars were paying their agent ten per cent and another twenty per cent to their manager, this wasn’t a bad deal.

Within days he had signed a top rock star, an English comedy actor, and a young stud who had just finished his first movie.

Cody’s stable was complete.

* * *

The smile was set on Dallas’s face, so much so that her facial muscles ached.

‘Last one!’ promised the photographer. ‘You
look beautiful
.’

The camera clicked, her smile collapsed. ‘Terrific!’ she exclaimed, glancing at her watch. ‘I think I have a fast five minutes left for lunch.’

Kiki, the clothes designer, smiled. ‘These photos will be worth missing lunch for.’

‘Tell that to your husband when I faint in the middle of this afternoon’s shooting. I’m starving! Is Cody around?’

‘He called, said to tell you he’ll be over later. Come on, let’s get you out of the dress, and I arranged for a salad tray to be left in your dressing-room.’

‘Thanks, Kiki. Do you and Chuck work as a team? I never seem to be out of sight of either of you.’

‘Yeah,’ replied Kiki laconically, ‘I get you to be photographed in my clothes on condition I have you back on the set in time. It seems to work.’

‘For everyone except me! I don’t want a salad. I want a fat juicy steak with french fries and a couple of thick chocolate malts. I don’t even get time to go to the bathroom any more!’ But Dallas smiled as she complained. She felt marvellous. On top of everything, before the first
Man Made Woman
had even been shown she was a star. Before the first Mack girl photos were on every billboard, in every magazine, she was a star.

Everyone was clamouring for her services. Cody was inundated with scripts and books. The representatives of commercial products were knocking at his door, anxious to use Dallas. All the television game and chat shows desired her presence. Every magazine thought a cover story on her was a great idea. All the Hollywood eligibles wanted to date her. Party invitations abounded.

Cody said, ‘We shall proceed slowly. It would be easy to grab at everything, but it would also be a mistake.’

She agreed with him. He had made it happen for her, and she was prepared to accept his decisions.

Since the party she had neither seen nor heard from Lew Margolis, and she took this as a good sign. Perhaps now he would leave her alone.

Aarron Mack had of course returned to New York, and he made a daily solicitous phone call to her. She didn’t mind that, in fact she was rather flattered that his original lechery had turned into an almost fatherly concern.

She was not interested in dating the Hollywood rota of known studs – a rather boring group of pseudo-sophisticated macho-hams who liked to notch up every new famous female on an imaginary fuckbelt.

Parties she had never enjoyed. Perhaps the word party was too synonymous with orgy in her mind.

She enjoyed working, and posing for pictures and becoming a somebody. She enjoyed bumming around with Cody, Kiki and Chuck in the evenings. No chic restaurants, or discotheques. Just little places where you could get a great meal, and not get involved in all that table-hopping shit.

Watching television, barbecuing, and staying home were favourite. Or dropping by Tower Records on the way home and picking up some great new albums and playing them on the incredible stereo equipment she had invested in.

The question of sex did not arise. Cody seemed determined never to mention the subject again, and she didn’t want to push him into anything. If he wanted to wait – well, let him wait. She would just have to prove to him that she wasn’t about to rush into bed with every superstar who asked – and they were all asking. With a little patience on her part Cody would eventually come around, of that she was sure. He was a man, wasn’t he? And he was just the sort of man she wanted as a husband. He would make a great father, she could see him with dozens of kids…

‘What are you grinning about?’ Kiki inquired. ‘Can we share the joke?’

‘It’s not shareable – not yet. But I promise that you and Chuck will be the first to know.’

‘Come and eat your salad, starvation is making you too mysterious.’

Later that evening Dallas came face to face with Al King, and for one short moment she forgot about Cody, and her plans, and the waves of excitement came flooding back.

She stood very still, breathed deeply, and surveyed the huge display of Al King albums in Tower Records. He seemed to be staring at her from every angle. Not only was there a full-colour photo of him on the cover of the album, but the sleeve opened up to present a double-space pin-up. A three-quarter shot of Al baring his chest, his teeth. Brooding with his eyes. His black hair curled in an almost gypsy fashion. An ivory horn hung phallicly on a thick gold charm around his neck. The album was called AL IS KING. Dallas decided not to buy it.

She wandered around bumping into piles of Al King albums stacked up on the end of every aisle. There was no avoiding him. A huge poster leered down from the wall.

She chose a new Temptations album, a Marvin Gaye Greatest Hits, and a Linda Ronstadt for Cody. On the way to the checkout she picked up a copy of AL IS KING. What the heck – may as well buy it, he did have a great voice.

She drove quickly home, guilty and excited. Why guilty? Nothing had ever happened.

She ran in the house, kicked off her shoes, and extracted the record from the sleeve.

It wasn’t until she had put it on the turntable that she realized she was not alone.

Sitting in the corner, huddled in a chair, was Bobbie.

The plane finally took off. Melanie, slightly sloshed, fell into an open-mouthed sleep immediately.

Edna sat tensely by her side, unable even to close her eyes. She stared out of the window and wondered for the hundredth time what Al’s reaction would be at seeing her. He wouldn’t be pleased. You were not married to a man for sixteen years without knowing how he would react in certain situations. He hated her coming on tours because he knew she hated it. But this time was different. This time Evan was there, and he at least would be pleased to see her. And she wouldn’t stay long – whatever Melanie said. If Al wanted to send her home she would go. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was upset Al. Maybe Evan would come home with her. Maybe he had had enough. She comforted herself with that thought, and at last fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

‘You got beautiful pair tits,’ slurred Al, rolling across the bed with the naked Golden Lady.

She laughed. She could afford to laugh. She was one of the highest-paid call girls in New Orleans – and sleeping with Al King was no hardship.

‘You want I should shower?’ she asked, in a high nasal twang. Remnants of birthday cake mixed with the gold paint still on her body.

‘I want two of you,’ he demanded. ‘Got a friend?’

She pursed golden lips. ‘Won’t I do, honey? Just lil’ ole me all on my ownsome?’

‘Want two,’ mumbled Al. ‘S’my birthday, y’know. Want two.’ He reached for her silicone boobs and kneaded them roughly.

She jerked away. ‘I guess I could call Lynn…’

‘Yeah – call Lynn.’

‘Yeah, I’ll call Lynn. Only who’s gonna pay…’ She stopped speaking abruptly. Paul King had given her strict instructions about not admitting to Al that she had been paid.

Al was gulping scotch from a bedside bottle. He hadn’t heard her.

She climbed off the bed. ‘I’ll go in the other room an’ call Lynn,’ she announced. ‘Whyn’t you take a shower, honey? Be nice an’ sober for the two of us.’

‘Who’s drunk?’ roared Al. ‘Who – my dear girl – is drunk?’

She stifled a rude laugh and muttered, ‘Bombed outa his skull’ to herself, and she wasn’t surprised, for she had witnessed some of his drinking downstairs and oh boy, could he pack it away. Any other man would be laid out cold by now. She was a little zingy herself. Not too much – a professional girl always made sure it was never too much – but just enough to have a real good time.

She left him on the bed and went into the other room.

First she called Paul to ask him if it was all right to bring in another girl. Paul said to get six girls if that was what Al wanted, and the money would be left at the desk.

She then called Lynn, who was asleep after a heavy evening at an advertising reunion, and said no way was she doing any more work that night.

‘It’s Al King,’ whispered Golden Lady.

‘Shit! Whyn’t you say?’ complained Lynn. ‘I’ll be right there.’

* * *

‘Who was that?’ demanded Linda as Paul hung up the phone.

‘The girl from the cake. Al’s calling for more troops.’

Linda stretched. ‘I don’t know how he does it. Did you see what booze he got through?’

Paul reached for her. ‘It runs in the family, cast-iron stomachs.’

‘Yeah, and the rest!’

* * *

Evan lay on top of his bed wondering what he should do. His arm hurt, his body ached, and he still bristled with the humiliation of his father’s birthday party.

The whole evening was a daze, from the moment he had been knocked flying at the concert. People had trampled over him, and then more bodies had fallen on top of him, and that was the last he remembered until waking up to the sound of an ambulance horn blaring – and he had been in the ambulance along with others – and they had all been taken to a hospital – and fleets of nurses and doctors had descended on them, prodding and pushing and stitching and bandaging.

‘You got a sprained arm,’ a doctor informed him. ‘The rest is just bruises and shock. Guess we’ll keep you in overnight just in case. Give your details to the nurse and we’ll contact your parents.’

They had shoved some sort of injection into him, and an elderly nurse had appeared with a sheaf of forms and asked him his name. ‘Evan King,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m Al King’s son.’

‘I think this one’s delirious,’ she told the doctor.

Fortunately, shortly after, Paul arrived. He signed some papers and said, ‘Thank Christ you’re OK. Your father’s going mad. Get dressed, we’re getting out of here.’

Evan felt distinctly groggy. The injection had been a sedative, and he wouldn’t have minded at all spending the night at the hospital and sleeping it off. But Paul had other plans. The party must go on. Nothing must spoil Al King’s birthday.

Evan sat through the party half asleep. He picked at his food, gagged at the champagne, and blushed with embarrassment when the naked girl came climbing out of the cake. Not that he hadn’t seen a naked girl before. He had. Both Glory and Plum had initiated him into the disgusting joys of manhood. But that was different, they were his friends, he was one of them.