Hollywood Husbands (12 page)

She unzipped his jeans with her teeth.

He woke up and groped for her.

Pushing his hands away she rolled his Levis down. He wore no undershorts. He never did. She bent her head to his sudden interest.

‘I surrender,’ he said, throwing his arms to the side.

‘I knew you would,’ she murmured.

Later they shared a cigarette and discussed their plans for the evening. There were several possibilities. A screening of a new Mel Brooks film. ‘I’m too tired to laugh,’ Clarissa demurred. An industry dinner honouring an old actor. ‘Why?’ Jack questioned. ‘He was a no-talent when he was young. What’s the trick in growing old?’ And dinner with Clarissa’s agent at Spago. ‘He’s a lunch,’ she decided.

‘What do you feel like doing?’ he asked, clicking on the television. ‘Want me to send out for Chinese?’

Clarissa flicked the television off. ‘What about going to your sister’s party?’

‘Huh?’ He was surprised. ‘How do you know about Silver’s party?’

‘I was invited.’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘Maybe I should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s your sister, and I’ve never met any of your family. Not your father, or your niece. I think Silver Anderson is an interesting woman, and I’m intrigued to meet her.’

‘Shit!’ Jack said, jumping from the bed and pacing around the darkened bedroom.

‘Are we nervous of being in her company?’ Clarissa chided. ‘Does she make you feel inferior?’

‘You talk such crap sometimes.’

‘Yes? My psychiatrist says that to conquer fears you simply have to face them.’

‘You pay two hundred bucks an hour for advice you can get out of a Chinese fortune cookie?’

‘He’s helped me a lot.’

‘Hey – I’m not going to get into a fight over this. Silver doesn’t make me nervous. She doesn’t make me anything.’

‘Then we’ll go?’

‘If that’s how you want to spend your Saturday night.’

‘It is.’

He wasn’t going to fight it. Clarissa was a stubborn woman, and if she wanted to do something they usually ended up doing it.

He did not believe in fighting. He believed in exiting. Quietly. If it ever got to be too much.

Chapter Sixteen

Silver Anderson’s party was being paid for by City Television. Silver was notoriously tight with a buck, and there was no way
she
was shelling out thirty or forty thousand dollars – even if it
was
for her, and she could certainly afford it.

City was planning a big celebration for the cast of
Palm Springs
before the summer hiatus, when Nora suggested it might be a better idea to make it a party to celebrate Silver’s birthday. ‘Do I have something for you!’ she told them. ‘Glamour. Style. Stars. A media event with sensational coverage.’ They fell in love with the idea immediately, and once she had them hooked all she had to do was convince Silver.

It wasn’t difficult. Not when Silver discovered City Television was paying. ‘I’ll have the party,’ she agreed. ‘And when it’s all over and done with I want my entire house re-carpeted. A little gift. They can afford it.’ A dramatic pause. ‘Oh, and by the way, Nora, forty-
five
is my official age this year. Not a moment older.’

Nora didn’t want to get into
that
one. She reckoned City Television would certainly pay for the carpeting of Silver’s house. Where else could they get this kind of world-wide publicity for such a steal? And the coverage would be sensational. No problem. For Nora Carvell knew plenty about publicity. Television was taken care of, and then there were photographers from
U.S.A.
Today
,
People
,
Newsweek
, and a personal photographer who would capture shots to be sent out world-wide on all the wire services. The paparazzi would be outside, flanking a red carpet and crash barriers to the house. Along with several of Beverly Hills finest, who would take care of the vigorous security.

Nora had personally supervised the guest list, inviting a hand-picked group of important industry people, and a mix of very famous actors, actresses, sports stars and assorted V.I.P.s from other fields.

Dressed in a plum velvet suit with clumsy pearl jewellery not complementing her short, untidy grey hair, she rushed back to Silver’s house early. Swamped in Ma Griffe scent and cigarette smoke she parked in the back next to Wes Money, who was just alighting from his old Lincoln.

‘Who’re you?’ she asked tartly, ever wary of uninvited spies from the
National Enquirer
or
True Life Scandal
.

‘I’m bar. Who’re
you
?’

‘I’m publicity. Pass the word. Anyone calling the supermarket rags with overheard gossip will not be working in this town again. Got it?’

Wes nodded. The old broad had just come up with a great idea for scoring extra bucks. She hurried off, and he took a leisurely stroll down a garden path to the back door, which led him into an overcrowded, very large kitchen.

‘I’m bar,’ he said to an elderly Chinese woman who stonewalled him with a glare. ‘Bar?’ he said to a big-bosomed girl in a white uniform.

She gestured vaguely towards a door.

He walked through into the house proper. Some house. Marble floors. Overstuffed couches. A series of luxurious rooms all leading into other luxurious rooms. And finally a glass wall overlooking a black-bottomed swimming pool, at the end of which was a curved black marble bar.

A frantic Rocky waved to him. ‘Hey, man, thank Christ you’re here,’ he said, busily unloading boxes of booze. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I had to find it, didn’t I?’ Wes complained. ‘Fucking Bel Air is like one of those mazes in an amusement park. You told me Bellagio. It goes on for fucking ever in every direction. You’re lucky I’m here at all.’

‘You really crack me up,’ said Rocky, who looked like a poor man’s Sylvester Stallone – hence the name. ‘Only
you
could get your ass lost in Bel Air.’

‘And only
you
give out shit directions,’ Wes responded. ‘I wasted gas driving up and down.’

‘Do me a favour – get to work,’ Rocky said, shoving a heavy box of wine in his direction. ‘We’ve only got an hour before blast-off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s a mixed box I’ve put together, it’s over there.’ He gestured. ‘Get it out to your car whenever seems like a good time. I’ll come by tomorrow to split it.’

‘Why
my
car?’ Wes asked peevishly.

‘’Cos it’s
me
they’ll be watching.’

Sure. If anyone was to be caught stealing booze it was good old Wes Money.

Screw Rocky. He must think he was some schmuck. But so what? He’d do it. Life was a risk, and in a kind of perverse way he enjoyed taking ’em.

* * *

Silver discarded five outfits before deciding on chiffon purple harem pants, a floating top embroidered with gold, and a long Cleopatra wig. She looked exotic, like an Egyptian queen. Especially when she added solid gold slave bracelets, giant hoop earrings, and several huge diamond rings.

She hadn’t touched a drink in months, but she certainly wasn’t an alcoholic, and she quite fancied a glass of ice cold Cristal to put her in the mood for the evening’s activities. Decisively she picked up the intercom and buzzed the kitchen.

Her houseman, Vladimir, elbowed the Chinese woman out of the way to answer his mistress’s call. The woman almost fell, and cursed in Chinese about rude American pigs. Vladimir, who spoke a little Chinese (thanks to a five-year live-in relationship with a Chinese waiter who unfortunately fell off Santa Monica pier and drowned) ignored her insults and cooed into the phone. ‘Yes, madame?’ His English was almost impeccable except for his mispronunciation of
w
as
v
. ‘Vat can I get for you?’

‘Champagne, Vladimir. Very cold. Very soon.’

‘Yes, madame.’ He grabbed Wes, who was passing by on his way to the back door with the box of contraband carefully prepared by Rocky. ‘You!’ he said sharply.

‘Who, me?’ replied Wes innocently, thinking –
Oh fuck, now I’m caught
.

‘Champagne. For Madame.
Pronto
.’ (The
pronto
came from an Italian waiter who shared his affections for two nights and screamed
pronto, pronto
every time he came, which was often.)

‘Madame who?’ asked Wes patiently, thinking the Russian queen probably meant Madame Wong who was glaring at both of them, and what had
she
done to deserve champagne?

‘Madame Silver,’ said Vladimir, raising a scornful eyebrow at this cretin’s ignorance. ‘Cristal. In a Baccarat glass. And make sure it’s icy. Hurry, hurry!’

‘I’ll be right back,’ Wes said cheerfully, realizing the game was not yet up. He hurried out to his car with the box and loaded it into his trunk.

When he returned to the kitchen, Vladimir screamed, ‘Vere is it?’

‘What?’

‘The champagne for Madame.’

‘Oh. That. Just gettin’ it.’

‘Now!’ Vladimir leaped excitedly in the air. In his youth he had trained as a ballet dancer –long before he defected to the West and freedom.

Wes mock saluted. ‘Yes sir, Kapitan. One glass of bubbly comin’ right up.’

* * *

The 1965 Mustang spluttered to a full stop halfway up Coldwater Canyon.

‘Like I don’t believe this!’ Heaven screeched.

‘Jesus!’ groaned Eddie.

‘This can’t be happening,’ she yelled, jumping from the car.

‘Jesus!’ repeated Eddie, following her. ‘It was runnin’ fine when I picked you up.’

‘Like what are you gonna do?’ she demanded, venom in her voice.

‘What are
we
gonna do,’ he corrected.

‘It’s
your
fault,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s
your
dumb car.’ She kicked the side of the old Mustang with a sharp booted toe.

‘Don’t do that!’ he objected.

‘I will if I want,’ she replied in a childish sing-song, and for good measure she gave the car another solid kick.

He was incensed. ‘Cut it out. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I’m pissed off,’ she said. ‘I’m
really
pissed off.’

‘You think
I’m
dancin’?’

They glared at each other. Heaven, with her spiky multi coloured locks. Eddie, with his black hair greased back in true sixties style.

‘This is like the bummer of all time,’ she announced flatly.

Eddie headed for the hood of the car. ‘Don’t worry ’bout a thing. I’ll fix it,’ he said, less hopeful than he sounded.

With an exasperated sigh she sank down on the grass verge muttering, ‘Yeah. You an’ who else?’

* * *

Silver did not like being kept waiting. When she wanted something she wanted it
now
. Ten minutes had elapsed since her request for champagne, and her taste buds were on full alert. With a snort of annoyance she buzzed the kitchen a second time, and Vladimir, who was knee deep in Chinese caterers, grabbed the phone.

‘Are you keeping me waiting, Vladimir?’ she asked icily.

‘
Never
, madame.’

‘Then
why
are you still in the kitchen?’

‘The bartender is on his way up to you at this very minute, madame,’ Vladimir lied.

‘I should hope so.’ She replaced the receiver with a crash.

Vladimir muttered ominous words of Russian under his breath. Reverting to his mother language relieved him when he was about to undergo a stress attack. ‘Bar!’ he screamed loudly.

Five minutes later Wes was found. Vladimir equipped him with a silver tray, a Baccarat glass brimming with chilled Cristal, and dispatched him upstairs to face Madame’s wrath. Vladimir knew when to make himself scarce.

Whistling a Beatles’ song as he negotiated the sweeping staircase, Wes reflected on the vagaries of life. That very morning he had woken up in a little house in the Valley with a cheap dyed blonde. Now he was heading – tray in hand – towards the bedroom of one of the biggest television stars in America, who lived in a frigging mansion! Pity he wouldn’t be sharing
her
bed. Although he would sooner it was Whitney Valentine Cable. Now
there
was a real stunner. Not that he watched television much – just sports and late movies if he was in the mood. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what Silver Anderson looked like. All he had was a vague memory of a big dark woman staring out at him from countless magazine covers.

Wes was in for a surprise. Silver Anderson was dark all right, with her long jet hair and almond-shaped heavily outlined eyes. But big she wasn’t. She was small and slender, almost petite. And beautiful in a dramatic and compelling way. He eyeballed her as she flung open the door of her bedroom as soon as he finished knocking.

She gave him an icy stare, and said coldly, ‘Exactly
how
long does it take to pour
one
glass of champagne and bring it up
one
flight of stairs?’

Walking past her into the purple wonderland of a bedroom, he looked for a place to put the tray. ‘Search me,’ he said cheerily. ‘Next time I’ll put a stopwatch on it.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, hardly believing his cheek.

He spotted a mirrored dressing table and figured that was as good a place as any to dump the tray. As he placed it down, their eyes met in the mirror, and for a split second they held each other’s gaze.

Silver saw an unruly attractive man, with a certain restlessness about him and a don’t-give-a-damn attitude.

Wes saw a good-looking, if slightly older woman – and with unusual sensitivity for him, he sensed a mixture of need and loneliness coming off her in waves. The combination, with her mature beauty, was quite appealing.

Sexual chemistry was strong in the air.

He knew there was a moment to be seized, only it wasn’t
his
place to seize it.
She
had to be the one, and if she didn’t make a move
he
certainly wasn’t going to set himself up for rejection by some big-time television star. It was probably all his imagination anyway.