Hollywood Wives - the New Generation (4 page)

'Wouldn't miss it,' everyone chorused.

'I'm not certain Larry will make it,' Taylor said, her green eyes
darting around the restaurant to ascertain if there was anyone
important she should say hello to. 'He's in discussion on a big project
with James Woods, Harrison Ford and Nick Angel. You know Larry when he
immerses himself.'

'I'd love to do a movie with Larry,' Lissa said wistfully, reaching
for her purse.

'I believe there
is
a strong female role,' Taylor said
thoughtfully. 'Once they're set, they'll be starting auditions.'

'Oh,
sure,'
Stella said, laughing derisively. 'Like
Lissa
would audition.'

'For Larry, I might,' Lissa said, handing the waiter her credit
card. 'After all, he and Spielberg
are
the two finest
directors around.'

'I prefer them more cutting edge myself,' Stella remarked, 'such as
Guy Ritchie or Sam Mendes.'

'
American Beauty
, an American classic,' James sighed
reverently. 'Claude and I saw it four times.'

'Really?' Taylor said, with a bitchy edge. 'And which one of you had
the hots for Kevin Spacey?'

'
Pu-lease.'
James drawled. 'He's hardly my type.'

'
Everyone's
your type,' Kyndra joked.

James shot her an 'I do not appreciate jokes at my expense' look.

'Personally I preferred
Snatch.'
Lissa said. 'Guy Ritchie
has amazing style.'

'We're using an excellent director on
our
new project,'
Stella said, picking a lychee from a dish set in the middle of the
table. 'A young English guy who's shot several award-winning television
commercials.'

'Lots of luck, dear,' James interjected. 'TV directors are notorious
for going way over budget -
especially
the English. Claude
says they're not worth the hype.'

'Nobody's going over budget with Seth and me on his case,' Stella
boasted. 'We know how to kick
major
ass.'

'
Such
a lady,' James murmured.

'Just like you, dear,' Stella retaliated.

Laughter all around.

The waiter returned with Lissa's credit card. She signed the check
and got up to leave.

'Where're you rushing off to, anyway?' Kyndra asked.

Lissa decided there was no reason to tell them that she had a
meeting with a private investigator. It was embarrassing enough that
divorce number four might be lurking on the horizon - why tip it before
it happened?

Not that any of them particularly liked Gregg. Even before she'd
married him her friends had warned her. Kyndra had accused him of being
a user; Taylor commented he hit on other women when he wasn't with her;
and Stella observed that he seemed to be extremely needy. How right
they all were.

Nobody had mentioned that, apart from being a user, a flirt and
needy, he was also stone-cold broke and had been going through her
money at the speed of sound. He'd lost over a million dollars on the
stock market, and that was just the beginning.

No more, because she was sure that the private investigator she'd
hired would come up with plenty of incriminating evidence.

Call it woman's instinct, but she knew that marriage number four was
definitely over.

Shortly after Lissa left the restaurant, Taylor announced she had a
meeting with her writer and had to rush.

'Jesus!' Stella exclaimed. 'How long have you been working on this
script of yours now?'

'Too long,' Taylor said, with a grimace. 'And I'm
still
stuck in development hell.'

'Surely Larry can help?' James asked.

Yes
, Taylor thought grimly.
He can and he will
.

When she'd first got involved with the project, she hadn't imagined
that she'd require her husband's assistance. She'd been determined to
prove to Hollywood that there was more than
one
talent in the
family, that she was quite capable of getting a movie off the ground by
herself.

The truth was that - dammit - she couldn't. Hollywood was basically
a boys' town, and even though she was married to one of the boys, when
she was out there operating on her own, it didn't make any difference.

This was infuriating, because more than anything Taylor craved
recognition and her own identity. Hollywood knew her as Mrs Lawrence
Singer, the wife of an extraordinarily multi-talented man who had three
Oscars on his mantel and numerous other awards. A man who was well
respected and well liked. And just because she was his wife (second),
so was she.

Larry was, at fifty, only a mere sixteen years older than her -
hardly an age-gap in Hollywood circles, where the norm was at least
twenty years.

Successful men usually dumped their first wives within several years
of making it big. Then they married the second much younger wife, and
started another family, claiming that they would now be able to spend
quality time with their new offspring - conveniently forgetting how
much this self-serving statement pissed off their original children.
Stella's husband, Seth, was a classic example. Taylor had decided that
children were not on her agenda for now. First, a kick-ass career, then
maybe a kid or two. It wasn't as if Larry was desperate - the one time
they'd discussed it, he'd told her he didn't care either way. He had a
teenage daughter from his first marriage, and fortunately the girl
resided in Hawaii with her mother, so Taylor hardly ever saw her.

She and Larry had been married for five years. They'd lived together
for eighteen months before he'd got his divorce - a divorce that had
cost him millions, but he hadn't seemed to mind. Taylor
had
minded. Especially when
his lawyers stepped in and suggested that
she
sign a
prenuptial. She'd moved out of his house in a rage, and not spoken to
him for days. Her behaviour paid off. He'd begged her forgiveness and
the pre-nup was never mentioned again.

They'd met on one of his movies. She'd had a small role and he was
king of the set. She'd gone after him from day one. Married or not,
Larry Singer was destined to be her ticket to ride on
all
the
roundabouts.

Tracking him was easy - especially for an experienced player like
Taylor, who'd been knocking around Hollywood for several years,
snagging small roles in theatrical movies and starring in a couple of
failed sit-coms.

Taylor was an ex-cheerleader who'd come to Hollywood after winning a
beauty pageant. Once there, she'd managed to fuck her way to the middle.

Larry was an extraordinarily talented, rather plain man who'd never
explored his sexual potential.

Taylor had helped him make the trip.

Now it was his turn to help her.

She had a script that was almost right, and so it should be: she'd
been working on it for long enough, hiring and firing a succession of
writers. When the script was exactly the way she wanted it, she planned
on directing
and
playing the lead role of a strong woman. So
far three studios had passed, and finally she'd been forced to ask
Larry to come to her aid. With his kind of clout they both knew he
could get anything done.

Pending script approval, he'd set up a deal for her at Orpheus
Studios. God knows what he'd promised them to make the deal. She didn't
know and she didn't care. It was her turn to shine. Her turn to get the
recognition. She'd given up her acting career for Larry, and now it was
time to get it back on track.

She stood outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring her
car - a metallic blue Jaguar that Larry had given her on her last
birthday.

In her mind she was just as talented as her famous husband, and it
was about time the world realized it.

'We gotta plan your bachelor party,' Brian Richter remarked, as he
finished rolling a joint. 'Or rather
I
do. All
you gotta do is gimme a night, and leave everything else to me.'

'No party,' Evan Richter answered stubbornly. They were sitting
around a long table covered with scribbled-on script pages in a hotel
room in Arizona, where they were on location for their current movie,
Space
Blond
.

'Why not?' Brian said, lighting up the rolled joint.

'I've been a bachelor forever,' Evan said, annoyed that he had to
explain. 'Did enough partying to last a lifetime, so what've
I
got to
prove?'

'You gotta be shittin' me?' Brian said, with a disgusted look.
'Bachelor parties are the only sane reason for getting married. If
you're gonna lock yourself up in pussy prison, you may as well fuck
your balls off before your old lady
cuts
'em off.'

'You're sick,' Evan muttered.

'No.
I'm
normal,' Brian retorted, dragging deeply on his
joint. 'You're the fucked-up member of the family.'

'It's a tragedy we weren't separated at birth,' Evan muttered,
wishing it were so.

'That would've suited me just fine,' Brian retorted. 'And I'm sure
Mom wouldn't've minded.'

The Richter brothers. Fraternal twins. Totally unalike physically.
Evan, quirky and nice-looking, but no hunk with his spiky brown hair
and lanky frame. Whereas Brian was all piercing blue eyes, beach-blond
shaggy hair and a hard body. In spite of Brian's bad-boy habits - which
included gambling, drinking too much, drugging a lot, and
indiscriminately sleeping with a variety of nubile females -he was in
excellent shape.

The Richter brothers. Hot properties in Hollywood. Hot and
unpredictable. Some thought Evan was the one with all the talent
because he appeared to be more serious than Brian. But Brian was the
one with the best ideas. And Brian was the one who came up with the
main story line and wrote most of the scripts. While Evan kept it all
together, handled the financial aspects, could unfailingly close any
deal, and made sure their movies came in on time and usually under
budget.

The Richter brothers were always arguing. It amazed everyone who
came in contact with them how they were able to maintain such a
successful working relationship. Bicker, bicker, bicker. Day and night
they went at it.

Often they threatened to dissolve their partnership and go their
separate ways. But usually sanity prevailed, because why mess with
something that was making them both more money than they could ever
have imagined?

'How
is
dear little
Nicci?' Brian asked sarcastically. 'Still calling
you six times a day?'

'We alternate,' Evan muttered, wondering why he was even bothering
to explain.

'Bullshit,' Brian said disbelievingly.

'How come you're always on her case?' Evan responded, frowning.

'Cause she's nothing but a needy kid.'

Evan glared at his brother. 'Like
you
date adults,' he
said.

'I
date
'em, don't marry 'em,' Brian pointed out.
'Marriage is for old people who can't get it up.'

Fortunately, Teena, their script assistant, rushed into the room,
speaking into a cellphone. Short and in her thirties, she was an
eccentric-looking woman with hair like straw, decorated with various
coloured clips and slides, plus a bold blue streak. Her round face was
made more so by the addition of huge wire-rimmed glasses, and she had a
prominent snub nose.

'What's up?' Evan said, happy for the interruption, because he was
not about to get into a discussion about why he was marrying Nicci with
his sex-crazed brother. It was none of his business.

'Everything,' Teena said, clicking off the phone and rolling her
purple-shadowed eyes. 'Abbey doesn't care for her new lines. Harry is
under the impression that his trailer is smaller than hers. And Chris
can't handle it. He's apparently gone into a funk. We'd better get over
to the location, pronto.'

Abbey Christian - a leggy twenty-two-year-old natural blonde, with a
smile that could light up Christmas. Star of their latest movie. Major
player. Major coke-head.

Harry Bello - big-deal comedy actor supreme. Rubber-faced and coming
up to fifty. Paranoid about getting older and quite certain that Abbey
was receiving better treatment than he was.

Chris Fortune. Boy-wonder director. The same age as Abbey and
somewhat intimidated by his two stars - even though he'd directed the
big sleeper hit of the previous summer.

'Freakin' actors,' Brian grumbled, exhaling smoke. 'We should be
making
animated
movies.'

'You finally came up with a decent idea,' Evan said. 'No more
over-the-top salaries.'

'Please, guys, let's move it,' Teena urged, almost jumping up and
down with agitation. 'Abbey won't come out of her trailer. Harry's
sulking. And Chris is heading for a panic attack. We
must
get
over there.'

'Let's go,' Brian said, carefully preserving his joint in a Kleenex
for later. 'Nothing like a view of Abbey's tits to wake me up in the
morning.'

'Remember,' Evan said ominously, 'no fucking our star until the
movie wraps.'

'Hey,' Brian said innocently, 'I can look, can't I?'

Lissa Roman went to great lengths to keep her private life private.
Which was not easy considering she lived under constant media scrutiny.
Danny, her assistant, was a big help. Earlier that day she'd instructed
him to hire a car, leave it in the parking lot at Saks, and give her
the ticket. He'd done so, no questions asked.

After lunch, she'd had Chuck drop her off at Barneys, instructed him
to come back in two hours, walked across to Saks, got into the rented
car and driven out to the valley. There was no way she planned to alert
Gregg to what was going on, or anyone else for that matter. This was
her
business, and when Lissa wanted to keep something private, she knew how
to do it.