Sinners (6 page)

It all seemed like yesterday, not three years ago, when she was first introduced to Count Paulo Gennerra Rizzo. She had been in Italy seven months, and still thought often of Raf. But Paulo had finally made her forget.

He was a romantic, an expert in the art of making a woman feel completely beautiful. He flattered her constantly, showered her with flowers, looked only into
her
eyes adoringly. When they walked into a restaurant, people stared. What a couple they made! How the press loved them, and how Paulo adored the publicity. They were married three months later.

A few weeks afterwards Sunday discovered the truth about Paulo. She found him in the bathroom one day, his leather belt tied tightly around his arm, his eyes bulging, just about to stick a syringe in a waiting vein.

She cried out in horror. His eyes bulged even further, distorting his arrogant Roman features, then the needle was safely in, and he sucked in his breath quickly and turned his back to her.

She rushed from the room.

When he emerged his face was perfectly composed.

‘Don’t be frightened, my little one,’ he said. ‘It is correct for me to inject myself daily under my doctor’s orders. I did not wish to tell you before, however now . . .’ He shrugged, perfectly at ease.

‘But why?’ Sunday asked, still horrified by the sight she had seen.

‘Oh, depression you know, nothing very serious.’

‘I’ve never seen you depressed.’

‘That is because of my good doctor. You see? There is nothing to worry about.’

‘Yes,’ she said uneasily, ‘but why do you have to inject yourself ? It’s horrible.’

‘I could not bother the doctor every day, could I now? So he showed me what to do, and I just do it. See, it is simple. Come, let me take you to the beach for lunch. Make yourself even more
bellisimo
.’

Later they left their apartment and drove in Paulo’s Lamborghini to the beach, where they lunched with friends, and then played miniature golf and lay on the sand at Freggenni. Paulo had put her mind at rest. After all, if his doctor had told him to do it, then it must be all right.

She enjoyed the afternoon. She was due to begin work on a film the next day, and it was good to relax.

The new movie started, and this time her voice was not dubbed. She spoke her part in Italian, which took up all her time and attention. Paulo fetched her in the evenings, and they dined with friends. Once home she would collapse into bed, exhausted. It only occurred to her after the film was finished that Paulo no longer made love to her. She also noticed that at night, when he thought she was asleep, he would creep from their bed and prowl around the apartment.

The first night she realized this she fell asleep soon after. But the next night she forced herself to stay awake, and an hour later crept out of bed to look for him.

The apartment door was wide open, and Paulo was nowhere to be seen. She knew he couldn’t have dressed without her seeing him, and he couldn’t have gone very far with just his pyjamas on, so she waited by the door and surprised him when he came back. He was carrying a package, which he dropped when he saw her, spilling the contents – box after box of glass ampoules, three syringes and two bottles of large green pills.

They stared at each other. ‘Why are you up? Why are you spying on me?’ he asked coldly, as he bent to pick up the things.

‘The door was open,’ she stammered. ‘Where have you been? What do you need all that for?’

He slammed the door in a fury. Then, eyes narrow and mean, he hit her across the face and screamed, ‘Spying bitch!’ With that he marched off to the bathroom, locking the door.

She was stunned. Her face blazed red where he had hit her. She bent to the bathroom keyhole and peered in. He was giving himself an injection. Frightened, she ran to bed.

The next morning he appeared charming and gay as if nothing had happened.

Sunday found out who his doctor was and went to see him. The doctor was as shocked as she was. Paulo had never been under orders to administer drugs to himself.

Together they planned to catch him. The next afternoon Sunday went out, only to return immediately with the doctor, who had been waiting downstairs by arrangement. They caught Paulo in the bathroom, the door open, injecting himself in the leg.

In a way he seemed relieved to have been caught. He was giving himself up to five intravenous injections a day, plus massive doses of sleeping pills to calm himself down.

The drug he was taking was methadrine, which after a time could become as addictive as heroin.

The doctor ordered him straight into a private nursing home, and there for the first time Sunday met the man she had married. He lay in bed day after day, his eyes glassy and blank, hardly talking, completely passive.

She visited him every day, and after a few weeks he begged her to get him out, to let him come home. He assured her he was completely cured.

The doctor said no, it was too soon. But she felt so sorry for him just lying there. She felt sure that at home he would become his old self.

She persuaded the doctor to release him, and within two days at home he had made a miraculous recovery. He was his old charming assured self.

Of course he was back on the drug.

The next two years were a nightmare. She became his nurse, enemy, spy, welfare visitor, and jailer. And he went from doctor to doctor, hospital to nursing home, with intervals in between at home – supposedly cured. But she would always discover the truth, and back to another doctor he would go.

Her life became an existence of visiting him, or if he was home, watching him. She also had to work as much as she could, for suddenly there was no money, and his family didn’t care to be involved.

The end came one morning when she awoke uneasily. Paulo had been home a week, off the drug, just lying in bed staring at the ceiling, his once-handsome face unshaven and drawn. Now he was not beside her.

She ran first to the bathroom. The door was locked. She knocked and called his name, but there was no reply. She looked through the keyhole, he was lying on the floor quite still.

Panic stricken she called the doctor, and together they broke the door down.

Paulo was dead. Killed by a massive overdose.

At the inquest they called it accidental death. In her own mind Sunday wasn’t sure.

She endured the gossip for a few weeks, and then the opportunity to go to Hollywood arose and she leaped at the chance.

Rome no longer held the same magic for her.

*    *    *

‘Look, I really think you should go to this party of Jack’s,’ Carey said for the second time.

Sunday was staring out of the window cuddling her little dog. ‘Did you know my husband killed himself?’ she asked.

‘What?’ Carey looked at her in amazement. They had never discussed Sunday’s former life although Carey knew all about it from newspaper clippings.

‘Yes.’ Sunday nodded dreamily. ‘How will that fit into my big publicity build-up?’

‘Look, honey,’ Carey put a hand lightly on her shoulder, ‘I know about your past and that’s what it is – past. It’s not normal for you to shut yourself up here. You’re a beautiful girl, you’ve got to get out and enjoy yourself. Apart from which, it will be good for your image to be seen. Just Jack’s party to start off with, huh?’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sunday said. ‘OK, I’ll go.’

‘Great! There’s a good girl. Now what are you going to wear that will knock ’em all cold?’

Herbert Lincoln Jefferson polished the faded crinkled leather of his best brown shoes. He had had them eight years but they still gave good service.

Marge shuffled into the kitchen to fetch herself a beer from the fridge. She was chewing on a chicken leg.

‘You want me to do that?’ she asked mouth full of chicken.

Herbert shook his head. She asked him every night, and every night he said no.

Marge pulled the ring on the beer can and some of the liquid sprayed out over Herbert’s shoes, which he was cleaning on the table.

‘Gee, I’m sorry, Herbie,’ she said nervously, grabbing at a corner of her dress and attempting to rub the shoes.

He gave her a shove.

She looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Herbie, I said I’m sorry . . .’ She took her can of beer and left the kitchen.

Muttering under his breath Herbert finished polishing the shoes. He put them on and admired them, one foot at a time. Then he put on his jacket, patted the letter in the inside pocket, and left the house on his way to the bus stop.

He liked working nights for the Supreme Chauffeur Company. He hated the daytime jobs, boring trips to the airport and back.

He wondered who he would be driving tonight. The previous week had been very dull, just old married couples. He liked to get single actors with their dates. They were the interesting ones. They were the ones that kept you waiting outside the girl’s house or apartment at the end of the evening while they screwed her. Once he had managed to watch; the girl lived on a deserted hill in a big glass house, and she and her date had gone inside and started right at it in the middle of the floor. Herbert had crawled to the bottom of a glass pane and seen the whole thing. He wrote to that girl regularly once a week.

The bus arrived and he climbed aboard. It was a hot sweaty ride and he was pleased to get off. He hurried to his place of work, posting the letter on the way.

‘Hello, Jefferson.’ The man behind the desk nodded to him. ‘Tonight you’re driving Sunday Simmons. She’s to be picked up at the Château Marmont at eight and taken to a party at Jack Milan’s. You know his house in Bel Air?’

Herbert nodded.

‘You’re to wait. Take the number four black Caddy. It needs gas and a wash.’

He nodded again, pleased with his assignment. He had read about Sunday Simmons. She was the one who wouldn’t show her tits or something. Now he would have a chance to look her over and see if she was worth writing to.

Charlie got back to his hotel just after three. Natalie Allen was waiting in the lobby.

‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘You know the Elephant at lunchtime, it’s like a meeting of Equity. Come on up.’

Natalie had been to the hairdressers, and her short dark hair hugged her head like a cap. She was wearing a yellow linen suit, and Charlie couldn’t help thinking how attractive she was. Clay was a lucky fellow.

‘You must have heaps to do before you go,’ she remarked.

‘Not really. I’m all set. George will pack everything.’

‘Oh yes, the trusty George. Are you taking him with you?’

‘Of course. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

‘Lorna didn’t like him, you know.’

‘Didn’t she?’ He looked surprised. What was there not to like about George? And Lorna had never said anything to him about disliking George.

‘Yes, she was jealous. I mean he’s more like your closest friend than a servant.’

He winced at the word servant. He didn’t like it. As far as he was concerned George worked for him because he wanted to, not because he had to.

‘Do you want some tea or a drink or what?’

They were in the suite, and Natalie took off her jacket and sat on the couch. ‘A drink, I think. A Pernod with masses of ice.’ She leaned back. ‘Do you know this is the first time we’ve been alone together since that party?’

He had not been aware of that fact, but was embarrassed thinking about it. Clay and Natalie had had a fight, and Clay had gone off in a fury. Then Charlie had tried to console her, and ended up kissing her. Fortunately, Clay had come back, but Charlie felt badly about the whole thing. You didn’t go around grabbing other people’s wives, especially your best friend’s.

‘I’m sorry about that night,’ he said, ‘let’s just forget about it. I was drunk, and so were you.’

She smiled thinly. ‘But I don’t want to forget it. I enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

‘Of course I did. But you know, love, it’s a bit tricky, Clay’s my friend, and I want it to stay that way.’ Charlie was disturbed at the direction the conversation was taking. He had thought Natalie was going to talk about Lorna.

‘Clay’s a shit,’ Natalie said firmly. ‘A lousy, egotistical shit! I know all about the little girls he bangs. Why shouldn’t
I
have some fun? You do fancy me, don’t you, Charlie? Well, of course, I know you do.’ She got up slowly and came towards him.

He backed away warily.

She wound her arms around his neck and started to kiss him.

How the hell did he get out of this?

‘I’ve always liked you,’ she whimpered. ‘Lorna was never any good for you. I always felt something between us – something special, didn’t you?’

The phone rang, and with relief he untangled himself and went to answer it.

It was George, phoning from the lobby. ‘I thought if you didn’t need me for an hour I’d pop round to Hayward’s and pick up your suits.’

‘What,
now?
Charlie said loudly in an annoyed voice.

‘I don’t have to, I just thought—’

‘Oh, God. All right. I suppose I’ll have to. I’ll be right down.’

He hung up on an amazed George.

‘What’s the matter?’ Natalie asked.

‘Business. Some bloody appointment I clean forgot about. Sorry, love, what a drag.’

‘Shall I wait?’

‘God knows how long it will take, you’d better not.’

She sighed. ‘Whoever invented phones should be shot.’

‘You’re right.’ He helped her on with her jacket and hustled her to the door.

‘About us,’ Natalie said. ‘What’s going to happen?’

‘We’ll figure something out,’ he replied, making a mental note never to be caught with Natalie Allen alone again.

‘Goodbye, darling.’ She kissed him. ‘Don’t forget, we’ll be in Hollywood two weeks after you. Wait for me.’

He nodded. Charming! Clay wasn’t so lucky after all.

*    *    *

At the airport Charlie was stoned. He was petrified of flying and could only board a plane completely out of his mind. Before leaving for the airport he had smoked two joints, and the plane now looked like a beautiful big bird ready to receive him. He smiled benignly at the photographers, pantomiming funny faces for them, and waving his horn-rimmed glasses in the air.