Hollywood Husbands (13 page)

He gave her an opening shot, just to play the odds. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked, his words loaded with innuendo.

Silver was no fool. The last thing she needed was some deadbeat bartender hitting on her. She iced him off with her eyes and a cold ‘No.’

The moment was over. Leaving the star’s bedroom he returned downstairs.

Vladimir pounced on him. ‘Vas Madame happy?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Yeah,’ replied Wes easily. ‘Why?’ The Russian queen had obviously expected him to get torn off a strip. Tough tit. He was unscathed.

Or was he?

Chapter Seventeen

Rule One: Smile for the photographers.

Rule Two: Be charming for the television cameras.

Rule Three: Always leave a good impression among the staff. They are the people who made you famous in the first place, so never forget them.

Whitney Valentine Cable knew all the rules by heart. And so she should. They were
her
rules, and she abided by them religiously.

She alighted from Chuck Nielson’s red Porsche, and allowed the paparazzi to capture the widest smile in America. Chuck, who was boyishly handsome although he would never see thirty-five again, joined her, and the two of them posed.

The paparazzi clicked desperately. This was a hot picture, and one the entire world would want to see. The previous year Whitney Valentine Cable and Chuck Nielson had been an item – an on/off affair of epic proportions, complete with public fights and equally public reconciliations. Then they split, and Chuck stole the French actress wife of an English director – which made wonderful copy – while Whitney dated a series of different men – which also made wonderful copy. Now it appeared they were back together. A paparazzi’s dream! Second only to Whitney reuniting with Mannon Cable.

Slowly the two of them moved inside, and Jeanne Wolf for
Entertainment Tonight
greeted them effusively.

Meanwhile, Howard and Poppy Soloman drew up in a very long, very flashy limousine. Howard failed to see why he should drive himself at night when he could use a studio limo any time he pleased.

The paparazzi failed to spring to attention, which aggravated Howard and devastated Poppy.

A lone flash captured their consternation. And then all the photographers surged forward to focus on Michael Caine and his beautiful wife, Shakira.

Howard and Poppy entered the house, and the first person they saw was Whitney, sensational in a white strapless dress. Hollywood kisses were exchanged. Howard inhaled her scent and wondered if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

‘I’ve been thinking about a project you’d be just right for,’ he blurted, with a manic twitch.

Her gaze was direct and interested. ‘Have you, Howard?’

‘Are we speaking of the Weissman script?’ Poppy joined in.

He turned to her with a frown. What the fuck was she talking about? ‘What Weissman script?’

She clung to his arm. Poppy Soloman had decided that as the wife of a studio head she must make it her business not to get left out of anything. ‘The script on your desk, darling. I read it yesterday. Whitney would be
wonderful
as the girl. It’s such
off
casting.’ She planted a wifely kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re brilliant to think of her.’

He was brilliant and he didn’t know it! His comment to Whitney had just been a ploy to talk to her later. He had no project she was right for. Now he had the Weissman script. He’d better have someone read it for him fast and find out if there
was
anything for Whitney in it.

Howard did not read scripts. It was too time-consuming. He had three readers whose opinions he trusted, and they analysed every story and gave him a succinct two-page synopsis. Poppy was not one of them. He wouldn’t trust Poppy’s opinion of Army Archerd’s column in
Variety,
let alone a script!

‘Yeah, Whit,’ he said quickly. ‘I wanna have a word with you about it later.’

Whitney smiled. She hadn’t been wrong about Howard; he was interested in her as an actress
and
as a woman. Perfect.

Chuck Nielson appeared at her side with two glasses of orange juice; neither of them drank alcohol – one of the few things they had in common.

Howard was disturbed to see her back in his company. Chuck Nielson was a low-life and trouble. He specialized in stealing other men’s wives, and he couldn’t get himself arrested as far as starring in a movie was concerned. Nobody wanted to hire him. In the past he’d starred in a couple of hits. But that was five years ago, and in Hollywood memories are notoriously short.

The two men greeted each other affectionately – macho slaps on the back and mild insults. Poppy brightened considerably. She still thought Chuck was a star, which just showed how much
she
knew.

While she spoke animatedly to Chuck, Howard threw Whitney a low aside. ‘What are you doing back with
him
!’

She shrugged. She probably had the most beautiful shoulders in the world. ‘Desperation,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t get a date for tonight and I didn’t want to miss seeing you.’

Howard’s ego pumped. Whether the Weissman script was right or not he would make sure it was rewritten to accommodate the fabulous Miss Whitney Valentine Cable. And when she starred in the movie for Orpheus Studios he would also make sure she dropped the Cable. Who needed to be reminded of Mannon every time he heard her name?

* * *

Outside the gates of Silver Anderson’s estate, Mannon and Melanie-Shanna were fighting as they sat – captive prisoners in his blue Rolls-Royce – trapped in a line of expensive cars waiting to gain entry to the party. They were at least eight cars away from the uniformed guard at the gate, and Mannon was steaming.

‘If we’d left home on time,’ he said angrily, ‘we wouldn’t be caught in this mob scene.’

‘
I
was ready,’ ‘Melanie-Shanna protested, not prepared to take the blame for everything.

‘Then why didn’t you make sure that I was?’ he shouted.

She shut up. She had learned with Mannon that sometimes silence was the only way to handle his frequent temper tantrums. To the outside world being married to a superstar seemed like a dream. But the reality was far different. Sure there were advantages. Money. Position. And sharing the bed of a man millions of females wanted to sleep with.

There were plenty of disadvantages too. No privacy. No peace. The ever-present army of people to tend to his every need. The relentless come-on from every single woman he ever met. The bad moods only
she
witnessed. The insecurities – an affliction suffered by every actor, be he superstar or bit player.

Mannon was right at the peak of his career now. Melanie-Shanna shuddered to think what he would be like should his star ever dim. She hoped he would be thrilled when she told him about the baby.

She wasn’t sure he would be.

* * *

And so they came.

A legendary movie star with a rugged profile, foreign wife, and dead career.

A younger movie star (but only by a decade or two) with a starlet girlfriend, and a nearly dead career.

A cheating producer and his socialite wife.

A cheating wife with her gay husband.

A young hot actor with an even hotter coke habit.

A pretty young actress who only liked other pretty young actresses.

Nora was pleased by the turn-out. Everything was proceeding without a hitch. The only slight hiccough was Silver’s nonappearance. A late entrance wasn’t a major tragedy, only Nora wished the star would get her act together. Several times she had popped upstairs to check that all was well. Silver, dressed and ready, sat by a large picture window in the bedroom gazing out at the magnificent view, smoking a cigarette. Los Angeles at night, as seen from high in the hills, was a fairyland of twinkling lights – Silver seemed mesmerized.

At nine o’clock – the party started at eight – Nora trekked upstairs again.

‘Who’s here?’ Silver asked anxiously.

‘Everyone,’ Nora replied. ‘You can come down now.’

‘In a minute. Don’t rush me.’

Nora decided it was time to put the pressure on. ‘
Now
,’ she said pointedly. ‘Otherwise they’ll start going home.’

Silver sighed, and arose obediently. Moving over to a full-length mirror she inspected the image.

‘Perfect,’ flattered Nora.

Silver took a deep breath. ‘I should hope so. I work hard enough to create it.’

One last, lingering glance and she walked towards the door.

Silver Anderson was having a birthday party. She didn’t want to miss it.

Chapter Eighteen

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Jack asked quizzically as his Ferrari negotiated the winding curves of Bel Air.

‘Yes,’ Clarissa replied curtly. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

He felt he was being tested and he wasn’t sure he liked it. ‘Because,’ he replied slowly, ‘parties have never been your favourite way to spend an evening. Especially not big glitzy bashes filled with press.’

She smoothed down the skirt of her tailored brown gaberdine suit. ‘I didn’t say this was my favourite way to spend an evening.’ She spoke in a measured tone. ‘I said I was interested in meeting your sister. I’m sure you must understand my curiosity.’

No. He didn’t understand at all.

‘You’ve never really explained why you don’t get along,’ she persisted.

And I have no intention of doing so now,
he thought.

‘We’re different people,’ he said shortly.

‘I know
that
.’

‘So if you know it, let’s drop the subject.’

‘As you wish.’

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

When Jade partied she threw herself into the spirit of the evening. She knew that a night spent in Antonio’s company was not exactly a cultural event. It was more a blast, an experience, a let-it-all-hang-out-and-get-down! So she dressed accordingly in tight black satin pants tucked into matching boots. A long black shirt cinched at her twenty-two-inch waist with a wide belt. Fake jewellery galore from Butler & Wilson in London: gifts from Mark – he had a surprising knack for picking out just the right pieces. In retrospect she thought that maybe another woman had chosen them. Who knew? He no doubt had mistresses everywhere; she had just been his New York connection.

Piling her shaggy copper hair on top of her head, she secured it with a couple of pins, deftly arranging strands to fall artfully free. Then she applied tawny makeup, and emphasized her widely spaced gold-flecked eyes with brown shadow and thick kohl pencil. Plenty of lip gloss over a gold-toned lipstick, and she was ready when Antonio and three of his friends came piling into her apartment laden with flowers, record albums, bottles of wine and an assortment of gourmet Chinese tidbits picked up at Chinn Chinn on Sunset Boulevard.

‘I thought we were going out,’ she said, as they proceeded to make themselves at home.

‘We are, we are, precious,’ insisted Antonio, instructing his minions. One to the kitchen to warm the snacks in the microwave. One to the bar to open the wine. And a third to arrange the profusion of glorious flowers.

She began to laugh. ‘This is an invasion,’ she protested.

‘A welcome.’ Antonio showed off his neat, precise little grin. ‘To Los Angeles,
bellissima.
’

‘Won’t we be late for the party?’

He pursed his lips. ‘Who cares? Nothing happens until
Antonio
arrives!’

His companions all nodded their agreement as they fussed around.

Antonio kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘You look a dream,
cara
. A death in the family it suit you.’

‘You’re
bad
, Antonio.’

‘But of course!’

‘
Very
bad.’

‘Naturally!’

* * *

Nora greeted Mannon with a warm hug. ‘
You
are a prince,’ she whispered.

‘No, I’m a putz,’ he responded. ‘Have you any idea how long I’ve been sitting in my goddamn car waiting to get in here?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’

She summoned a waiter. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Scotch. You’d better make it a double.’

Melanie-Shanna stood silently by his side. Nobody asked
her
what she would like to drink. Nobody cared, as long as Mister Superstar was taken care of.

‘I’d like a glass of white wine,’ she told the waiter quietly.

Mannon was still complaining. Nora listened attentively, then teased him and flattered him, and gradually Melanie-Shanna felt him relax. Until Whitney, his ex-wife, appeared, and Melanie-Shanna felt herself go hot and cold, for they had never met.

‘Christ!’ Mannon muttered to Nora. ‘What’s
she
doing here?’

‘I didn’t know you two weren’t talking,’ Nora said.

‘We’re talking,’ he replied gruffly, although he wasn’t sure if they were or not. The last time he’d seen her she had been distinctly cool. In fact, she had brushed him off completely. Well… understandable, really. He had just had a piece published in
People
where he called her a career-mad starlet, and Chuck Nielson a washed-up beach bum.

Thank Christ she was no longer with
him
. And as these thoughts crossed his mind, Chuck materialized beside her, and the very idea of
his
Whitney with Chuck Nielson
again
drove Mannon wild with fury.

‘Fuck!’ he mumbled under his breath.

‘What?’ asked Melanie-Shanna.

‘Nothing,’ came the surly reply.

They were on a collision course. There was no way they could avoid coming face to face.

Mannon steeled himself for confrontation.

* * *

‘I’m going,’ Heaven said impatiently, rising from the grass verge and brushing dead leaves and debris from her long overcoat.

‘Whattya gonna do – fly?’ demanded Eddie, as he fiddled with the engine of the Mustang, getting nowhere fast.

‘I’ll thumb a ride,’ she announced, now determined to get to her mother’s party.