Hollywood Husbands (20 page)

* * *

Luxuriating in the centre of Silver Anderson’s large jacuzzi tub, Vladimir presented a strange and wonderful sight. He sat ramrod straight, naked, bewigged, and fully made-up, while the water bubbled and jetted around him. Clamped around his head were the headphones of a small Sony Walkman. The music reaching his ears was an early Silver Anderson album, and he sang along, mimicking her voice to perfection.

So intent was he that he failed to notice Silver enter her own bathroom and stand transfixed. ‘What
the hell
is going on here?’ she said in complete amazement.

He did not hear her.

She stepped forward and ripped the headphones from him, flinging them across the room.

‘Madame!’ he shrieked in horror, and stood up.

‘Vladimir?’ She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Uttering a stream of Russian curses he tried to cover his most personal items with his hands. The effort was ineffectual, as Vladimir was hung like the proverbial bull.

‘God!’ Silver flung him a towel and said icily, ‘Get out of my bath and
cover
yourself.’

‘Madame! Madame!’ he wailed. ‘Will you forgive me for this? Vat can I ever do to beg your forgiveness?’

‘You can take off my wig for a start. And get
out
.’

Vladimir was almost weeping. ‘Is Madame firing me?’

Silver caught sight of herself in one of the many mirrors and was immediately distracted. She had come upstairs to prepare herself for what she hoped might be a rather interesting evening – not to argue with her obviously deranged houseman. ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow,’ she said coldly. ‘Kindly get this bathroom cleaned up. Now! And then go to your quarters and stay there.’

He hung his head in shame as she swept out.

* * *

Wes was disappointed to note that she had not changed when she returned to the bar. He had hoped for the filmy black negligee, sheer stockings, garter belt (
Down boy, down – not yet
–
don’t blow it
) and high-heeled mules. Instead she was still wearing her fashionable red suit and unrevealing lace blouse.

‘Whew!’ she said, uncharacteristically flushed. ‘I just had the most
bizarre
experience. Hand me my drink. I need it.’

He gave her the glass of vodka and waited for an explanation.

Flopping down on the couch she sipped the clear alcohol. ‘Vladimir, my houseman, is crazed!’ she announced. ‘Quite obviously certifiable.’

Wes remembered her houseman well – a bossy Bolshoi with an eye for the waiters. ‘What happened?’ he asked expectantly.

She kicked off her shoes and savoured the moment. ‘He was in
my
bath. Wearing one of
my
wigs. A lot of
my
makeup. Singing one of
my
songs in
my
voice!’

Wes started to laugh. ‘What?’

She couldn’t help smiling. ‘You heard.’

‘Was he dressed?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

They both began to laugh.

‘He looked ridiculous,’ she spluttered. ‘And when he stood up in the bath with the bubbles all over him—’

‘And the makeup and the hair?’ Wes joined in.

‘Yes. Yes. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.’

He was as caught up as she was in just imagining Vladimir – the star of such a scene.

‘What did you
do?
’ he roared.

‘I was too amazed to do anything!’ she retorted. ‘Oh God! It was so… so…
funny!
’

Her laughter was catching – he couldn’t stop either. This was not the cool bitch-goddess the newspapers and magazines wrote about with such awe – this was a warm and amusing
woman
.

‘I guess he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow,’ Wes said at last.

‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘I might just keep him around for the
entertainment
value!’

More laughter, interrupted by the persistent buzz of the front gate.

Silver frowned. ‘I don’t know who this can be. Will you answer it for me?’ She picked up the intercom phone and handed it to him.

‘Silver Anderson’s residence,’ he said smoothly.

‘Dennis Denby,’ said an aggravated voice.

He covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand. ‘Dennis Denby,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, no! I suppose you’d better buzz him in.’

He gave her a little eye contact. ‘Do I have to?’

She responded nicely. ‘I think we’d better, don’t you?’

All of a sudden it was
we
. He wasn’t being dismissed.

Dutifully he pressed the intercom while she slipped her shoes back on. And a minute later, a red-faced Dennis Denby arrived at the front door. He clutched Silver, glared at Wes, and said, ‘Thank God you’re all right!’

She disentangled herself from his grabbing hands. ‘I’m perfectly fine, Dennis.’ She indicated Wes. ‘Thanks to Mr—’

‘Money,’ Wes supplied obligingly.

Silver raised an amused eyebrow.

‘It’s an old English name,’ Wes explained airily.

‘Most unusual,’ she remarked.

‘Yeah… well… most things about me are unusual.’

She smiled. ‘They are?’

‘So I’ve been told.’ The woman had dynamite eyes – kind of probing and sexy. And Wes knew he wasn’t misreading the message in them.

Dennis couldn’t help noticing the interaction going on between them, and he asserted himself immediately. ‘Well, it was very obliging of Mr er… Money to bring you home. Although it really wasn’t necessary. Everything was under control.’

‘Whose control, Dennis?’ Silver inquired caustically. ‘Were
you
controlling the crowd when I was about to get crushed to death?’

‘Don’t exaggerate, dear,’ Dennis said in a condescending tone.

He had made two fatal mistakes. One was calling her “dear” – a patronizing term she hated, although she often used it herself. And two was doubting her ability to judge a situation. ‘You really are stupid, Dennis
dear
,’ she said. ‘You honestly had no idea what was going on, did you?’

‘I was calling Spago,’ he explained, oblivious to her insult. He looked at his watch. ‘And there’s a table waiting for us now.’ Turning to Wes he added, ‘So… Mr Money. If you’ll excuse us.’

‘Mr Money will
not
excuse us,’ Silver said crisply. ‘Because we – you and I, Dennis 
dear
– are not going anywhere. In fact’– she took him by the arm and led him out of the room – ‘you are going home, and I am finishing my drink with Mr Money, who
did
have the presence of mind to see what was going on, and got me the hell out of there before I was bloody trampled underfoot!’

‘Silver!’ Dennis protested. ‘Why are you mad at me?’

‘I am not mad,’ she replied, propelling him towards the front door. ‘I am merely bored.’

He rallied desperately. ‘You can’t stay alone in the house with this… this
person.
Who is he? What do you know about him?’

‘That he has balls, Dennis 
dear
. Which is more than I can say for you! Goodnight!’

She closed the front door on his objections, and returned to the den.

Wes faced her. ‘Uh huh,’ he said, ‘we’ve had the crazy Russian and the uptight boyfriend. What next?’

She smiled, slowly, seductively. The smile America loved to hate. ‘I think something’ll come up, don’t you?’

Who was he to argue?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jade fell into the rhythm of Los Angeles easily. She had thought she would hate it, but after a month in the city she decided she loved it. There was so much to do, and gorgeous weather to do it in.

With her books, records and possessions around her, the apartment soon felt like home, and the only downer was Corey. He was weird – something was going on in his life and he obviously had no intention of sharing it with her. She had only seen him a couple of times. ‘I’m real busy’ was his explanation. ‘What with the new job and settling in and everything.’

He might be settling in but she didn’t even know where or with whom. When she questioned him he was evasive. ‘Am I ever going to see where you live?’ she asked him pointedly one day.

‘Sure,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Very soon.’

Whenever she mentioned Marita, he clammed up. ‘What about little Corey Junior?’ she asked, referring to her eighteen-month-old nephew.

‘He’s in Hawaii.’

‘When are we going to see him?’

‘Soon.’

Everything was ‘soon’. And Corey was a pain. She called and complained to her mother. ‘He’s going through a bad time,’ her mother said sympathetically. ‘Leave him alone, he’ll come to you eventually.’

So she did. And he didn’t.

The good news was that Cloud Cosmetics had hired Antonio to do the photographs for the print ad campaign. A top video director, Shane Dickson, was to shoot the commercials, and she had been busy with hair, clothes, and makeup tests. The look had to be perfect.

Working with Antonio was always a joy. Not only did they have fun, but his photographs were a stunning visual treat. He combined the style of Norman Parkinson with the gloss of Scavullo and the sharpness and originality of Annie Leibovitz.

Jade found herself hanging out with him and his artistic group of friends more and more. They went to great restaurants, fun parties, and usually ended up on Friday and Saturday nights eating and dancing the night away at Tramp – a private club.

Getting out was excellent therapy. For years Mark Rand’s contract had been exclusive. Now she was a free agent again.

She tried not to think about Mark. Every time he came creeping into her thoughts she blanked him out. The affair was well and truly over.
Finito
.

Good.

On her travels around town with Antonio and his friends several propositions of a sexual nature came her way. A sallow-faced producer with bad teeth and hollow eyes made her an offer she could easily refuse. A permanently stoned Puerto Rican told her she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. A French hustler in baggy jeans and designer sweatshirt informed her he knew everyone and could make her a star.

Men. She had had enough for a while. And then she met Shane Dickson, and she thought –
Well, maybe not
quite
enough
… She needed
someone
to take her mind off Mark.

Shane Dickson was short, surly, dark-haired and bearded. She liked the fact that he didn’t fall all over her like most men did. For a while they circled around each other. He conducted her tests with a detached, professional air. He wanted a certain look for the series of commercials, and he didn’t plan to shoot one foot of film until he got it.

Eventually he asked her out to dinner so they could talk about what they were trying to achieve. He took her to Nucleus Nuance on Melrose, and spoke about commercials being the true art form of the cinema. ‘In a two-hour movie you have time to screw up, get back on track, screw up again. In a commercial or a video you’re going for gold in two minutes flat. There’s no room for mistakes.’

‘Are you married?’ she asked. Her skin was tingling, every nerve alert. It had been a long time between men, and she needed to feel wanted again.

‘Yes,’ he replied, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘But my wife and I are separated. She just doesn’t understand me.’

Were men actually still using that line? She couldn’t believe it.

He invited her back to his apartment – an invitation she declined. One married man in her life was enough.

And then, late one afternoon when she’d just returned from an all-day shoot and wanted nothing more than food and sleep, Mark phoned. ‘I’m in town,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, right now I’m standing in the lobby of your building. I have to talk to you, Jade. May I come up?’

Chapter Thirty

Whoever said all cats are alike in the dark must have been deaf, dumb, and blind. From her low moans of ecstasy to her litany of husky requests (Silver was not backward in telling him what she enjoyed), and her expensively perfumed flesh – everything was different. Try driving a Bentley after a succession of worn-down Toyotas.

Wes shifted position, allowing Silver to mount
him
. She had the tight, compact body of a teenager. Taut breasts, firm thighs (not rock hard like his Swede) and a flat stomach. She enjoyed sex with a gusto he was unused to. Reba lay on her back like a skewered fish. Other women talked dirty just for effect. When Silver said, ‘Fuck me hard, Wes,’ she meant it. And he did it. And they both got off on it.

She lowered a hard-nippled breast to his mouth while riding him fast. He sucked obligingly. She even tasted different.

He felt the ultimate trip beginning. Thoughts flashed through his head – it had all happened so quickly.

Exit Dennis.

Conversation.

Nothing heavy.

‘Let’s go upstairs.’

Her invitation.

His acceptance.

Once in the bedroom he went for the clinch.

She returned his kiss with teeth and probing tongue and an encouraging stroke of the frothing hound. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she had said.

This was hardly the time to tell her he was a busted-out sometime barman who lived in a run-down house in Venice and got it on with a variety of unattractive but very grateful women.

When she came back into the bedroom she looked quite different. Gone was the short thick hair – a wig, he realized – and in its place was her own shoulder-length dark hair. She had also removed her heavy false eyelashes, and now she appeared younger and softer. She wore a silk kimono.

‘This is the real Silver Anderson,’ she’d said without a trace of embarrassment. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’

Disappointed? He was pleasantly surprised. Taking her hand he’d guided it to where it would do her the most good. ‘Do I feel like a disappointed man?’

She’d laughed, low-down and dirty. ‘You feel like a man – that’s enough for me.’

And they set sail.

He climaxed with a ball-busting jolt which shuddered through his body like a fast-moving express train. ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ he groaned.