Hollywood Sinners (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Belleville, Ohio, 1998–9

‘Y
ou know what you’ve got to do,’ Robbie had said that day he’d met Lester. ‘You’ve got to find the courage to face up to him.’

But Laura couldn’t. She was too afraid of the consequences.

Over the next twelve months they dated in secret. Laura was still underage and while there were times she wanted to give herself to Robbie completely, times she was desperate to and begged him to take her, he refused. He had waited long enough and he would wait a little while longer—she, he promised, would be worth every second.

At school Laura was adamant that their relationship be kept quiet, in case word ever got back to her brother. Nobody could find out, not even Marcie. She knew that Lester would beat her—or worse—if he ever discovered it. For a while he had been dating a local barmaid and his attentions had been mercifully diverted, but lately, after that fell apart, he had been requesting more and more things from his little sister. He still hadn’t touched her, but occasionally he wanted her to touch herself. He always threatened her with a fist when she refused.

Her first summer with Robbie was long and hot and she wanted it to never end. They would spend hours just kissing and talking, behind school or in the park, under the stars at night when Lester was out. He would leave notes in her locker at school telling her he was thinking about her, that he liked what she was wearing that day, how much he wanted to kiss her and touch her. It was like she had the best-kept secret in the world. It made her feel mighty.

She had asked Robbie to assure her of one thing: that he wouldn’t try to challenge Lester or go to the cops—it would be she who bore the brunt of it. She hadn’t told him the full story of the abuse, hadn’t told anyone, and knew he’d be unable to hold back if she did.

Often Robbie talked of his ambition, to make enough money to give her the life he said she deserved. Laura had her own ambition—to make enough money to live independently, never to be reliant on anyone else—but Robbie seemed to have a thing about saving her and at that time she was happy to be rescued. He told her how he planned to follow his father into the hotel business. Wait until she saw the desert lights, she’d scarcely believe her eyes. In Vegas they could live happily together. Lester Fallon could never come near them again.

On Robbie’s eighteenth birthday he told Laura he wanted her to come with him: he was quitting Belleville to study for a business degree and refused to leave her behind. She would turn sixteen in a month and a horrible instinct told him that Lester, with all his sick perversions, wouldn’t wait much longer. Robbie had seen the look in Laura’s brother’s eyes and he didn’t like it one bit. Lester was a hungry man, a twisted man. Hungry for his own sister.

‘I can’t…’ protested Laura.

‘Why?’ He took her in his arms. ‘Why can’t you?’

She couldn’t think of a reason, except for a misguided sense of loyalty to the brother who had hit her, abused her and caused her such misery. She knew Robbie Lewis was the love of her life. They hadn’t used that word yet but there was no doubting how she felt.

Weeks later, on the night she turned sixteen, everything changed.

Lester was out drinking, unaware what day it was, and she and Robbie were in their usual place, beside the felled tree, on a blanket under the stars. There, finally, she had given herself to him.

Robbie was gentle, taking his time, not wanting to hurt her. As she lay back and whispered, ‘I want you,’ a low groan escaped his lips and he moved himself on top of her. Unbuttoning her blouse, he slid a hand on to the skin there, feeling the steady beat beneath his palm. She shook from deep within.

They stayed like that, his hand over her heart.

‘I love you,’ he said.

It was like finding the answer to a great mystery and realising it was something so simple all along.

‘I love you, too.’

‘Be with me,’ he said. ‘Always.’

She raised her head to kiss him, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. ‘Always.’

His hand found her breast and she let out a soft moan, her nipple hardening under his touch. He wrapped an arm underneath her and pulled her body up towards him. On instinct she felt for his hardness and freed him from his jeans, and that part of him wasn’t a frightening, threatening thing but a warm, familiar part of the boy she loved.

Her body was ablaze, every fibre wanting him inside. When he entered her she felt a brief, sharp pain, but it was a wonderful, exquisite kind of pain and she savoured it, slowly easing into the rhythm of his movements, fitting with him, until they were just one person. As the pleasure mounted and a hot prickliness began at the point where they joined and then swelled within her, she gave herself up to the most blinding, body-shattering feeling she had ever known. She wrapped her legs tight around him and pulled him further in, wanting him, needing him, loving him and never wanting him to stop.

Afterwards, as they lay naked in each other’s arms, he asked her again. Except this time it wasn’t a question.

‘Come away with me.’

She looked into his eyes and brushed away a lock of dark hair. ‘You know I will.’

Once more they made love, and this time it was slower, more passionate, and even though it was dark she could see him watching her all the while. This time there was no pain, just that indescribable heat that surged through her. She could never have guessed that pleasure like it existed.

She should have known it couldn’t last.

‘Well, well, well,’ said a rasping voice, the light from a battered torch bathing their naked bodies in yellow light. It was Lester, drunk and swaying, his lank hair in a thin rope down his back and his lips split and cracked.

Laura grabbed her clothes. Robbie pulled on his jeans, eyes fixed on the other man.

Lester fumbled in his belt for something. In the bald light they saw it was a gun. He waved it in their faces, his eyes manic.

In her heart Laura knew something terrible was going to happen.

‘Somebody better tell me what the hell’s going on,’ he growled, ‘or I swear to Christ I’ll blow both your brains out.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Las Vegas

T
he MGM Grand Garden Arena was a pit of clamour and excitement. Thousands filled the space, surging up its steep flanks waving banners and punching the air, surrendering to the adrenalin of the night. The focus: a small square lined with red rope. In minutes, two of the world’s greatest fighters would take to the stage.

Elisabeth arrived late—it was the first event in months when she and Robert hadn’t made their entrance together. She peeled off her fur coat and took a front-row seat next to her fiancé. He was talking to the city mayor but smiled and stood when he saw her.

‘Hello, darling,’ he said, kissing her chastely and helping her out her coat.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she muttered. She offered no excuse. In truth she had fallen asleep after the spa session and had been dreaming of Alberto Bellini so vividly that she had missed her alarm.

‘Don’t be.’ He stroked the hole of flesh her gown revealed at the small of her back.

‘Elisabeth, what a pleasure to see you.’ Oliver Bratman, mayor of Las Vegas, stood to greet her. He was clad in a royal-blue pinstripe suit with a beetroot cravat spilling out the top pocket. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Oliver.’ Elisabeth kissed him. ‘You look well.’

‘As do you.’ He grinned. ‘Must be the flush of an imminent wedding.’ His eyes glittered. Oliver was tall and bald, with thick, dark eyebrows and a nose mapped with burst blood vessels.

Elisabeth’s eyes flitted to Robert’s and he laughed smoothly. ‘Fear not, Oliver, you’ll get your invite.’

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the boxers were brought in. One was Mexican, his opponent British. Elisabeth had been watching these fights since she was a girl, dragged along by her father and not understanding why anyone would want to watch two sweaty men punching the lights out of each other. But over the years she had started to see a grace in it and now she found herself swept along in the pulse of the night.

Robert kept his hand on the small of her back. Once she would have found it electric; now she found it stifling. She focused on the fight.

The men’s bodies were slick with sweat as they swiped and punched, bouncing on their toes. The clash of their skin as they intermittently held each other was mesmerising.

Elisabeth was on her feet, so caught up in it that she barely noticed Robert taking a call. When he hung up he looked alarmed.

‘I’ve got to take this outside,’ he said. His face had gone completely white.

‘Is everything OK?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head and said something in her ear. It was impossible to hear above the noise and he had to repeat it. Still she couldn’t understand.

‘I’ll come with you,’ she shouted.

‘No,’ he said quickly, patting down her concern with his hand. ‘I’ll be back.’

Elisabeth watched him go. When she turned back to the ring she saw the British guy was down. His eye was split and there was blood spurting from his nose. He got to his feet, resuming the dance, a pink bubble popping at his lip.

And then, on the far side, she caught sight of Alberto Bellini. He was staring at her. He looked taller than usual, his snow-capped frame even whiter beneath the lights. The rest of the room vanished—it was just the two of them, their eyes locked. She averted her gaze. He could not know what he had done to her.

They had been avoiding each other since the night of the Oasis. She had expected him to visit her dressing room, half of her wanting him to, half of her not, but so far it hadn’t happened. This made him even more desirable—Elisabeth couldn’t account for his apparent indifference. She knew she was incredible between the sheets, he couldn’t have been disappointed. Perhaps it had been her reaction the morning after. Waking early from a dreamless sleep, a pair of strong arms, thick with hair, wrapped round her waist, her initial response had been one of disgust. She was disgusted at how freely she had given herself to him; disgusted at her terrible betrayal of Robert. Quickly and silently, she had dressed and made her exit before he awoke.

The boxers were in a tussle now, gripping each other’s heads, pounding their gloves. What fascinated Elisabeth the most was the strange intimacy that existed between them. Two men: both strong, both powerful, both wanting the same thing. Both prepared to fight for it.

A jet of blood spurted into the air and it was KO.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Los Angeles

C
ole Steel’s agent poured his sixth coffee of the day and lost count of the number of sugars he put in it. It had been a shitty morning at his downtown office: he’d spent most of it in talks with aggressive publicists, and on top of that the air-conditioning was out.

Marty dialled his secretary. ‘Jennifer, can we get this thing fixed? I’m sweating like a goddamn pig in here.’ He replaced the receiver and mopped his brow with a silk polka-dot handkerchief.

Marty’s office was an exercise in minimalism—a large white space sliced through with black leather and chrome. Back in the seventies when he had first started up, he had employed a then-little-known Norwegian designer to draw up the plans. It was still, in Marty’s view, the most stylish office in town. Outside the emerald tops of palm trees rustled in the breeze of a pure blue LA sky. It reminded him of a David Hockney painting.

Marty took a slug of coffee and it scalded his throat. He felt unbearably hot—and it wasn’t just down to the air-con. It was his client Cole Steel’s arrangement with Lana Falcon: the whole thing was enough to give him a coronary. The finer points of the deal had been complicated enough to begin with, but now Cole wanted to extend the contract and not only did that mean dealing with supreme hard-ass Rita Clay—it also meant coming up with a drastic plan of action. Instinct told him that Cole’s current wife wasn’t going to be all that easy to hold on to.

And then, yesterday, he had hit on the answer.

It was the only way.

But, boy, was it making him sweat.

In all his years in the business, Marty had never before been prepared to take such a risk. The solution he’d come up with made him question his whole moral fibre, something he consistently tried to avoid. Could he really go through with it? Moves like the one he was planning weren’t the reason he’d got into this game.

And he felt sorry for Lana—she was a smart girl, a talented girl, but she’d had no real idea what she was letting herself into when she’d signed with Cole. Marty knew his client was a difficult man but they went back a long way: these days he could anticipate Cole’s next move before he knew it himself. He had already been anticipating the renewal request. If Lana was able to do the same, she might have stood a chance—for when Cole made up his mind about something, it was as good as done.

If only his client could get his damn prick up! It’d make Marty’s life a hell of a lot easier.

He knocked back the rest of his coffee and checked his watch. It was four o’clock. Loosening his tie, he prepared for the long night ahead. If Cole Steel wanted to stay married, then that was exactly what was going to happen.

* * *

‘Are you Jimmy Hart?’

Across town, Jimmy looked up from beneath the rim of his baseball cap, a sticky array of empty shot glasses on the bar before him. The sudden movement made him feel decidedly woozy. He resolved to determine how pretty she was before answering the question, which was difficult to gauge when the room was swimming. Catching his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall, he groaned. It was a good disguise at least: gone was the award-winning comedy movie star and in his place some bum drunk with three-day stubble and shadows round his eyes.

He’d been at Joey’s since three, a dimly lit bar off Wilshire that stocked an apparently endless supply of whisky, after yet another argument with his wife. The owner was a jocular Italian who either didn’t recognise Jimmy in his customary combats and cap, or politely pretended not to.

‘What’s it to you?’ he asked the woman, registering long dark hair, too frizzy, and clumpy eye make-up. She wasn’t bad, nice and tall, but today he just couldn’t be bothered. Women were cut from an identical mould—they were all chasing the same things—fame, money and the glory that came with bedding a movie star. Except for Kate—these days it seemed all she wanted was his dick on a stick.

‘I’m
such
a fan,’ she said in an artificial sing-song, slipping uninvited on to the adjacent bar stool. He noticed she was wearing cheap fishnet stockings that were torn over the knee. Maybe she was a hooker.

‘Yeah, well, you’ve got the wrong guy.’ He gestured for a refill.

‘I don’t think so…’ She reached for his leg but he swatted her hand away, vaguely pleased that the alcohol hadn’t deadened his reflexes. Somewhere amid the weak layers of temptation he must have an inbuilt anti-skank mechanism.

She watched him quizzically for a moment before raising a hand and giving him the finger. Her hands were massive.

‘Fuck you, bozo,’ she said gruffly, her voice dropping by an octave.

Glad to have been spared the attention, Jimmy downed another. It wasn’t helping, but tonight he just wanted to forget. And yet the more he drank the more thoughts of Kate wrung him out, like water being squeezed from a sponge. The marriage was in freefall. Since he had last tried to have sex with his wife, communication had all but broken down—the only time they talked to each other was when it concerned the children.

Jimmy put his head in his hands when he thought of the kids—it was because of them that he felt like a real bastard. But what could he do? When he had met Kate she had been a different person. And so, he supposed, had he. Everyone expected a comedian to be a self-loathing arsehole. Why disappoint?

Something buzzed in his pocket. It took a second to realise it was his phone. Had just saved him from liver failure, probably.

It was his agent. Great timing. He was tempted to stuff it back in his pocket but some faint intuition told him to pick it up.

‘Brock, hi.’ He tried to focus—drunk comics were such a cliché.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Brock.

‘I’m not.’ Jimmy nodded as the barman refuelled his glass.

‘Where are you?’ Brock asked suspiciously.

‘At home.’

‘Aha! I just called you there and no answer.’

‘I was taking a dump. What’s this about, Brock?’

‘You’ve got a casting next week—’

Jimmy was confused. ‘Have I?’ It had been ages since he’d been called for anything. His last film was a terrible commercial effort in which he’d had to gussy up as a range of overweight characters, hilarious, of course, because he was naturally so thin. It had bombed—fat wasn’t funny—and now Jimmy had all but given up on an opportunity to redeem himself. He’d been humiliated.

‘I’ll send over the script,’ said Brock.

‘As long as I don’t have to eat fifty chilli dogs or whatever.’

‘No chilli dogs. Or doughnuts.’

‘Fine.’

‘And remember Harriet Foley’s party on Friday. You should go—she likes you.’ Harriet Foley was the quite terrifying US editor of major fashion magazine
In
. She was extraordinarily well connected.

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good. I’m bringing Chloe French,’ said Brock, loudly chewing gum. ‘I thought you two might get on—y’know, the Brit thing.’

Jimmy remembered seeing her at the Romans’ wedding. Young, arresting, with all that wonderful hair.

‘I gotta go, Brock. I’ll call about the script.’

‘You got it.’ Then, before he hung up: ‘And, Jimmy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Go home.’

Jimmy closed his phone, downed the final shot and put a fifty on the bar. He could feel the rot of depression sinking in and told himself to climb up out of it.

Something needed to happen. Something good. Something called Chloe French.