Hollywood Sinners (21 page)

‘Let’s go back, shall we?’ Cole put an arm across Lana’s shoulders in a fatherly fashion and guided her gently. She followed Robert, watching the gleam of his heels.

‘Robert and I have an announcement,’ said Elisabeth when they’d all sat down, ‘well, sort of.’ She was clearly slightly merry and tapped the top of her glass with a long fingernail as if she was about to make a speech. ‘I just can’t keep quiet a minute longer. Darling…?’

All three of them turned to look at her. Robert appeared perplexed.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She gave him a look. ‘Sweetheart, come
on
. Do you want to invite them, or shall I?’

Realisation seemed to dawn. ‘Elisabeth, I don’t know if now’s the right time.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport—this is barely notice as it is!’

‘What is it?’ asked Cole, looking from one to the other.

Lana had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next.

‘We’d like to invite you both to our wedding,’ Elisabeth said happily. ‘In August.’ She looked at Lana. ‘Robert and I would be thrilled if you could come.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

‘J
ust what the hell is wrong with you?’ demanded Cole, tugging off his tie.

It was midnight and they’d been shown to their suite after Elisabeth had enjoyed one too many celebration cocktails and fallen off her chair. Not terribly dignified, but at least she’d been having a good time—unlike his wife.

Fuck!
Lana had been in a shitty mood every since they’d arrived, hardly uttering a word through dinner. It was apparent that St Louis and his fiancée were extremely important people in this town—God only knew what conclusions they had drawn from Lana’s doomed expression. Cole and his wife were meant to be the happiest couple in Hollywood—if she’d forgotten that, she needed to get with the damn programme.

‘Nothing,’ said Lana blankly. She was sitting quietly on a chair, her hands in her lap. Mercifully their suite had separate sleeping quarters, but Cole was on a rampage and wouldn’t let her out of his sight until she’d accounted for her behaviour.

‘Is that all you can say?’ Cole shook his head in disgust. ‘All night you’ve been distracted, acting like I dragged you here against your will.’ He momentarily ran out of steam at the corner he’d walked into. Moving on, he stormed, ‘Even when they invited us to the wedding you couldn’t slap on a goddamn smile!’ He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door.

A second later it opened again.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what this is about,’ he said.

Lana laughed humourlessly. ‘Sure.’

Cole walked towards her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Forget it.’

This was bad; he’d never seen her like this before. Their second argument in one day! Normally they wouldn’t talk this much in a week. He’d have to placate the situation before tomorrow—if she could at least perform at breakfast then perhaps they could salvage it.

He sat down opposite her. ‘I know you’re still upset about what happened this morning.’

She stayed quiet. Maybe she was ill.

‘I apologise for keeping you in the house,’ Cole said magnanimously. He closed his eyes as though it pained him. ‘There, it’s done. Now can you please throw off this childish sulk and concentrate on tomorrow.’

She frowned. ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

‘I’d like us to have breakfast with St Louis before we go,’ he said, glad she was finally engaging.

‘No,’ she cut in. ‘Please, Cole. I want to leave immediately in the morning.’

‘Why?’

She looked away. ‘I can’t explain. I’m tired. I just want to go…home.’

Cole’s anger was instantly dispelled. Lana had always refused to refer to the Beverly Hills mansion as her home—until now. If she was thinking of it in those terms, perhaps it would be easier to keep her than he thought.

As if on cue, his cell rang. It was Marty King.

‘Marty.’

‘Cole, hi. You’re in Vegas?’

‘Yeah. What is it?’ He got up and paced over to the window. He could see his wife reflected in the glass, her sad expression still in place.

‘Two things,’ said Marty, who sounded like he was eating. ‘First, I got you scheduled for an impromptu appearance next week at Castelli’s—thought you could throw a few shapes like you did at that fundraiser, get everyone dancing, y’know, like a spontaneous thing. Remind everyone what a great sense of humour you got.’

Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. ‘And second?’

‘And second…’ Marty was quiet a moment. ‘Is Lana there?’

Cole held the phone closer to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I’ve found a way to seal this deal,’ he said. ‘Lana’s yours, Cole. I can’t discuss it over the phone but come see me when you’re back and we’ll go through the plan.’

He kept his voice low. ‘This had better be good.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, it is.’

Cole breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was get his wife smiling again. Fine, if it made her happy, they’d leave first thing.

‘I’ll be there,’ he said, snapping his cell shut.

He watched Lana’s reflection in the glass. For a long time neither of them moved.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

D
ays later, at the Vegas palace he called home, Frank Bernstein uncorked his finest bottle of vintage Krug with a great flourish. A twist of vapour escaped at the neck before it was emptied into a spread of waiting glasses.

‘What did I tell ya?’ he boomed, slapping Robert hard on the back. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing, son, I knew it all along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the wedding!’

Robert smiled at Elisabeth as everyone lifted their crystal flutes—Bernstein, looking more leathery than usual after a business trip to Sicily; Christie Carmen, clad in a microscopic pair of silver hot pants; and Jessica, with lips slightly pursed, as usual, at her sister being the centre of attention.

‘Mr and Mrs St Louis,’ said Elisabeth, savouring the words as she took a drink.

Her father pursed his lips. Thank Christ this damn union was finally going ahead. He’d thought back in France they were cooling things off, taking their time. Not on his watch. There was too much at stake. Elisabeth had to get down that aisle and not a moment too soon.

‘How long will this take?’ moaned Jessica, already thinking about her outfit for the New Year’s party she was attending that evening.

Ignoring her, Bernstein took Robert’s arm and they moved away from the women.

‘You know what this means, right, St Louis?’ At the window they stopped and he put a hand on the younger man’s back. ‘You and I got some talking t’do.’

Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. He was tired. ‘We have?’

‘The future,’ said Bernstein, lighting a Cuban and angling his body away from the girls. A curl of smoke escaped out the side of his mouth. ‘You got responsibilities now.’

‘I know my responsibilities, Bernstein.’

‘Damn right. An’ now I’m tellin’ you, you got some more.
Capiche?
’

‘I won’t be threatened.’ Robert kept his voice down. ‘You can tell your associates it’s not happening.’

‘Wake the hell up, kid. What makes you think you’re any cleaner than the rest of us?’

‘I told you, I’m not interested.’

‘Well, get interested.’ Bernstein’s eyes darted to his daughter. ‘Call it insurance. One of these days you’re gonna need someone t’watch your back, an’ Elisabeth’s, an’ the kids’.’ He leaned in. ‘You got a story I could wipe my ass on? Think about it, wise guy.’

Robert’s head snapped up. What did Bernstein know?

He was being paranoid. Christmas had been and gone since Lana’s visit, but still he couldn’t get her out of his head. Every night since he had replayed it and tried to find a different outcome. The bottom line was: he’d blown it.

Sleep had eluded him that night of the dinner, knowing she was close by, closer than she’d been in years. He’d lain awake and thought of her in his hotel, making love to her perfectly pleasant but strangely artificial husband; of all the things he wanted to do but couldn’t. In the end he had given up and crept out of bed, careful not to wake Elisabeth, and spent the early hours composing a number of letters, none of which said what was important and all of which were balled up and thrown in the trash. He had dressed at six, waited an hour and then headed to the Orient, resolved to find her. He hadn’t prepared what he would say, but knew when he saw her that he’d find the words.

But she had already gone. He was too late.

‘Can you
please
tell your girlfriend to put some clothes on?’ Elisabeth drifted over in a mist of Chanel, a distasteful expression on her face. ‘It’s like the Playboy mansion in here.’

Bernstein chuckled as his eyes feasted on Christie Carmen, burbling on to a fed-up-looking Jessica, her ass like a split peach. He patted his stomach as though he’d just eaten a big and satisfying meal.

As soon as he moved off she pounced on Robert. ‘What was he talking to you about?’

‘Nothing important.’ Robert twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers.

Elisabeth was suspicious. Her sister’s words came back to her.

Something Daddy’s not telling us.

‘It looked important,’ she said, narrowing her eyes.

‘It wasn’t.’

She held up her hand, showing him her engagement ring like an identity badge. Elisabeth loved diamonds. It struck him then that he’d never thought he would marry a woman about whom he could say that.

‘We’re going to be married,’ she announced. ‘Let’s start by being honest.’

Elisabeth was shocked at how far she could push her hypocrisy.
It’s easier to point the finger, isn’t it?

‘Can I get everyone’s attention?’ bellowed Bernstein, mercifully coming to the rescue. His terracotta face was cracked in a wide smile as he fondled Christie Carmen’s behind. ‘Me an’ Christie’ve got a special announcement of our own.’

‘What is it?’ asked Jessica, impatiently tapping her foot.

‘Well,’ said Bernstein, giving Christie a quick kiss on the lips, ‘we’re tying the knot.’

‘
What?
’ Elisabeth made no attempt to conceal her shock. She turned to Robert for reassurance. He shrugged. Jessica started laughing.

‘An’ you know what this calls for?’

‘More champagne!’ recommended Jessica, hiccupping.

‘Honeys,... Bernstein held his arms out to Christie and Elisabeth ‘...this is gonna be the double wedding of the century!’

* * *

‘What do you want?’ Elisabeth said coldly, pushing past Alberto Bellini and stalking into her dressing room.

‘I had to see you.’ He followed her in and closed the door. ‘It has been too long.’

‘Forget it, Alberto. I have.’

Elisabeth pulled off her clothes and lifted a Dior gown from where it hung in waiting. She stood for a moment in her underwear, trying to work out how to put it on.

‘Could I get a little privacy?’ she asked, sliding her wrists through the armholes.

Alberto watched her hungrily, his eyes scanning her body. ‘We must talk.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ She turned and unfastened her bra, tossing it over the back of a chair. ‘Now, please, I’ve got a show to do.’ Dropping the fabric over her head and trying to tug it down to cover herself, she thought she heard a tear.
Shit!

There was a tentative knock at the door.

‘I’m capable of dressing myself!’ barked Elisabeth blindly through the folds of material. Why did Alberto have to choose now of all times to make an appearance? The New Year Show wasn’t something she could afford to blow.

‘Let me help,
bellissima
,’ he crooned, approaching her half-clothed form.

Elisabeth gritted her teeth. She felt Alberto’s rough hands pull gently at the fabric, and a couple of times the cold metal of his rings as they brushed against her naked skin. His face was close to hers, she could feel his hot breath. Her nipples hardened and she realised she was aching to be touched.

‘Thank you,’ she said tartly, as with a final movement he slipped the dress over her head.

‘My Elisabeth,’ he whispered. He looked in her sea-blue eyes. ‘How I have missed you.’

Elisabeth shook her head. ‘Give it up, Alberto.’ She dragged an ivory-handled brush through her hair, now something of a nest after the scuffle with the gown. ‘Our night together was a mistake. I’m sorry for having led you on. I’m marrying Robert and that’s the end of it. Please...’ she looked at him ‘...let’s forget it ever happened.’

‘
Amore mio
,’ Alberto murmured, ‘I cannot forget.’

‘Then try.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘Do you forget all that we talked about?’

‘I made a mistake,’ Elisabeth retorted sharply, spritzing fragrance behind her ears. ‘This is my future, Alberto, and you had better get used to it.’

In a heartbeat he was behind her, his fingers tracing a line down her spine. ‘You cannot erase the passion we have shared.’ He planted a chain of soft kisses across her shoulders.

‘Passion?’ She tried to make a joke of it. She could feel her resolve crumbling.

What was one last time?
she reasoned as Alberto began to kiss her neck. His hands crept round and cupped her breasts, caressing her between a finger and thumb, covering her delicate frame with his bear paws. She turned, and in a flash his lips were on hers. In her heels she was almost as tall as him and could smell the ginger in his hair. When he placed his hands on her waist and they were so big they almost met round the middle.

Call it one last time before she walked down the aisle, Elisabeth thought. Call it a lucky charm before the show. Call it a poison she had to bleed. She ignored the voice that called it different.

Call it infidelity.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

London

C
hristmas in Hampstead had been bleak. England was grey and cold and Chloe couldn’t wait to get back to America. Brock had several castings lined up already—word had got out fast about her performance in
Eastern Sky
, helped along by Sam Lucas’s glowing approval.

The London house had been monopolised by Janet and her boys—it seemed the hole Chloe had left in her absence had rapidly been filled. Janet did Christmas in her own, different manner, and everybody knew you should only ever do Christmas one way: in the way you always had. She and her father had muddled through after the divorce, always getting out the same moth-eaten decorations, ripped streamers and balding tinsel, an angel with a smudged face she had chewed when she was four. Now everything was changed—it was all from Liberty and neat and good quality and none of it she recognised.

Chloe lay on her bed, black hair fanned out across the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Next week she’d be back in LA. It was a new year and she could start to get her head together—beginning with her finally finding the guts to dump Nate. She’d been wondering if maybe she could learn to live with her gruesome discovery, just get on and turn a blind eye—didn’t people do it all the time? But seeing her father again over Christmas, she knew she could not. The only person she was cheating was herself—and she’d been cheated on enough.

She rolled over, her stomach crunching at the thought. She’d been a coward these past few weeks, but she’d also learned a lot. It was time for a change.

Thursday was Nate’s album launch, a big fancy affair at some club in Soho. The event itself would be too public—she’d do it after, she could play the charade until then. The break-up would be painful, but she had to rip it off quickly, like a plaster. The scab would heal eventually.

‘Darling!’ Gordon French called up the stairs in a loud baritone. ‘Pamela and Freddie are here.’

Chloe sighed. Not even the militia of extended family was enough to distract her from her dark mood. She swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs to greet her jovial uncle, and an aunt who always smelled of soup.

* * *

Two days later Chloe arrived at Shaik, a celebrity hang-out in Soho, to celebrate the launch of The Hides’ new album.

She spotted Nate hanging about outside as the car pulled up. He’d told her to meet him there—the perfect stage management for their first UK shot together in months, no doubt.

‘Babe!’ he called as she exited the car. She knew she looked good in a clinging black jersey dress and biker boots. Paparazzi surged forward.

‘Hi, Nate,’ she said coolly, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. Cameras circled them like vultures. When Nate kissed her, she felt nothing.

Inside, the place was heaving. Designers and DJs, models and musicians, actors and artists chatted and drank in their cliques, most of whom had parents who had been famous in the eighties. Long-legged beauties leaned, bored, against the bar, their feet crossed at the ankles; an up-and-coming male singer in skinny jeans and a blazer, his quiff arranged on his head like a croissant, held fort in a grey-leather booth; a chart-topping twenty-something with her forty-six-year-old boyfriend downed cocktails amid a swarm of admiring hangers-on. Everybody wore a slightly pained expression, as though it hurt to be this cool. Chloe felt distanced from it all.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Nate, guiding her through. As an afterthought, he added, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ Chloe scanned the room as she trailed after Nate. How many of the women here had he slept with? All this time she’d thought the London girls gave her bitchy looks because of her modelling, and it could just as well be down to them shagging her boyfriend. She felt a stab of humiliation.

He got them a couple of sambuca shots. Chloe tossed hers back in one, wincing as the aniseed blazed down her throat.

‘Thirsty?’ Nate teased, ordering two more. He rammed his tongue down her throat while they were waiting. It tasted grim.

Chloe heard her name being called and pulled away.

‘Chloe, hey!’ It was Melissa Darling. ‘Hello, Nate.’ She put her beer down on the bar.

‘Hey.’

Chloe hugged her agent hello. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She meant it.

‘Me too,’ said Melissa. ‘They’re going mad for you two outside.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think they’ve been lonely without you!’

Nate smirked. ‘Amazing what a slice of the American pie can do for you, eh, babe?’ It wasn’t clear which woman he was talking to.

Melissa gave a polite smile. ‘Congratulations on the launch.’

‘Ta.’

‘You look gorgeous, Chloe.’ She turned back to her client. ‘LA suits you.’

‘Thanks. I can’t wait to go back.’

Nate cut in. ‘All right, Chlo, keep your knickers on.’ He winked at Melissa. ‘We don’t get to see much of each other in LA, busy schedules and all that,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite nice being back for a bit, don’t you think?’

Chloe couldn’t look at him. ‘Sure,’ she said.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Melissa, kissing her. ‘Let’s go for coffee before you fly back.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘All the best with the album, Nate.’

He nodded through a mouthful of beer as she moved off.

‘Right, I’m on,’ he said, gesturing over Chloe’s bare shoulder. He planted a wet one on her cheek and swaggered through a gaggle of fans.

Chloe turned. The rest of the band was grabbing their instruments on a dimly lit stage in one corner—she hadn’t even noticed it when she’d walked in. The mike, lit dramatically from behind, stood patiently as Nate parted the waves of the crowd. He high-fived a flurry of outstretched palms as he mounted the steps and took his position.

‘Hey,’ Nate grunted into the mike. ‘Thanks for coming.’ There was a tinny shriek.

Chloe ordered another shot. She downed the sticky liquid as soon as it arrived.

Fuck it.
She ordered another as the guitars started up. Then another. She’d need a good dose of Dutch courage to get through the pretence.

Nate strutted across the stage in his skinny jeans, shaking his head and jerking the mike, flipping it round in his hands as he sang—or largely spoke—the words. The crowd was doing most of the work, taking over the lyrics dutifully whenever Nate plugged the mike in their direction. Normally Chloe would join in, but she didn’t even know how this new one went.

They only did a couple of numbers, and when it was over Chloe felt the room spinning. She wanted to go home, she couldn’t be arsed with it.

Fuzzily she walked over to one of the booths and slumped down. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, laughing at her, knowing what a stupid fool she was.

‘Hi there.’ A bloke came to sit next to her, someone she vaguely recognised from a party she’d been to with Nate a year before. Was he a playwright? She couldn’t remember.

‘Hi, there,’ she said back. She didn’t care if she appeared rude—she was too tired and emotional and drunk to bother how she came across.

‘Want a drink?’ He moved closer. His hair was thinning and he was wearing little round glasses in the style of John Lennon, she guessed, though he just looked like a freak.

She rested her chin on her hands. ‘No, I’ve had enough.’

‘I’m Baz.’

‘Great.’ How could this guy just waltz in and start chatting her up, knowing she was officially with Nate? Clearly she was the only person in the whole world to whom relationships actually meant something.

‘Want to get out of here?’ the man asked.

Chloe’s attention was distracted. She could see Nate talking to a pretty brunette at the bar. The girl was giggling at everything he said and tossing her hair, her bright red lips wet with gloss. And then—no, he couldn’t be, not while
she
was sitting right here—one of his hands reached down and patted the girl’s behind. Not only that but it stayed there, and now he was leaning in, whispering something in her ear…

That was it.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first,’ said Chloe, getting to her feet.

Feeling surprisingly calm, she walked over to where Nate and the girl were standing. Fuck him—she’d been little-miss-nice for way too long. He deserved everything that was coming his way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, tapping Nate’s shoulder.

He looked up, an inane grin on his face. He didn’t even do her the good grace of appearing guilty. ‘Hey, babe,’ he said instead, eyes foggy.

‘I’m not your
babe
,’ Chloe spat.

He was confused. ‘What did you say?’ The girl next to him opened her doe eyes wide, relishing the drama.

‘Do you want me to spell it out?’ Chloe demanded, hands on hips.

‘Chill out, babe, you’re making a scene.’

‘No.’ She stuck her chin in the air. ‘I won’t
chill out
. Why should I?’

Now he looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re drunk. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ He put a hand behind her back, preparing to guide her out.

She shook him off. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever, ever again touch me. How
dare
you imagine you have any right to come within a mile of me? You lying, conniving—’

‘What did you call me?’ Nate took a step forward, anger twisting his features.

‘Go fuck yourself, Nate. You know what you’ve done.’

The group around them fanned out, people backing away to get a better view, until it was just Chloe and Nate in the circle.

‘Do I?’ Nate called her bluff, attempting to laugh it off now they had an audience.

‘Oh, you need me to say it louder, do you?’ Chloe’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Whatever you want, Nate, just like we’ve always done it.’ She whipped round, her dark hair lashing behind her like a whip, and stormed towards the stage. Nate went to bolt after her, grabbing at her top, but he missed and went flying face first on to the floor. There was a scuffle before he surfaced, straightening his leather jacket, a strident shade of red.

Chloe took the mike, turned it on and banged it a couple of times. She was drunk but for once she could see totally clearly. The music died.

‘Nate Reid,’ announced Chloe, ‘is a liar and cheat.’ She waited while a thick silence descended on the crowd. Their outlines were black against the glare of the spotlight.

‘I don’t know how long he’s been going behind my back—probably since the beginning. He’s a filthy, dirty, philandering bastard, and more than that, he’s an
actor
.’ She clapped her hands slowly several times. ‘He’s played the part of my boyfriend
very
well.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth, Chloe.’ Nate lashed to the front, eyes blazing. ‘It’s all lies.’

‘I’ve had to go for an STI check,’ Chloe went on, her voice sounding loud and clear round the warehouse, ‘and I’d encourage any girl who’s been with him to do the same. If you think you’re the only one, chances are you’re wrong.’

A gasp rippled round the crowd.

‘What a load of bullshit!’ shrieked Nate. ‘You’re seriously going to listen to her? Give me a break. She’s just jealous, can’t handle my fame. Isn’t that right,
babe
?’

‘Do you know what?’ Chloe said calmly. ‘Fuck you, Nate Reid. Fuck you and your pretentious fucking music. I don’t need you to corroborate me and I never have—in fact, if you can operate your shit-sized brain for more than a second you’ll realise it’s the other way round. Without me you’re nothing but a cretinous musician pretending to be poor.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes, surely everyone here knows about the Buckley-Reids,
Nathaniel
—if they don’t, maybe you should tell them?’ She saw Nate gulp. ‘You’re phoney and you’re arrogant and all you ever think about is yourself. Go find a pretty little airhead who’s interested in sucking you off, because I’m telling you, it’s not me.’

Gathering all the dignity she could muster, Chloe replaced the microphone, stepped off the stage, made her way through the crowd and left. A smattering of uncertain applause accompanied her exit but then just as quickly died.

* * *

Nate was shaking. Someone tried to touch his shoulder and he slapped them away. His whole body was trembling, shuddering with uncontrollable rage. Vaguely he heard the DJ start up again, the crowd dispersing, no one knowing what to say.

Nate stood alone.
How dare she?
Stupid stuck-up-her-own-arse
bitch
!

In a frenzy he stalked out the club, shoving a paparazzo on his way past. Someone else tried to take his photo and he punched their camera, the lens smashing as it crashed to the ground. Pumped with adrenalin he hauled the unfortunate man up and slammed a fist into his face, sending him careening back into the flank of a black cab.

‘Steady on, mate,’ someone said.

He started walking. He didn’t care where he was going. Never before in his life had he felt so livid, so incensed, so…
humiliated
. Maybe if he walked fast enough he could catch that bitch up and wring her scrawny neck.

Eventually he stopped, lit a fag, slumped down on the pavement.

He’d get his revenge.

One thing was for sure:
nobody
humiliated Nate Reid and got away with it.