Hollywood Sinners (37 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

N
ate Reid paced the room, wiping his palms on the pleat of his tux trousers. God, his hands were sweaty. He must be shitting it.

He went to the window, looked out across at the Orient. Cars were arriving in droves down below like hard-backed beetles, depositing their cargo at a strip of red that ran on and on, wide as three motorway lanes, bright as a lick of fire.

Chloe had been in the bathroom ages. Eventually he heard the loo flush.

When she emerged, her face was the colour of the inside of an avocado.

‘I feel sick,’ she said fuzzily, putting a hand to her head.

He nodded. ‘You said, babe. But come on, get it together, this is a big night.’

‘I’m serious, Nate,’ she moaned, groping for the edge of the bed. ‘I feel really rough. I keep thinking I’m going to be sick and then just…spitting.’ She curled up in a ball. ‘I think I’m dying.’

The melodrama relieved his tension. ‘Don’t be stupid, Chlo. Come on.’ Then he teased, ‘You didn’t drag me all the way out here for nothing, did you?’

She looked at him with sunken eyes.

‘I’m going to barf.’ A strange gurgling sound came from her stomach and she stumbled blindly back to the bathroom.

Someone knocked on the door. Nate called after her, ‘Time to get dressed, babe, sort it out!’

Chloe’s stylist bustled through with an air of such impenetrable self-importance it was more like fog.

‘She’s not feeling well,’ explained Nate, in response to the retching sounds emanating from the loo.

The woman looked unperturbed. ‘Of course she isn’t,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘They’re always vomiting right about now.’

Chloe managed to get through the fitting without splurging all down her designer dress. She had thrown up five times already, her stomach was in knots and her throat felt like she’d swallowed a set of knives.

It was like being prepared for execution, never mind her first red-carpet appearance. How could they all expect her to go down there like this? She couldn’t be spewing all over the cast and TV crews—it was sheer and utter mortification! In fact, Chloe had always had such an aversion to the very idea of being sick in public that she always carried a small plastic bag around with her in case of an emergency. How would it look if the whole entire world was watching her stumble past with her head buried in an old carrier bag?

Make-up was on her next, like the second horseman of the apocalypse. What fresh hell still awaited her?

During the fleeting interlude she had writhed around on the bed, not caring if she rumpled her gown. ‘Please,’ she’d begged, ‘kill me.’ Then she’d burped and headed back to the reassuring confines of the toilet. After being sick again she’d felt slightly better, thinking that she might be able to get through the evening so long as it came in waves that she could anticipate. But just when things were starting to look up, the stabbing pains resumed and she was back with her head stuck in the bowl. What was it? Had she eaten something?

It didn’t help that the make-up girl’s breath smelled like milk. Midway through the precise application of eyeliner, it was enough to tip Chloe over the edge.

‘Back in a sec,’ she said through a mouthful, bolting to the bathroom.

The make-up girl looked worried. Nate shrugged. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said, trying to sound confident, though inside he was cacking himself.

‘Tell her to go,’ Chloe sobbed from behind the closed door. ‘I want to do the rest myself.’

The girl objected. ‘She won’t get the right—’

Nate cut her off. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said, ushering her out with her bundle of brushes. He smiled awkwardly before he shut the door in her face. ‘Hey, don’t take it personally.’

Tentatively he knocked on the bathroom door. When it opened, he stuffed Chloe’s cosmetics bag through the crack.

He heard her retch once or twice.

‘Babe,’ he enquired weakly, ‘you OK?’

Silence. Then, ‘Nate, I need a doctor.’ She sounded like death. ‘I need a doctor
now
.’

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

T
he red carpet was alive. Paparazzi and TV crews stood three deep along the gangway, vying for the best position; reporters warred for the killer spot, shouting out the biggest names, desperate to catch the A-listers on their way past as they battled for a chat with the movie’s hottest stars. Producers and agents ushered the train along, guiding the commodities into all the right interviews; fans clamoured for autographs and wept with adoration into their sleeves, while on the other side white teeth flashed and cameras popped.

‘Lana Falcon will be right here on the red carpet any moment now, accompanied by her husband Cole Steel,’ wittered one journalist. ‘Hotly tipped for an Award nomination for her performance in
Eastern Sky
, Ms Falcon will no doubt be nervous tonight in anticipation of how her efforts will be received…’

Robert St Louis surveyed the scene with satisfaction. It was a spectacular event—the
Eastern Sky
backdrop that ran along the length of the carpet was echoed in the soaring peaks of the Orient that towered overhead. Several cast members had dressed in theme, in commissioned designs of sumptuous peacock blues and jet black.

Lana would be the last to arrive. Right about now she and Cole would be preparing to meet the car that would bring them round: the grand arrival of the stars they’d all been waiting for. He had to admire Cole—it took balls to tell the world one thing when the truth was another. Perhaps the men were more similar than they thought.

Bernstein appeared by his side in a too-tight Armani suit. Jessica hovered behind.

‘Have you seen Elisabeth?’ Robert asked.

‘Beats me.’ Bernstein’s expression was hard.

‘I can’t get hold of her. I need her to run through the number.’

‘She’s probably off with her rank old boyfriend,’ said Jessica.

Bernstein pretended not to hear. ‘Jessica’s helpin’ out, though, ain’t ya, puss-cat?’ He clapped her on the back, sending a wash of jasmine champagne spilling down her chin.

‘
Daddy!
’ she cursed, hoping the cameras had missed it. Clad in aquamarine, she looked quite upmarket for a change.

‘My girl’s been takin’ care of guests over at the Parthenon,’ Bernstein told Robert, with an unusual note of pride. ‘She’s got the magic touch.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ Jessica snapped. But Robert noticed the flush of pleasure.

‘See what I mean?’ chortled Bernstein.

Robert looked between the two. ‘I suppose.’

‘I ran into Nate Reid in the lobby, that’s all,’ she explained irritably. ‘We go back.’

Robert raised an eyebrow.

‘Suddenly Daddy’s all over it like it’s some big fucking deal. Some big fucking embarrassment, more like.’

‘The guy’s an asset!’ clarified Bernstein. ‘I’m tellin’ you this for free: my Jessie sure knows how to charm the right people.’

Jessica was appalled. ‘
Jessie?
’

‘It’s cute.’

‘It’s horrendous.’

Bernstein smiled proudly. ‘I gotta say, she surprises me. Cut out for this sort of work from day one.’

‘Ah,’ said Robert, understanding.

Jessica bristled. ‘Why?’

‘What?’

‘Why are you surprised?’

Bernstein made a face. ‘Never thought you had it in you, kid.’

She chucked back more champagne. ‘Are you kidding? I get so bored most days I think I’m going to kill myself. Or somebody else.’

Her father laughed, as if she’d said something sweet. ‘She’s a Bernstein, all right.’

As Robert turned to scan the crowd, a peculiar, disorienting feeling like vertigo came over him. Instinct told him something was the matter. Concerned, he made his excuses and he headed inside. It wasn’t like him to lose his cool.

He took a moment to gather himself and had a quick word with the organisers—he’d been mistaken, everything was running to plan. Guests were being led into the auditorium; the screening would start shortly; the crowd seemed happy. It was a false alarm: he just needed to stop his imagination running wild.

There was nothing to worry about. Tonight was going to go off without a single hitch.

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

E
lisabeth kept running.

She didn’t know where she was running to. She just knew she had to run. If she ran long enough, maybe she’d die. Maybe her body would give up and eventually she would die.

The Strip skewed sickeningly in her vision, a nightmare circus of gaudy lights. Her legs were rubber, her arms flailing out; make-up ran black down her face. Her feet were bare.

‘You OK, miss?’ a passer-by shouted. They didn’t recognise her. She tripped and fell, scooped herself up, kept on going. Behind a trash can she vomited once, efficiently, her eyes stinging. Her body was reeling with terror, revulsion, betrayal. Her mind refused to process it—it was too horrific, too ghastly, too gruesome to contemplate.

There’s something Daddy isn’t telling us…

Fragments of the note came back to her with vile clarity.

My mistake would cost us dear…the reason why we kept this from you…Bernstein and I decided it would be best…

Elisabeth ran into the road, reeling blind. Car horns blared.

You should know the truth…your real father, I never told him, he never knew…

Something hard knocked her to the ground. Vaguely she was aware of people coming close, their faces looming, grotesque. She closed her eyes. Quiet and darkness. Death was her only salvation.

Your real father, Alberto Bellini…

Elisabeth howled, she screamed, she tore out her heart, but her body didn’t make a sound.

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

L
ana checked the time. She was due to meet Cole downstairs in five minutes.

Robert had organised a limousine to collect them from a pick-up point at the rear of the hotel. The driver would take them once round the block before approaching the grand entrance at a scheduled time, specified to the second. As the last to arrive, the reception would be deafening. Fans waited their whole lives to meet Cole Steel, and as his wife, the star of tonight’s show, she could not afford to disappoint. She thought of the cameras, the press lined up six deep, the bulbs cracking and flashing, the microphones craning in.

She closed her eyes and thought of Arlene. Would she be watching? Finally Lana had found what she wanted to say and the letter to her foster-mom had gone last week. She was trying. Maybe she’d left it too late—but she was trying.

There was one thing she’d omitted: her own involvement in the fire that had killed her brother. She couldn’t even consider telling Arlene until they spoke in person. And even then…

The memory of it sent a shock down her spine. She shuddered.

Forget it. It’s over. Lester’s dead.

A knock at the door startled her. Three short raps. It would be Cole.

‘Just a moment,’ she called, touching a palm to her forehead. It felt sticky and warm. Another series of knocks, faster this time.

‘All right!’ she muttered, exasperated. Why must he always be so impatient?

Lana opened the door without thinking. For a moment she stood there, confused. It wasn’t Cole.

The man in front of her was short and thin, with poor strands of light brown hair escaping out the bottom of his cap. The peak of it obscured his eyes. His mouth was mean, shut tight, and she could see he was breathing hard out of his nostrils.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, knowing she had made a serious mistake.

Nothing. The man’s breathing was getting louder by the second. He was making an odd sound out of his throat, like a person trying to contain their excitement.

Something was wrong. In a swift move designed to outwit him, she stepped back and pushed the door.

But he was faster, gripping the frame with one hand and forcing his body inside.

‘That’s not very nice,’ he taunted.

She pushed at him, terror cold in her muscles, freezing them up. He felt like a wall, and strangely, horribly familiar.

When he smiled she knew his teeth from a dream she once had.

Dread threatened to suffocate her.

No. Never. It can’t be.

She backed off, staggering blind. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered hoarsely.

He laughed. The sound was reminiscent, like
déjà vu
. She knew she should be able to identify it, and yet it seemed to belong to another life, like knowing how it feels to swim even though you’d never learned.

Numb, she staggered towards him.

Get him out. Just get this man out of here.

Without warning he punched her in the face. The pain was exquisite; for a sweet split second it knocked her out cold. She landed hard on her back, the impact slowly bringing her round. Her vision was smudged. Shapes loomed above.

In a movement that lasted for ever, the man lifted an arm and removed his cap.

‘Hello, Laura.’

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

A
t the Parthenon, Chloe French cleaned her teeth one more time and took a deep breath in, then out. She could do this. There was no other choice.

She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. To an onlooker she was flawless, but close, much closer, there was an uncertainty in her eyes that gave her away. Fear was a dangerous thing. However hard you pushed it down, it always found a way back.

Turning her head to one side, she attempted a practised smile and almost convinced herself. She was a professional—it was her job to make people believe.

In a white toga-style dress amid the stylised opulence of one of Vegas’s most renowned hotels, she resembled a Greek goddess. Tomorrow morning her image would appear in magazines all across the world. Fashion editors would appraise her gown. Reviewers would dissect her performance. Gossip columnists would speculate on the man she was with. Fame. Celebrity. Stardom. Chloe had imagined this moment for a long time, and now she had arrived.

It’s one night
, she told herself.
That’s all. You can do this.

Blood rushed to her head and she struggled to focus, fighting down yet another tide of nausea. She touched the palm of one hand flat against the marble wall and bowed her head.

It was karma. Everybody had to pay for the mistakes they made.

This is what you deserve. You knew it from the start.

‘Just not tonight,’ she begged, her lips cracked and dry. ‘Please, not tonight.’

‘Are you OK?’

Chloe jumped, less at the shock of remembering Nate was out there as at the concern in his voice. But the second time he spoke it was with the familiar bitterness.

‘Limo’s here in five. Let’s move.’

No sympathy there, then. She breathed deeply, smoothed down her dress for a final time and reached for the lock on the door. It was show time.

Nate was standing at the panorama, adjusting his tie. He looked good, like he had the night they’d first met.

When he turned to her, his eyes were cold.

‘Is everything all right now?’ he asked quietly.

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said blankly. ‘I feel better.’

Nate frowned and took a step forward, reaching for her hand. For a crazy moment she thought he might kiss her.

‘Tonight matters,’ he said instead. ‘You understand why.’

She nodded. ‘I’m ready,’ she told him. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Good. Don’t let me down.’

Unexpectedly her phone shrilled to life. Reaching to retrieve it from her purse, she noticed a flash of unease pass across his face.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

It was a private number.

‘I’ll take it outside.’ Chloe crossed to the sliding doors and stepped out on to the terrace. The fresh air was invigorating and she experienced a rush of hope. It was just one night. How much could go wrong?

She flipped it open. ‘Hello?’

At first, only silence. Then the voice began to speak. It was low and distinctive. She recognised it immediately.

‘I know about you, sweetheart,’ the voice said. ‘Remember? I know everything. Get ready, baby—because now it’s payback time.’

Fighting a wave of panic, Chloe gripped the balcony rail, her knuckles bleeding white in the darkness. Forty storeys below traffic throbbed down the Strip.

‘What do you want, Kate?’ she blurted.

The answer was swift. ‘I want you to know what it feels like.’

‘What?’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘
Humiliation.
’

‘Listen,’ she pleaded, ‘I’m sorry. It should never have happened.’ She looked round desperately. ‘It was stupid, it meant nothing. I had my own reasons for it and it was a mistake. It’s over now.’

‘Oh, I
know
it’s over,’ Kate said gleefully. ‘Jimmy told me everything: how he called it off because you were getting too clingy; how you’d started badgering him about your career; but above all, darling, how very
easy
you were.’

Chloe was shaking.

‘And do you know why he told me, hmm?’ A beat. ‘He told me because I’m his
wife
.’

Chloe looked behind her. Thank God Nate was here—this woman was a lunatic. Who knew what she was capable of?

‘Kate, you win, OK?’ She closed her eyes, riding another swell of sickness. ‘Tonight’s over for me. I’m…I’m too ill to go.’ She could hardly believe what she was saying.

Kate gave a tinkly laugh. ‘Oh, now, that’s a real shame. I was hoping you’d make it out front, show us all just how poorly you are. That’d be a charming debut, don’t you think?’

The lights below were pounding. She felt delirious. ‘What do you mean?’

Another laugh. ‘It’s quite simple, sweetheart. A woman like me has assets to protect. My husband, my children, my career. It’s little madams like you that get in the way, and you must understand, I can’t have that.’

‘Please—’

‘A woman doesn’t like to find her husband in bed with another woman. Surprised? Yes, I suppose it is rather much for a silly thing like you to get your head around.’

‘It’s not, honest to God—’

‘But you rather enjoy disgracing other people, don’t you?’

Chloe had a feeling she wouldn’t like what was coming next.

‘Oh, yes,’ Kate went on. ‘As I understand it, you’ve got quite a history there.’ A pause. ‘You should ask that charming boyfriend of yours.’

‘What the hell are talking about?’

But the line was already dead.

Chloe slammed the phone shut, her breath coming in short, strangled gasps. Her head was everywhere. She needed to be sick.

Behind her, Nate slid the door open. His silence told her everything.

She whirled round. ‘What the
fuck
have you done to me?’ she raged, throwing herself at him, beating his chest with her fists.

He pulled her off, straightening his jacket. ‘Get a grip, babe.’

‘It’s game over, Nate.’ A hiccup throttled her voice. She gripped the railing, fighting down a surge of nausea. ‘Game. Over.’

Nate folded his arms and smiled, as if surveying an achievement he was especially proud of. ‘It’s been fun, though, hasn’t it?’

She was wild-eyed. ‘You’re evil.’

He smirked. ‘Chill out, babe, it’s only a bit of a laugh. You’ll sleep it off. And honest to God...’ he held his hands up ‘...I didn’t know you’d get this sick.’

‘What the hell have you given me?’ she spat. ‘Tell me right this minute or I will be on the phone to the police faster than—’

Infuriatingly, amazingly, he guffawed. ‘Don’t make a tit out of yourself,’ he advised. He waited a moment before drawing a small white bottle out the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Slipped a few in your water, that was all,’ he smirked, waving the bottle of eyedrops in her face. Her gut wrenched. ‘You’ll be right as rain tomorrow. Think of it like…I dunno…a practical joke. You know, ha-ha-ha. Except this time I get the last laugh.’

‘You fucking freak,’ she said in wonder, ‘you fucking
psychopath
. This is all about your ego? You couldn’t handle getting dumped so you hooked up with Kate diLaurentis and hatched some ridiculous fucking revenge plot?’ Tears choked her. ‘I can’t believe it.’

He leaned back against the wall. ‘You want to know what
I
can’t believe?’ he asked. ‘It’s the way you walked right back into it. You gave us what we needed, just like that.’ He grinned. ‘See, when I met Kate we realised we had a common cause. You.’

Chloe sank down to the floor.

‘Yup, she knew all about you. How you’d been banging her husband the moment she went away.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘She was hurting, poor cow, wanted to make you pay for it. And between you and me, my thinking is it wasn’t just about you—it was about all the others, too. You just turned up at the wrong time.’

A pause. ‘And me?’ he went on, as if she’d asked for more. ‘I wanted you to know what it felt like to be royally dumped on in front of the whole world, to know what it feels like to have another person deliver you that level of public embarrassment. Welcome to our world, Chloe.’

Her stomach cramped. ‘Nate, do you realise what you’ve done, you stupid fucking idiot? You
poisoned
me.’

He looked pleased with himself. ‘I wouldn’t bother wasting police time if I were you. You didn’t last time.’

Chloe’s eyes rolled. ‘What did you say?’

‘Come on, babe,’ he crouched down, tilted his head to one side, ‘losing your memory already?’

She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t have.
You wouldn’t have.
’

He smiled. ‘It’s no big deal. Spiking you got us together in the first place, didn’t it? We were perfect for each other—I needed you just like you needed me. But I knew your management would never look twice at me without some sort of heroics thrown in. Pretty impressive stuff, huh?’ He stood up, dusting himself off. ‘You never even had a clue.’

Chloe lunged at him but the drops had affected her depth perception and she went crashing to the floor.

He thought a minute. It wouldn’t do to leave her out here to catch pneumonia. Eventually some shred of conscience got the better of him and he bent to help her up, rolling her face round. Her eyes were clumpy with mascara and there was sick round her mouth. Her face was like chamois leather.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, hoping he hadn’t given her too much. ‘Come on, babe.’ He grabbed her wrists and dragged her over the threshold. There was a loud tear as her dress got caught under one heel.

Wow, she was heavy. He slid the door shut and stood with his arms folded.

‘Get up, Chlo,’ he told her.

When she didn’t move, he hauled her on to the bed.

‘Chloe?’ He patted her face a couple of times. ‘Can you hear me?’

Nothing. He shook her. ‘Chloe, answer me.’

Silence.

Oh, Jesus Christ, thought Nate. Jesus fucking Christ.