Hollywood Sinners (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

London

C
hloe French arrived home in Hampstead feeling tired and interrogated. She’d spent the afternoon at a photo shoot for a Sunday paper supplement—the sharp-featured woman interviewing her had insisted on asking all manner of difficult questions about her upbringing, rather than focusing on her modelling and her relationship with Nate Reid, either of which she would have preferred to talk about.

Thank god for PR, thought Chloe, tossing her bag down in the empty hall.

‘Dad?’ she called out. Silence.

She checked the time. Maybe he’d gone out.

Padding into the kitchen, Chloe tried to remember a time when it hadn’t been like this—a house so quiet and still that it seemed to be in mourning for times gone by. Before the divorce her parents had had a party nearly every week: Chloe recalled sitting at the top of the stairs when she was little and meant to be in bed, listening to the grown-ups’ conversations; the tinny ring of wine glasses and the distant, merry laughter.

The doorbell rang. It was Nate.

‘Hey!’ she said, stepping out to kiss him. ‘How was the studio?’

Nate pushed through. ‘Get me in, I’ve got a pap on my tail.’

Chloe frowned, looking past him. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘Buggers don’t let up,’ he said, stalking past in his Jagger swagger.

She followed him into the kitchen. He had his head in the fridge and was picking at an open packet of Parma ham.

‘They were shitty at the
Bystander
.’ She pulled out a chair and flopped down.

‘Did they ask about me?’

‘Nah, it was all Mum and Dad.’ She bit her thumbnail. ‘I’m tired of talking about it—it’s like everyone has to have a sob story or something. What’s the big deal?’

Nate snapped open a jar of pickles. He turned to face her. ‘Our story’s better,’ he said insensitively, tossing in a gherkin. ‘You should have got them off the subject, started talking about me.’

Chloe smiled faintly. He was only trying to take her mind off it.

‘They’re all over us, babe,’ he went on, popping the jar on the shelf and closing the door. ‘They love all that shit.’

Nate was referring to the night he and Chloe had got together a couple of years before. Under any other circumstances, people might have baulked at the idea of them as a couple—sweet, stunning Chloe French and a slightly grimy rock star with an alleged drug problem. But this was a modern-day fairy tale, or at least that was how the press saw it.

It had all happened at a wild party in Shoreditch. Chloe didn’t remember much, just knew she’d had way too much to drink come midnight. She’d fallen seriously ill, spewing up all over the place and blacking out—later it transpired she’d had her drink spiked. Thank God for Nate Reid, supposedly the wildest child of them all, who had intervened, got his head together and taken her to the nearest A&E. The following morning iconic images had been splashed across the London papers: bad-boy Nate carrying good-girl Chloe in his arms, folding her limp body into a car, waiting at the hospital, taking her home, holding her hand.

For Chloe, Nate was her knight in shining armour.

‘You should have told that to the woman who interviewed me.’ Chloe made a face. ‘She was so uptight, I think she was jumped up on something. I needed the loo halfway through and felt too uncomfortable to say anything.’

Nate snorted. ‘You’re weird, babe.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘Your dad’s bird’s here,’ he stated, nodding out to the modest garden.

‘She is?’ Chloe should have known—the place was too tidy for her father to be alone, the washing-up had been done for a start. His girlfriend Janet had all but moved in these past few months.

Sure enough, at the far end of the lawn and enjoying the last of the late-summer sun was Gordon. He and Janet were seated on a blanket, with a bottle of wine and a scattering of food. Her two young sons, frizzy-haired twins with slightly crossed eyes, mucked about nearby. Chloe watched them for a while with a strange mix of sadness and relief. She was happy her father had found someone, but couldn’t help feeling the outsider. The two of them had managed together when Audrey, her mother, had left, and when Chloe had started to make her own money she had decided to stay at the family home, not wanting her father to be alone.

Audrey had walked when Chloe was twelve. She’d met a poet through one of her evening workshops called Yarn—it was actually spelt Jan but for Chloe it remained as it had when she’d first heard it, that strange, foreign sound. Yarn had long hair, no money and a face the colour of the moon. Chloe had met him once, when Audrey had still been interested in maintaining contact. They had been for a strained coffee in Highgate and Chloe had noticed how her mother smelled different, sort of clammy and yeasty, not like she used to smell at all. Audrey had hung on to every word Yarn had said, even though Chloe—in the first stage of adolescence but pretty much with the right idea—had thought it was all a lot of sweet-smelling bullshit. She’d known then that she had lost her mother, at least the one she had grown up with. There had been a handful of meetings since and the necessary birthday and Christmas cards, but that was it.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Chloe, taking Nate’s hand. ‘I feel sad.’

Nate grabbed a bottle of beer. ‘Bet I know how to cheer you up.’

‘I know you do,’ smiled Chloe, relieved she had someone as committed to her as Nate. Growing up she’d thought her mum and dad would be together for ever—it had been horrible when they’d split. What happened to her parents wouldn’t happen to them.

They mounted the stairs, she going backwards, his face in her hands. She kissed him hard, unbuckling him as they came to the landing. He tasted kind of stale, like he hadn’t cleaned his teeth in a while. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Nate tripped over at the top step and they fell back. A slosh of beer leaked into the carpet.

‘Shit!’ Chloe laughed as she landed on her bum.

Nate didn’t see the funny side. He began unbuttoning her shirt, feeding a hand through, roughly cupping her breast. ‘I’ve got to fuck you,’ he whispered.

‘Not here,’ she managed between kisses, feeling the scratch of the rug beneath her back.

Nate pierced her with a green stare, slowly running his fingers down to the waist of her jeans, sliding towards the heat of her knickers. ‘Here.’

‘No!’ she laughed, attempting to wriggle free.

‘Why not,’ he said flatly, pinning her down. He held her arms above her head with one hand, used the other to unclasp her bra.

‘Because someone might see,’ she said anxiously, aware from the bulge in Nate’s boxers that he could be right outside on the picnic blanket for all it mattered to him.

‘So?’

Chloe made a face. ‘Come on, Nate,’ she said, pushing him off.

Grudgingly he followed her into the bedroom, his erection leading the way. Chloe always played it so safe. It was why, just occasionally, he needed to get his kicks elsewhere.

* * *

When Chloe woke, her mobile was ringing. Disorientated, she grappled for it. Night had descended in a purple cloak, close against her window. Nate had gone.

Foggy-eyed, she checked the display. It was Melissa Darling, her agent at Scout.

‘Hello?’ She propped herself up on one elbow, stifling a yawn.

‘Chloe, it’s Melissa. Have you got a minute? It’s important.’

Chloe sat up. ‘Sure, what is it?’

‘You remember the LA proposition we discussed?’

Chloe nodded. The agency had been looking at moving her into acting for some time now and had been waiting for the right part to come along. ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.

‘There’s a small role I’m looking at in America, a historical romance.’ Melissa took a breath. ‘I think it’s perfect for you. Exactly the right vehicle to launch you over there.’

‘Really?’ Chloe couldn’t contain the squeak in her voice. Melissa’s tone told her this was a big deal.

‘Really.’ Another pause. ‘It’s not in the bag yet, but I’m working on it. It’s a Sam Lucas production—you’d be filming your scene opposite Lana Falcon.’

‘Lana Falcon?’
She was wide awake now. Chloe practically bounced off the bed. ‘You’re kidding!’ She paced the room, scarcely believing the conversation was happening. Maybe she was still dreaming.

Melissa laughed. ‘I thought you’d be happy—and I hope they will, too. There’s been a schedule collapse in LA: they’re after someone with the right UK profile and, I’m pleased to say, you fit the bill.’

Chloe caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sparkling; her cheeks flushed red with excitement. ‘Melissa, I’m so thrilled,’ she said.

‘Don’t book any holidays for the next month, OK?’

‘OK.’

After the women hung up, Chloe sat at the end of her bed, her hands shaking. Sam Lucas. Lana Falcon. This was what every girl dreamed of; what she herself had dreamed of in this very room for the past ten years. And now it was coming true.

She looked around at the shadows of her childhood; a dolls’ house she couldn’t bear to part with; a book she’d been read every night before bed. It was the past. Her father didn’t need her any more. The time had come to move on.

Wait till she told Nate, he’d be so made up. It was all going to be perfect.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Las Vegas

‘L
et’s go, sweet-cheeks. I ain’t got all day, ya know.’

The woman at the craps table was a tired-looking specimen with thin fair hair and too much red lipstick. She volleyed a strike of insults at Robert’s dealer. The poor guy knew the boss was observing and his shoulders tensed.

Robert caught the boxman’s eye and nodded. The woman was wearing diamonds, real ones, but her clothes told a different story. She’d been hustling the tables all week. He gave an imperceptible signal to one of the overhead cameras—the eyes in the sky would pick her up.

It was a daily schedule: each afternoon Robert St Louis walked the labyrinth of his casinos, touched base with his managers for word on the take and warmly greeted the high rollers. Blackjack, roulette, baccarat, this was where the big money spun. The Orient’s chief casino was a grid of mazes, no natural light, no clocks; no indication of time passing. Robert’s job was to get the players in and keep them there. Nobody did it better.

The St Louis name had been a commanding force in Vegas since Robert’s father had founded the Desert Jewel in the early nineties. Vincent St Louis, real name Vince Lewis, a hotelier from Belleville, Ohio, had made his fortune through dedication and hard toil. Robert had joined him in his early twenties, shadowing his father and studying the business: everything he knew about hotels he’d learned from those eighteen months at the Desert Jewel. When Vincent had died, Robert had assumed his place at the helm. In that year alone takings had trebled—Vinny’s son had the killer knack, everybody said it; it was instinctive. Word got around and investors started to listen. That summer Robert began working up plans for his own baby, the Orient: the most extravagant, opulent hotel in the world.

Robert paused at the east slots. Even in all his years of gaming, these were the people he was most fascinated by. Players who stayed in the same place all day and all night, scooping tokens from a metal tray only to put the same straight back into the machine.

That was Vegas all over, he reflected as he summoned the elevator: a machine. You took money out of it; the money went back in. They were spinning. That was all they were doing.

On the thirtieth floor his last appointment of the day was waiting: Elisabeth’s father. Frank Bernstein, proprietor of the Parthenon Hotel and Casino, was a die-hard member of the Vegas power elite. He was short and stocky, just on the right side of fat, with a bush of grey hair and sharp, watchful eyes. You couldn’t get a thing past Bernstein—he had the eyes of a hawk.

‘St Louis, you an’ me have got some talkin’ to do.’ He slapped Robert on the back.

‘So I understand.’ Robert opened the door to his office. ‘Come on through.’

Robert’s office at the Orient was an imposing room, decked out in mahogany panelling and leather furniture. Contemporary art adorned the walls, bold, clean shapes and precise lines. A photograph of a smiling Elisabeth sat proud on his desk, next to a wooden box of Havana cigars. The magnificent Strip rolled out behind.

‘I got news for ya, kid,’ said Bernstein, helping himself to a smoke. That was Bernstein all over: what was Robert’s was also his. It took some getting used to.

Robert shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and took a seat. He was wary of Bernstein: the older man had been in the business thirty years, had known Vegas when it had been run by the mob. Even though the Chicago Outfit had long since been driven out of town, it was a badly kept secret that Bernstein still had connections. Back in the eighties he had acted as lawyer to some of the boys and as a result of that was a trusted asset, whether he liked it or not. And Bernstein did like it, even if Robert tried not to dwell on the implications.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Bernstein lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, making a
pa-pa-pa
sound with his lips. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw down a copy of
People
magazine.

Robert raised an eyebrow and picked it up.

It was her.

The face he knew so well; those green eyes, that smile. He had seen her before, of course, countless times—she was everywhere, on the front covers of magazines, on the TV, on billboards right across the country. He ought to be used to it by now, hated that he wasn’t; hated that still, even after all these years, she could make him feel this way.

Lana Falcon.

‘Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’ Bernstein rubbed his hands together in an excited way.

Robert did his best to look disinterested, though his heart stung. Belleville was a lifetime ago—he’d refused to think about it, battled it to the ground and buried it deep, and for a while he’d thought the memory was fading. But whenever he saw her…

‘What’s this about?’ he asked eventually.

Holding the cigar between his lips and taking a seat opposite his protégée, Bernstein gave a satisfied grin that exposed a wall of gleaming teeth.

‘Sam Lucas has got a movie in production—
Eastern Sky
. It’s gonna be big.’

‘And?’ Robert tried to control the snap in his voice. ‘What’s it got to do with Lana Falcon?’

Bernstein guffawed. ‘Are you kidding? She’s the freakin’ star of the movie—’

‘I don’t need a who’s who of Hollywood,’ said Robert abruptly. ‘Get to the point, Bernstein.’

‘OK, OK, don’t tie your balls in a knot. I got some money behind it, ya know, gotta keep the wheels turning.’

Robert nodded. He knew Bernstein was a keen investor in anything set to make money: he had eyes and ears in every city, including LA. If this movie was tipped to be hot property, it went without saying that Bernstein would somehow be involved.

The older man took a moment, savoured it before delivering the news. ‘It’s coming here, pal. Next summer. The
Eastern Sky
premiere’s coming straight to the Orient.’

Robert didn’t think he’d heard correctly. ‘You’re kidding.’

Bernstein grinned. ‘Nice little deal, huh? I knew you’d jump at it.’

There was a brief silence. ‘How? I mean—’

‘Me an’ Sam go back,’ Bernstein said, puffing away and looking satisfied with himself. ‘I got a vested interest in him; he’s got a vested interest in me. Y’know how it is.’

Robert stood, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, as the implications began to sink in, a grin broke across his face. ‘This is a major coup, Bernstein.’

‘Damn right it is.’ Bernstein ground out his cigar in a Lalique ashtray—he had an expensive habit of only ever smoking the very top. ‘I woulda taken it for the Parthenon but, ya know, the movie’s got a theme, ain’t it. Chinese an’ all that. The producers wanted the Orient.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell—I did too.’

Robert held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’

As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive—Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.

‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’

Robert poured them both one—Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.

Damn!
They’d be reunited after ten years apart. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in all that time. It was too much of a risk for them to know each other any more. Not after what they’d done.

‘So when you gonna make an honest woman of my daughter?’ Bernstein took a hefty swig, served up with a lethal crocodile grin.

Robert let her go. Lana Falcon was nothing but trouble.

‘In my own good time, Bernstein.’

‘It’s the way forward, kid,’ he reached for another Cuban and lit it with a flourish, ‘Elisabeth’s a beautiful girl—’

‘You don’t need to tell me that.’

‘And she ain’t gettin’ any younger neither.’

Robert laughed. ‘She’s thirty-two, Bernstein.’

‘In my day a broad woulda been divorced twice already by now.’ He sat back.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a good job times have changed, then, huh?’ He drained his glass and winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down his throat.

Bernstein pointed a fat finger in Robert’s direction and gave him a wink. ‘An’ they’re gonna change again.’ He ground the cigar out in a twist of smoke. ‘Talk to me once you’re married—I’ve got plans for you, St Louis.’