A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

Also by J.P Bowie

******

A Portrait of Phillip

A Portrait of Emily

A Portrait of Andrew

A Self-Portrait

The Journeyer

A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

s

J.P. Bowie

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

Copyright © 2006 by J.P. Bowie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38103-6 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82470-0 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38103-0 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82470-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

for Phil

c h a p t e r 1

s

There is not much left in my life to look forward to—all has been taken from me
by the selfish and unfeeling actions of those around me. Those I thought I could
trust—those I gave the better part of my life to—nurturing them, caring for
them—only to have them betray me, leaving me alone and desolate.

My days are spent trying to forget their iniquities, their perversions, their gross
behavior that was perpetrated here, in this very house—my home. How stupid
they must have thought I was not to know what they were doing—my own
daughters, seducing their father with their coy little ways, till he could no longer
resist. My son, for whom I would once have done anything, now distanced from
me by his choice of lifestyle, living with another man who inflicted his vile needs
upon him.

My sister has told me I am to blame for my loneliness—that if I opened my eyes
to the truth, I would realize that the children are blameless and that the reason for
our estrangement lies at my doorstep. How could she, too, turn against me after all
I have suffered? It was to her that I turned when the very fabric of our lives was
torn apart; my husband murdered, the children turning their backs on
me—blaming me for their misery.

How could they blame their own mother?

Paula, Emily—both sluts—now pretending they have found happiness with
husbands; poor fools who must be blind to their wives’ wickedness. The world is a
terrible place, when whores and perverts are allowed to masquerade as decent citizens; and worse still, raise families!

I am ashamed to be the grandmother of such offspring.

Thank God, I can find solace in the world of escapism that television provides.

At least there, watching the better religious channels, I can believe that good, car-

- 1 -

J.P. Bowie

2

ing, honest people abound. One of my favorite shows used to be the Olivia Winters
Hour. I still watch it every day; no longer for the enjoyment it used to bring, but
rather to censure the immorality it now represents. Miss Winters let me down
badly a few weeks ago, when she had as her guests, two men I hold in deep contempt.

Why? You may well ask. To me, they represent all that is wrong with the world
today. Two men, who proudly flaunt the fact that they live together, professing that
they love one another. How could such a thing be? How can two men, or two
women for that matter, love each other in that way?

I recognized them, of course, as the two who interfered with my family’s affairs
when we were trying to deal with the horrors that had befallen us. One, the private investigator, trying to prove that Emily had not killed her father—something
I still say she did, even though they arrested some other poor fool for the crime.

And the other, with his so-called psychic ability, taking the credit for saving my
son from the clutches of some monster, when, in fact, it was most likely he who
drew poor Anthony into the life that led him to that terrible situation.

They had the temerity to sit, preening in front of millions of people, and tell
Olivia that sordid story of how they met. After all, why would anyone believe all
that nonsense? How annoyed and upset I was to see Olivia Winters fawn over
them—and that vapid audience applaud almost every word they uttered. It was
too disgusting, and I wrote and told her so in no uncertain terms. I am sure I was
not alone in my objections to such people being given the opportunity to appear as
credible and rational beings, when God himself has decried their existence. It is a
constant amazement to me that he has not exacted another punishment upon
them, now that AIDS seems no longer to be their undoing.

I said all this in my letter and more. I wanted to sign my name, but thought it
expedient to remain anonymous. After all, the private investigator might just
remember me and come knocking at my door. He might do me physical
harm—there is no telling the depth of their depravity…but, I intend to voice my
opinion again soon, for I heard Miss Winters announce that she was going to have
them back on her show
.

Perhaps this time, I should warn her that God’s wrath might befall her if she
continues to represent the wicked of this world. Yes, that might give her pause to
reconsider the kind of person she invites on her show. I wish her no harm, you
understand. She just must toe the line of decency, like everyone else in public
life—or suffer the consequences, if she cannot…

J.P. Bowie

3

Orange County Times

Report by Mark Forrest

Following his successful interview on the
Olivia Winters Hour
, during which he was commissioned by the lady herself to paint her portrait, local artist and celebrity,
Peter Brandon
, is kept busy these days commuting between Miss Winters’ Beverly Hills penthouse and his home in Laguna Beach…

It was the kind of showplace usually reserved for the glossy pages of Archi-tectural Digest. One of the finest penthouse homes to be found in Beverly Hills, California. Spacious rooms, covered in thick white carpeting, accented with honey oak wood flooring in the hallways and kitchen.

Giant sliding glass doors led out to a wide tiled verandah that overlooked well-manicured lawns, carefully clipped trees and bushes surrounding a sparkling lap pool. The place reeked of money and good living—and why not? It was owned by one of the most successful women on daytime television—Olivia Winters.

Olivia Winters, one time weather woman for a small TV station in Lincoln, Nebraska, now the almost undisputed ruler of the afternoon talk shows, nationwide. Five times a week millions of devoted fans sat glued to their television sets as Olivia paraded a host of the biggest celebrities in front of them. It was rumored throughout the gossip mill, that to refuse an invitation to appear on Olivia’s show was tantamount to career suicide, and since she’d hit the big time, no one had. Most of the time these famous people would sit with an almost quiet humility, while Olivia bombarded them with searching questions about their careers and personal lives.

Only Bette Midler had had the temerity to tell Olivia to mind her own f***in’ business—the expletive, of course, being beeped out for the broadcast.

Olivia had appeared to have taken the slap with jovial good humor, but later she was overheard telling her program director to never ask that ‘kike bitch’

back on her show—something that several of Bette’s friends knew had been her intention.

J.P. Bowie

4

Now, seated on a divan in the center of the living room, clad in a white silk evening gown that accented the honey sheen of her skin, Olivia strove to keep this languid pose for the artist who stood at his canvas, concentrating intently on the image he was creating.

Olivia’s dark green eyes narrowed as she watched him work. What a cutie, she thought lasciviously. She’d always had a penchant for young blond white men, especially with blue eyes—and did he have blue eyes. Olivia couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with eyes like his. Cobalt blue—and when he smiled, they sparkled. Jeez, she would really love to add this one to her long list of lovers.

Not that there was much chance of that…Why were so many good-looking guys fags? God, what she could do with that trim, athletic body. Betcha he’s hung too…Her eyes slid down to the artist’s crotch and before she could stop herself she parted her lips and moistened them with the tip of her tongue. Oh yeah, I bet he’s a big boy all right…

“Getting tired?” Peter Brandon put down his paintbrush and smiled at his subject.

Olivia started as he broke into her reverie. “Oh no, no…” She returned his smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight blush that had risen into her cheeks. He had caught her unawares and she felt slightly put out. She rose from the divan. “Well, seein’ you’ve stopped for the moment, let’s take a break. Why don’t I ring for some refreshments?”

“Thank you, that’d be great.”

She walked with a stately tread to an intercom on one of the walls. Pressing one of the buttons, she said sharply, “Joyce?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Bring Mr. Brandon and me a glass of that Pinot Grigio I like—and some munchies.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

Olivia watched as Peter cleaned off his brushes and packed them away, then she gestured to the luxurious leather sectional by the window. “Take a load off.” Walking over to the easel she studied her likeness on the canvas.

“What do you think?” Peter asked, watching her inscrutable expression.

“I look good, therefore I like it.” She smiled as she joined him on the couch.

“You’re a talented guy, Peter. You live up to your reputation—I like that.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be showing this portrait to millions of viewers on my show. It’s gonna increase your prestige as an artist like never before. You’ll be called on from all
J.P. Bowie

5

over the world; people beggin’ you to paint them, though God knows, some of them shouldn’t bother…but what can y’do?” She gave out a brittle little laugh.

“I mean, have you
seen
some of those bitches without their make-up? You should see what I have to look at when they come to the studio. Some of them need ten make-up artists to just make ’em look decent for the camera. I should keep a stock of Spackle handy for some of them. Ha-ha!”

She fell silent as a young girl in a maid’s outfit entered the room carrying a silver tray on which stood two crystal glasses filled with white wine, and a plate of hors d’ouvres.

“That better be chilled enough,” Olivia said, her tone sharp.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The young girl’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered the tray onto the table in front of them. Peter could not quite believe his eyes as she gave Olivia a little curtsey before she left the room.

His patron gave out a heavy sigh. “Help…such a liability. Where was I? Oh yeah…Now me, I was born with this skin. Me and Halle—Halle Berry that is—we’re blessed with perfect skin. Look, no wrinkles, no moles, no blotches.”

She paused in her discourse and picked up her glass. “Hey, here’s mud in your eye.”

“Cheers,” Peter murmured, giving his watch a surreptitious glance.

Olivia’s eyes flickered with annoyance. “You have somewhere to go?”

“Only home.” He gave her a boyish smile. “It’s Jeff ’s birthday. We’re not really celebrating till tomorrow, but…”

“Oh, I wish I had known,” Olivia interrupted, pouting. “Why didn’t you tell me? I want to take you guys out to celebrate.”