Hollywood Husbands (16 page)

‘No
way
,’ Wes told him. ‘It’s a private event.’

‘C’mon, man, you look like y’can get me inside,’ the occupant of the limo coaxed. ‘There’ll be somethin’ sweet ’n’ extra for you. I just
looove
that Silver Lady. She’s got
reeeeeal
style.’

‘Sorry,’ Wes said firmly, accepting delivery and hurrying back up the drive before the guard at the gate became suspicious.

Rocky was way gone even then, and while he developed his lucrative sideline, Wes got to fix everything from a Margarita to a frozen strawberry daiquiri. And he was pissed off. Rocky was making all the money while
he
was doing all the work. Fuck it! Rocky was treating him like a paid lackey, not a loyal friend who was kindly helping out.

Wes did not like fixing drinks for rich jerk-offs in dinner jackets and their ladies – if that was the right description. Most of the women had tight mouths, and anyone who knew a thing or two about the female sex knew if their mouths were tight their pussies were too. Waiting to get laid. The guys were so busy with their big deals and their drug habits, they didn’t have time to service their old ladies. And usually the broad wasn’t old
or
a lady.

Wes knew these things. He had worked enough bars around town and listened to enough stories.

Working a bar in a club was a whole different ball game. There, he was his own boss. He had attitude and authority – even a little bit of power. Working bar at a party it seemed he was just hired help. A servant. At everyone’s beck and call.

Wes decided no more favours. He was nobody’s errand boy.

* * *

‘And so,’ Heaven continued, ‘like Eddie formed this group, an’ I sing an’ write the songs. And we’re really,
really
, totally brilliant!’

‘What do you call yourselves?’ asked Jade.

‘The Rats,’ Eddie joined in. Boy, was he having a good time! Not only had he got to meet Silver Anderson, now he was sitting talking to this fantastic model whom he’d seen on television in the sexiest freakin’ commercial ever! What did it matter that Heaven was ignoring him – he was on a roll!

‘The Rats!’ Jade repeated with distaste.

‘No
bene,
dahling,’ interrupted Antonio – ignoring Eddie and concentrating on Heaven. ‘You must have a name – people they love – they remember.’

‘Heaven and the Boys,’ Jade suggested.

‘No! No! No! I have it!’ exclaimed Antonio. ‘
Heavenly Bodies
! What a name!
Heavenly Bodies
. It must be. Antonio, he say so.’

‘I don’t know…’ Heaven cocked her head on one side, enjoying all the attention.

‘What about me?’ interjected Eddie. ‘I can’t be in a group called Heavenly Bodies. It sounds like we’re all freakin’ dead! We’re called the Rats. And we’re not changin’ our name. Nobody’s complained before.’

Antonio dismissed him with a wave of his elegantly manicured hand. ‘Tonight things they change,’ he stated. ‘I, Antonio, have decided to help this young lady to succeed.’ He smiled benevolently at Heaven. ‘The same as her mama, she too will be the big star.’

‘Wow, and you haven’t even heard me sing,’ Heaven protested, thrilled by this unexpected turn of events, yet also frightened lest she didn’t live up to this funny little man’s expectations.

‘Ah, but I don’t need to,’ Antonio said with a Cheshire Cat smile. ‘When Antonio decide to photograph someone, that someone become the star. Antonio
smell
talent!’

* * *

Vladimir’s kitchen was almost clear. The Chinese caterers had departed, and only a few waiters and the two barmen remained, servicing the last guests who seemed reluctant to leave, even though Madame Silver had retired upstairs at least half an hour ago.

Vladimir had his eye on the waiters
and
the barmen. The end of any party was a dangerous time. That was when bottles of liquor, bar implements, and cartons of cigarettes always seemed to mysteriously vanish. Vladimir checked everyone at the back door as they prepared to leave. He double-checked a waiter who vaguely resembled Rob Lowe. He sent out signals, and the young man responded.

‘Would you care for a night hat in my apartment?’ Vladimir tempted.

‘Sure,’ the waiter responded.

‘Good, good.’ Vladimir was excited. He had been eyeing the boy all night. ‘Walk across the courtyard to the garage. Wait for me.’ He gave a winning smile, and shooed him on his way.

Silver Anderson’s instructions were explicit: ‘No entertaining on my premises.’ Surely she did not consider his apartment above the garage her premises?

‘Hey, chief.’ Wes smiled his way through the kitchen. ‘I’m taking off.’

Vladimir eagle-eyed him. He seemed contraband-less.

Wes eased himself out the back door. Most of the fags who ran these rich houses didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. This Russian dude was checking him over because it was the end of the evening, and yet at the beginning of the evening he had calmly walked past him with a full box of booze and not a question asked. Stupid.

Rocky was stupid too. Somewhere along the way Wes had made a couple of scores of his own with the new supply of cocaine, and Rocky hadn’t even noticed. When he woke up in the morning maybe he’d realize – maybe not. That’s what happened when you snorted your own business.

Getting into his car Wes took a long deep breath. He was tired. Exhausted. Tomorrow was another day. A Sunday. He planned to sleep it through.

Chapter Twenty-One

The morning after the party…

Silver Anderson stirred at noon, adjusted her royal-blue sleep mask, and returned to a wonderful dream about herself.

Jack Python was up at seven. Swam twenty lengths in Clarissa’s pool, then drove to his hotel and worked on ideas for his upcoming series of shows.

Clarissa Browning waited until she heard his car leave, and then arose and spent a solitary day absorbing her latest role. She enjoyed being alone.

Howard Soloman surfaced. Felt lousy. Snorted coke. And played three sets of punishing tennis with a movie star, another studio head, and a female executive they all wanted to fuck.

Poppy Soloman covered her face in rejuvenating creams, submitted to a thorough massage from a sadistic woman with a genteel voice and cruel hands, and spent the remainder of the day gossiping on the phone.

Jade Johnson got up at ten. Dressed in sweats. Went to a coffee shop, had breakfast (prune juice and a danish), bought the papers and a selection of magazines, and spent the day by herself.

Mannon Cable left his bed at eight. Called his lawyer at eight-fifteen and had a lengthy discussion about how to get rid of Melanie-Shanna.

Melanie-Shanna Cable left her bed at nine, marched into the kitchen where Mannon was on the phone, and announced that she was pregnant.

The rest of their day was spent in long discussions.

Whitney Valentine Cable woke up on Chuck Nielson’s water bed in his Malibu beach house. They made love – which he was very good at. Afterwards they managed to consume a large breakfast, then they swam in the ocean and lazily sunbathed.

Wes Money was disturbed by the phone at eleven o’clock. ‘Get lost, whoever you are,’ he mumbled into the receiver. It was a woman. Naturally. Why did they find him so goddamn irresistible?

He was forced to say she could come over. Which she did. And he was sorry, because he was too tired to get it up, and she was determined to have at least three orgasms.

They parted company on bad terms, and he went straight back to sleep.

Heaven floated through the day planning what totally brilliant outfit she could wow the great Antonio with when she turned up for the photo session he had promised her.

Vladimir got rid of the young waiter early in the morning, and spent the rest of the day agonizing over his latest conquest. How could he continue to be so indiscriminate when dreaded disease roamed the streets?

Later, dressed in red, he cruised Santa Monica, and took home a sixteen-year-old runaway who did unspeakable things with his queen-size tongue.

Silver Anderson would have a fit if she knew what went on above her garage.

Fortunately she didn’t.

Another lazy Sunday drifted by.

Somewhere in the Midwest…

Sometime in the seventies…

The girl put up with the unwelcome attentions of her father for almost two years. After his initial attack she learned to stay out of his way as much as possible, and with her mother home from the hospital it was not so easy for him to get to her.

But he managed. In spite of her fear and pain. He grabbed her whenever he could, and forced himself on her.

She was too ashamed to tell anyone, for she blamed herself for tempting him, and withdrew into a shell, unwilling to make friends or mix with the other children at the local school she attended. Whenever she could she avoided school altogether. There was a place in the woods she could hide, a large oak tree with a hollow in its trunk she could squeeze into. For hours she would stay there, curled in a ball, her arms wrapped around her knees, her thoughts tumbling around in her head.

She loved her mother. She didn’t want to hurt her.

She hated her father. She would gladly kill him.

When she was almost fifteen she got her first period. The blood confused and shocked her. It was just like the first night when he’d mounted and thrust into her. Now the blood was back again. Bad blood. A sign she was unclean.

When her father found out he mumbled drunkenly, ‘We gotta be careful. Can’t getcha in the family way. Can’t do that.’

But he wasn’t careful, and it was only when her stomach began to swell that she realized with horror that a baby was beginning to grow inside her.

She didn’t know who to turn to or what to do. Her mother was sick again, and back in the hospital. Her father found himself a lady friend and brought her to the house. The woman was big, with huge, floppy breasts and a raucous laugh.

The girl cowered in her bed and listened to their animal sounds.

When her mother died, the woman moved in permanently. That same night, at three in the morning, they came for her, the two of them. They were drunk and mean-spirited, out to have some fun.

The woman watched while the man stripped the cover from his daughter’s bed, and the thin nightdress from her young body.

The girl began to scream, but the sound of her anguished cries was cut off when he covered her mouth with the palm of his hand. With a grunt he fell on top of her and roughly began to thrust with brutal strength, while the woman crowed her encouragement and urged him on.

The girl felt waves of nausea. She pushed his heavy body away and begged him to stop. His weight was crushing her so she could hardly breathe. He was hurting her.

When the pains started she knew with an ominous feeling of dread that something was wrong. In vain she continued to struggle. It did her no good.

When he was through the woman took her turn, using anything that amused her to torment the girl.

And at last it was over. The two of them staggered off, too drunk to care.

Silently, in unbelievable pain, the girl staggered to the outhouse. Her body was racked with contractions, as thick trails of blood trickled down her thighs.

Squatting on the floor, all alone, she witnessed the birth of her baby. Only it wasn’t a baby, it was a four-month-old foetus, and when the girl felt strong enough to walk, she wrapped it in a towel, took it to her favourite tree, and buried it in the earth.

After that there was only one thing left to do.

She was calm as she collected a can of gasoline from beneath the kitchen sink, and poured it around the perimeter of the small wooden house.

Lighting the first match was easy…

BOOK TWO

Hollywood, California

May l985

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘What do you want out of life, Miss Anderson?’ the English journalist asked. She was a middle-aged woman with brittle looks and dyed yellow hair. She was a failed actress, a failed singer, and a failed writer of novels. Finally she had made her mark with a weekly page in a London daily newspaper, and was now known for her vitriolic dislike of successful actresses, singers, and novelists. She attacked them in print whenever she could.

Silver summoned up a meaningful look. ‘Happiness,’ she said wistfully. ‘After thirty years in this business I think I deserve it, don’t you?’

The journalist, who went by the unfortunate name of Cyndi Lou Planter, and looked like a man in drag, leaned closer to the famous star to see if she could spot any signs of a face-lift or an eye job. Alas, nothing, except a mask of smooth, expertly applied makeup. Later, when she wrote her piece she would say:

Silver Anderson exists beneath a two-inch layer of Max Factor. While relentlessly pursuing a thirty-year career she searches for Happiness. Maybe if she scraped off some of her makeup she’d have a better chance of finding it.

‘You certainly
do
deserve it,’ Cyndi Lou Planter gushed. The poison oozed from her pen, not her lips. She was too much of a coward to insult anyone to their face.

‘Thank you.’ Silver smiled graciously. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

Where the hell is Nora?
she thought. This Planter woman with her phoney smile and dull, unoriginal questions was getting on her nerves. Apart from anything else she had body odour, and the room was beginning to stink.

Nora!
Silently she summoned her publicist.

Magically Nora appeared. Cyndi Lou Planter’s hour was up, and Nora knew how to get rid of them better than anyone.

Silver rose and offered the journalist a friendly handshake. She was aware that the woman was a bitch, in print and out. So what? Someone had once said
As long as they spell your name right.
Yes. And possibly Ms. Planter could just about manage that.