Married Lovers (2 page)

“I
’m bored,” Mandy Richards announced, sitting cross-legged on the oversized couch in her enormous living room overlooking a shimmering blue swimming pool. “Nothing’s exciting anymore. I’m totally bored.”

Ryan Richards regarded his thirty-two-year-old Hollywood Princess wife with her compact body and glossy auburn hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail. Sometimes she managed to sound like a whiney teenager. Today was one of those days and he wasn’t in the mood to indulge one of her childish fits.

She was obviously expecting him to say something. He didn’t. He kept his silence, it was safer that way.

“I said I’m bored,” Mandy repeated, twisting several expensive diamond tennis bracelets on her delicate wrist while throwing him an accusing look. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Well,” he said at last. “If you’re so bored, why don’t you do something about it?”

His reply did not please her. “
You’re
my husband,” she said, throwing him a baleful stare. “Why don’t
you
do something about it?”

Ryan was not slow. Once again Mandy was on the warpath looking for a fight, and once again he was target number one. It didn’t take a genius to figure
that
out. “Sorry,” he said,
edging toward a fast exit. “I got a shitload of stuff to take care of today.”

Actually he didn’t have a shitload of anything, but getting out of the house seemed like a wise idea.

“What stuff?” Mandy demanded, her back stiffening. “It’s Saturday, aren’t we supposed to be spending the day together?”

“No,” Ryan said, a tad abruptly. “I thought I mentioned that I’m having brunch with that Argentinian director I’ve been waiting to meet–he’s flown in specially to see me. Then later I promised my sis I’d drop by to see the kids.”

“Which sis is that?” Mandy sneered as if “sis” was a dirty word she could barely get out. “The one with the jailbird husband?”

“Don’t go there, Mandy,” he warned, temper rising. Christ! It drove him nuts when she went after his family, and she knew it. “Marty got arrested for a DUI–it could’ve happened to anyone.”

“His
third
DUI,” Mandy said pointedly. “Even Daddy couldn’t help with that one.”

Yeah. Daddy. Mandy’s father. Hamilton J. Heckerling. Movie Mogul Supreme. Überproducer. Starmaker. Egocentric pain in the ass. Not a conversation took place without her bringing Hamilton up one way or the other.

“Where
is
Big Daddy?” he asked, not really caring, but determined to steer the conversation away from his sister, Evie, whom he loved dearly, and whom Mandy couldn’t stand. He knew she was jealous because he and Evie were so close.

“Hamilton is in New York,” Mandy said, uncrossing her yoga-pant-clad legs. “I suspect he has a new girlfriend.”

“Another
one?”

“He’s divorced,” Mandy said, immediately jumping to her father’s defense. “He can have as many girlfriends as he wants.”

“He sure can,” Ryan answered–adding a dry–“
How
many times has he been married?”

“You know how many times,” Mandy sniffed.

“I’m no expert.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“What?”

“Perhaps that’s where
I
should be,” she said, hurriedly changing the subject because she did not appreciate discussing her father’s love life–especially with Ryan.

“Where?” he asked, purposely needling her.

“In New York
with
him,” she snapped.

“Well, if you—”

“No!” Mandy said, throwing her husband a sharp look. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d enjoy having me out the way so you could hook up with some little tootsie whore and play around.”

Jesus Christ! Why did she say such things? Why did she go out of her way to piss him off?

Seven years they’d been married. Seven long years, and not once had he cheated on her, although the opportunities that came his way were abundant. He was thirty-nine and not bad-looking, above average in fact. He was over six feet tall, quite fit–thanks to daily jogging. He had longish sandy-brown hair, extremely intense blue eyes–his best feature–and a slightly crooked nose busted in a football game when he was twelve. The vibe he had going for him was a kind of younger Kevin Costner thing–it was a vibe women found most attractive. He got hit on all the time by actresses, models, young executives, other men’s wives, but he always turned them down. Ryan Richards was one of that rare breed–a man who believed in the institution of marriage. He’d married Mandy for better or worse–and just because it had turned out to be a nightmare did not mean that he should cut and run–although sometimes he yearned to. Neither did it mean that he should cheat the way most of his married friends did. He had principles, and staying faithful was one of them.

It had all started out so well. Mandy–pretty and sweet and caring–she’d presented herself as perfect wife material.

He’d met her at the première of the second movie he’d produced. A gritty drama about a woman on Death Row. And even though he was in his early thirties at the time, he was more than ready to hook up with the right girl. He’d had it up to here with the wanna-be model/actress types. He found them to be vacuous, boring, ambitious and too pretty for their own good. Mandy appeared to be the right girl at the right time. She made interesting and insightful comments about his movie, and not in a fan-like way. Her words were smart and to the point, and he was delighted to discover that she could actually hold an intelligent conversation about film-making. Another major plus was that even though she was very pretty in a petite way, she had no desire to be an actress. “One of these days I plan on raising a family and being there for my children,” she’d informed him. Ryan was immediately impressed.

At the time he had not realized that Mandy was Hamilton J. Heckerling’s daughter. Of
course
she knew exactly what to say to up-and-coming producers; she’d been raised by one of the biggest showmen of all time–Hamilton Hamilton J. Heckerling–a legend in his own lifetime–a throwback to the moguls of yesteryear.

By the time Ryan discovered who her famous father was, they’d been on three under-the-radar dates, and had extremely satisfying sex several times. Young Mandy was certainly no slouch in the bed department; she’d given him a series of blow-jobs the like of which he’d never experienced before, and he’d been around–nobody could say that he hadn’t enjoyed his single days.

After he found out who her father was, he’d decided that it didn’t matter–in fact, it was kind of a kick. And even though all his friends warned him about marrying into the Heckerling family–he’d done it anyway.

Foolish.

Stupid.

Dumb.

But he was in love at the time, or at least he’d thought he was.

Several of his friends got together and insisted on throwing him a bachelor party. They’d told him they were taking him to Vegas. Instead they’d commandeered a private plane and flown him off to Amsterdam for a long weekend of lust, adventure and debauchery. His final fling.

It had turned out to be one long memorable weekend, four days he would never forget.

When Mandy learned that he’d flown to Europe without her, she’d been furious. If she’d found out what had really gone on during the trip, she would’ve been more than furious. But she’d married him anyway. Mandy was a girl who always got what she wanted, and the man she wanted was Ryan.

Their marriage had taken place on a private beach adjacent to Mandy’s father’s twenty-five-million-dollar estate in Puerto Vallarta. Ryan had opted for a close family affair, but Mandy had begged him to acquiesce to her wishes. “Daddy doesn’t ask for much,” she’d said, all sweetness and light. “I’m his only daughter and you can’t blame him for wanting my wedding to be a memorable event. It’s the least we can do for him.”

So he’d given in.

Their wedding was attended by six hundred guests–eighty were his friends and family–the rest of the people he didn’t know, although Mandy assured him they were all important players in the film industry.

So be it
, he’d thought.
We only have to do this once
.

Except it turned out to be once a week, for Hamilton hosted weekly soirées at his magnificent hill-top home in Bel Air, and he expected them to attend every time.

“This is bullshit,” Ryan had complained after the fourth weekend in a row.

“No, it’s not,” Mandy objected.

“I can’t take all this socializing,” he’d said. “It’s not my scene.”

“Daddy calls it networking,” she’d answered. “You should thank him. You’re meeting all the most important people in town.”

“Why would I want to do that?” he’d demanded.

“For your career,” she’d countered. “You never know when you’ll need a favor.”

“My career is progressing very nicely,” he’d said irritably. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have two movies in development, and one about ready to shoot.”

“Daddy thinks you should make bigger movies,” Mandy had informed him. “He thinks you should come work for him.”

“Are you kidding me?” he’d said, outraged. “I certainly wouldn’t want to work for your father. I make small independent movies, that’s my style.”

“Sometimes style is not enough.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means that if you
did
work for Daddy, you could do anything you wanted.”

“I was under the impression I was doing quite well on my own,” he’d said dryly.

“It’s just a thought,” Mandy had said, deftly reaching for his fly, because she knew exactly when to stop pushing and concentrate on other things. After all, they were newly married, so it might take some time to turn Ryan around.

But Ryan was no pushover. He might have married a famous man’s daughter, but when it came to the movie business he walked his own path–he needed neither help, advice nor interference from Hamilton J. Heckerling.

A year into their marriage Mandy reluctantly admitted defeat when it came to Ryan’s career. He was indeed his own man, and she could do nothing to change that. At least she’d persuaded him to accept her father’s wedding gift–a house in the flats of
Beverly Hills with six bedrooms, lush gardens, a pool and a tennis court.

At first he’d objected. “It’s way too big,” he’d said.

“Not when we have children,” she’d replied, cannily playing the family card. “Besides, Daddy will be heartbroken if we turn him down.”

After arguing about it for a couple of weeks he’d finally given in, and they’d moved into the house on Foothill. He’d had to admit that the idea of a large family appealed to him. He’d been raised with three sisters and loving parents, so family was extremely important, he couldn’t wait to start one of his own.

Unfortunately it was not to be. Over the course of their seven-year marriage, Mandy had become pregnant three times. She’d lost the first two babies to miscarriages, and their third baby was stillborn.

It was heart-breaking for both of them. It was also the main reason he stayed, for how could he desert her after all she’d been through? It wouldn’t be right, and throughout his life Ryan had always tried to do the right thing.

“Okay, Mandy,” Ryan said impatiently. “I have to get going.”

“If you must,” she said in an uptight voice. “What time will you be home?”

He hated being questioned, but Mandy could never resist going there.

“Around five,” he answered vaguely.

“Don’t forget we’re having dinner with Phil and Lucy at the beach,” she reminded him. “
Geoffrey’s
. It’s our check. We should leave before six. One never knows what the traffic will be like on P.C.H. and you know how I hate being late.”

Funny, coming from a woman who always kept him waiting.

“Got it,” he said, finally making it to the door.

Geoffrey’s
restaurant with Phil and Lucy Standard wasn’t such a bad thing. Phil was a close friend, and Lucy could be entertaining when she wasn’t zoned out on her favorite Vicodin/Xanax combination.

Yes, an evening with the Standards sure beat out an evening at home with Mandy.

S
ix clients later, Cameron finished her day at
Bounce
, although she was by no means done; she still had several house calls to make, which would take her way past eight p.m. When she was finally through, she’d collect her two dogs from Mr Wasabi, her friendly Asian neighbor, fix herself something to eat, and fall into bed ready for tomorrow’s early start.

She knew she was a workaholic, but nobody was about to do it for her–and she was determined to put away enough money to enable her to open her own studio soon.

Fortunately she was well on her way to achieving her goal, proof that all her hard work was worth it.

“Where you off to now?” Lynda inquired as she made her way past the front desk.

“Charlene Lewis,” she replied, pausing for a moment. “Isn’t she your unfavorite Hollywood Wife?”

“Oh,
her
,” Lynda said, tapping her overly long manicured nails on the counter-top. “That woman is a true
puta
. A typical double-trophy wife with an alcoholic old dude husband.”

“You think?” Cameron said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Oh,
c’mon
,” Lynda insisted. “Everyone
knows
she’s waiting for him to drop so she can inherit his millions an’ start bumpin’ an’ grindin’ with cabana boys.”

Cameron raised an amused eyebrow. “Cabana boys?”

“You get what I mean,” Lynda said with a dirty giggle.

“Do you hate
all
my clients?”

“Only the bad-ass ones,” Lynda retorted. “You got a few hot actors I wouldn’t say no to hopping in the shower with. An’ I
looove
Joanna P.–she knows how to have fun.”

“How bad can my bad-ass clients be when I get them to pay double my usual rate?” Cameron said. “They’re helping us, you know.”

“No,” Lynda argued. “
You’re
helping them get their saggy asses into shape.”

“Whatever.”

“You work too hard,” Lynda said, wrinkling her pert nose. “Thing is, sister–you got no personal life, an’ that ain’t healthy.”

“I have a perfectly fine personal life, thank you,” Cameron replied tartly.

“Y’know,” Lynda began with a sly smirk, “Carlos has a friend—”

“No!”

“
What
?” Lynda said innocently. “I can’t even remember the last time you went on a date.”

“
I
do, and it was a total disaster,” Cameron said, recalling a short, hairy agent with a handle-bar moustache, who’d kept on insisting he could get her into movies–a place she had no desire to go. She shuddered at the memory.

“All work an’ no sex—” Lynda sing-songed.

“Makes me stronger,” Cameron said, cutting Lynda off.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re Superpussy!” Lynda teased.

Dorian appeared in the doorway flexing his considerable muscles. “You called?” he said archly.

“You wish!” Cameron said, grinning.

“Bitch!”

“Slut!”

“Ah, she knows me so well,” Dorian said with a proud smile.

“Me and half of West Hollywood,” Cameron drawled. Dorian
was
a major slut, but she loved him all the same; he had a big heart, and could always be relied on in a crisis.

Smiling to herself, she made her way out to the lot at the back where her 1969 fastback silver Mustang was parked. It was a fantastic car that got her where she needed to go and was major fun to drive. She especially enjoyed firing up her iPod, and on one of her rare days off, driving to the beach with the dogs in the back, and L.L. Cool J and The Black-Eyed Peas serenading her. That was her relaxation, simply doing nothing much, certainly not going on useless blind dates with one of Carlos’s “hot to get laid” friends. Besides, unbeknownst to Lynda or anyone else–she had sex whenever she wanted it with Marlon–a nineteen-year-old college student she’d met running the UCLA track. They’d struck up a “friends with benefits” relationship. Nothing serious, simply uncomplicated sex whenever either of them felt like it. It suited both of them just fine. Although sometimes she did feel a bit guilty because technically Marlon was still a teenager, although his twentieth birthday was just around the corner, so it wasn’t as if she was sleeping with a
boy
. Besides, she was only five years older than him.

Nobody knew about Marlon, and that’s the way she intended to keep it. Lynda would criticize, and Dorian would be after Marlon for himself.

Cameron’s three best friends were Lynda, Dorian, and Cole de Barge, another gay trainer who was black and totally hot. Three close friends, but she kept her secrets to herself.

She made it in record time to the gated community where Charlene lived with her rich husband. Their luxurious mansion was perched atop a hill with a magnificent view from every room. To reach the house, visitors had to drive through security gates and inform the guards–who kept a detailed log of everyone who entered–exactly which house they were visiting.

As she drove down the neatly kept streets past a series of
enormous gated mansions, she decided the set-up was like some kind of surreal billionaires’ ghetto. The thought made her smile.

Charlene Lewis had been around Hollywood for twenty years. First married to a Vegas singing star, then a famous composer, she was now on her third husband, Aarron Otterly, an eccentric billionaire who was twice widowed and fast approaching eighty. Charlene knew a thing or two about promising prospects, so the moment she’d realized Aarron was available, she’d moved in on him like a hooker intent on getting paid for sucking cock. Her sell-by date was fast approaching, and she was well aware that most billionaires liked their women to be twenty-something, or if any older, at least Asian.

She’d hooked Aarron by allowing him to try on all her clothes and parade around in full drag–it turned out that he was especially fond of her vintage Valentinos and Dolce & Gabanna ultra-sexy evening gowns.

The good news was she didn’t have to indulge in sex with him, he preferred to pleasure himself while admiring his dolled-up image in a full-length mirror. As long as she was there to watch along with him, he was happy.

The bad news was he had grown offspring who couldn’t stand the sight of her; they were convinced she was after his money.

Cameron realized that Lynda was probably right, Charlene
was
merely biding time until her dear hubby dropped so she could get on with her life and not be bothered by pesky financial problems. She’d never worked and she never intended to.

A Filipino butler greeted Cameron at the door and informed her that the lady of the house was waiting for her. She made her way through luxury until she reached the gym out by the pool.

“You’re late,” Charlene admonished, sitting astride a stationary bike clad in a shocking-pink leotard that clung like a second skin.

Charlene was an ode to Botox, Juvena, silicone, collagen, and any other facial fillers on the market. Lipo-suction was her best
friend. She didn’t believe in the plastic surgeon’s knife unless it was for her overly large breasts, but she did believe in everything else. At forty-six she was immaculately preserved with disturbingly enhanced lips, and not a line on her smooth face.

“I’d hardly call five minutes late,” Cameron retaliated.

“You know I’m a stickler for punctuality,” Charlene said petulantly. “Every five minutes count. I could’ve been doing something else.”

Like what?
Cameron wanted to ask.
Lending your husband your mascara? Shopping for more designer outfits? Screwing the pool boy?

“Take your ring off,” Cameron said cheerfully, indicating the twelve-carat diamond monstrosity Charlene wore on her middle finger. “It’s time to get limber.”

Reluctantly Charlene removed her enormous ring. It was her security blanket and never left her sight. Cameron mused that if Charlene sold the ring, the money could feed a family of five for at least ten years.

“C’mon, let’s hit it,” Cameron said, beginning a series of deep stretches. “Gotta suffer for that amazing bod.”

“Why?” Charlene snapped.

“’Cause if you want to keep on looking great, that’s what you have to do.”

“One of these days,” Charlene muttered, “I’m gonna sit on the couch an’ do nothing but scarf down Krispy Kremes.”

“No, you’re not,” Cameron said briskly, switching on the sound system. “You’ll be buff forever. It’s your destiny.”

“Really?” Charlene said, preening.

“Absolutely,” Cameron responded.

Positive energy always got her through the day. And motivating her clients was one of the keys to her success.

It was past nine by the time she made it home to her modest one-bedroom house situated in a quiet street behind Von’s supermarket on Santa Monica. She rented the house from a flamboyant
interior designer who was one of her favorite clients. The house was tiny, but it did have a small garden in back where Yoko and Lennon–her two golden Labradors–loved to stretch out and bake in the sun. Yoko and Lennon were great company; with them around she never felt lonely.

After fixing herself a cup of Miso soup, she listened to her answering machine. It was mostly calls from clients booking or changing appointments. The final message was from Jill Khoner, a TV producer client, who wanted to know if she was available to pay a house call to Don Verona–the talk-show host. She was aware of his name, but she’d never got around to watching his show. However, new clients were always welcome, so after finishing her soup, she called Jill back and took down Don Verona’s details. Then she led Yoko and Lennon outside, ran them around the block, and finally made it to bed.

It had been a very long day.