Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  She had wanted him then. And she wanted him now. Just as much. He had given her more than body beautiful and youth. He had given her knowledge, and in the long run that’s what life was really all about.

  Working together was a new phase in their relationship, and so far it seemed a definite bonus. He cared about the movie just as much as she did—in fact, that’s all they ever seemed to talk about. Not that she was complaining—what more could she want?

  She wondered if he had landed George Lancaster.

  Even bigger question. How would she feel if he had?

  Disappointed. The more she thought about it the more she hated the idea. But as Oliver Easterne constantly said in his highly unoriginal way, “A star is a star is a star.”

  She dressed quickly in a Calvin Klein jacket, chain-store jeans, a six-dollar T-shirt, and two-hundred-dollar cowboy boots. The mix suited her, especially when she pulled her luxuriant black hair tightly from her face and twisted it into a long braid.

  Skipping breakfast, she slipped behind the wheel of her battered Volkswagen. Neil was always nagging her to buy a new car, but the VW suited her. It wasn’t flash, she could drive around the city virtually unnoticed, and that’s the way she liked it.

  Actors. Twenty more today. Maybe one she wanted—one who was right—one who would walk into her office and bring a character she had created to life.

  God! Putting this movie together was exciting. More exciting than anything she had done in her life before.

  Moviemaking. It got in your blood. And she and Neil together—what a team!

  Grinning quietly to herself, she started the VW and set off to her office.

  • • •

  “Why can’t you get me a copy of the goddam script?” Ross screamed into the phone. “Christ almighty, Zack, I’m not asking for a table at the Last Supper. All I want is a lousy script. Ninety frigging pages bound together. Sounds like a simple enough task to me.” He tapped the glass table beside the pool with angry fingers as he listened to the answer. The answer was that Street People appeared to be under lock and key. Nobody had a copy—but nobody.

  Only George Lancaster and Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas and Sadie La Salle and Christ knows who else. Probably half of fucking Hollywood.

  He slammed the phone down in disgust. Here he was, a major star, chasing a part in some half-assed frigging movie written by a woman, no less, and he hadn’t even seen the script. What the fuck was the matter with him? Was he losing his smarts along with his hair?

  The very thought sent him running to the pool house in a panic. What made him think he was losing his hair? He wasn’t. No way. Well, maybe a little. Nothing noticeable. Nothing that combing it differently couldn’t take care of.

  He studied his reflection in the mirrored poolhouse.

  Ross Conti. Movie star. Still a good-looking son of a bitch. Only he and Paul Newman had kept it all together. The others had fallen to pieces—got fat, bald, had disastrous face lifts, wore bad toupees. Sinatra still looked good, though, with his sewn-on thatch. Still had a set of pipes that kept them creaming their panties when they heard his world-weary tones. Satisfied, Ross returned poolside.

  Elaine was framed in the glass entrance to the living room. Elaine. His wife. She didn’t look bad for an old broad. One thing about her—she kept herself in good shape, didn’t drink, screw around, or make a fool of him.

  “Honey,” he said warmly, “I want you to do something for me.”

  She looked him up and down. He was definitely developing a gut. Quite noticeable in the madras shorts he had chosen to wear. “I’ll do anything you want, Ross, dear,” she said sweetly, “as long as you promise me you’ll start going to the gym again.”

  He feigned surprise and patted his stomach. “You think I need it?”

  “Everyone over twenty-five needs it.”

  “What is this ‘everyone over twenty-five’ crap?”

  “A fact of life, my darling. The older one gets the harder one has to work at looking good.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Truth.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She sighed. “What is it you want me to do?”

  He scratched his chin and squinted the famous blues. “Call Maralee Gray. Get hold of a copy of Neil’s new script, the one we were talking about.”

  “Couldn’t Zack get it for you?”

  “Zack couldn’t pull milk from a cow if you handed him the tit!”

  Elaine nodded. He was finally coming around to her way of thinking.

  “I need Sadie La Salle,” Ross suddenly blurted.

  He was definitely coming around to her way of thinking. “Do you want me to see if I can arrange it?” she asked slowly.

  He looked enthusiastic. “You think you can?”

  She smiled. “You’ve always said I can do anything I set my mind to.”

  “So I’m giving you the word. Set your mind to getting me Sadie La Salle and a copy of that damn script.”

  Her smile widened. There was nothing Elaine liked better than a challenge. “Ross, sweetheart, you’re on!”

  He smiled back. “Elaine, sweetheart, my money’s on you.” Marital bliss at last.

  “I bought you a present,” she murmured, handing him the Saint Laurent silk tie she had stolen earlier.

  He was pleased. “Always thinking of the star, huh?” he said with a big grin.

  She nodded. “Always, Ross. Always.”

  • • •

  Maverick’s was crowded, the bar six deep, disco music blasting eardrums.

  Buddy hadn’t been there in a long while—before Hawaii—before the days of fat little Maxie Sholto. He shuddered when he thought of Maxie. Fortunately he had woken up to reality before it was too late. No more drugs and orgies for Buddy Boy. That scene was purely for life’s losers. Hitting on Gladrags for work was one thing. Maxie Sholto was a whole different ballgame.

  “Buddy! Good t’see you. Where y’been hiding?”

  He waved at the barman. “Around,” he replied. “Here and there. What’s happening?”

  “Same old story. Business is good. Didja hear about me on Hill Street Blues? I had lines, man, lines.”

  Yeah? So why was he still behind the bar at Maverick’s?

  “That’s great,” Buddy said. “Is Quince around?”

  “In the back.”

  “Thanks.”

  He made his way to the end of the crowded bar and across a jammed dance floor and edged along a line of booths looking for Quince.

  He found him surrounded by girls. Three of them.

  Quince. Tall. Black. Good-looking. A good actor too. They had worked together at Joy Byron’s.

  “Hey, man.” They spoke in unison, and slapped palms.

  “Sit,” Quince said. “Join the party.”

  Buddy squeezed on the end of the leather banquette while Quince indicated the girls one by one. “This is my lady, Luann. Her sister, Chickie. And a good friend, Shelly.”

  Luann was a gorgeous chocolate blond. Chickie was smaller, darker, with a set of teeth Farrah would kill for. Shelly was Shelly, the girl from the pool, looking good in a scant purple leotard and thin wrapover skirt.

  “Hey,” he said. “I know you.”

  “Hey,” she replied. “Buddy Hudson. Mister Married. Where’s your old lady?”

  “Buddy. Married. That’ll be the day,” laughed Quince.

  Shelly nodded. “He’s married.”

  Quince raised an unbelieving eyebrow and grinned at Buddy. “Tell ’em it ain’t true, my man.”

  Buddy scowled. His luck to run into Miss Bigmouth. It just wasn’t his day. Or night. “So I’m married, big deal,” he mumbled.

  Quince began to laugh. “I never thought the day would come when you would fall into that scene. What happened?” He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I know, I know. She’s eighty-three, loaded, an’ she has a reaaal bad heart. Am I hittin’ it?”

  Buddy’s scowl deepened. He had run out on An
gel to find a little relaxation. “Yeah, yeah, sure, you’re right,” he said quickly. “Only she’s nearer ninety than eighty-three. More my speed, y’know?”

  Quince guffawed loudly. “That’s my Buddy Boy! Always one eye on the main chance!”

  “How about a little boogie?” requested Chickie, jigging about to the strains of a Donna Summer hit.

  “Sorry,” Shelly intervened. “I asked first.” She bumped against Buddy, forcing him to stand, then she slid from the booth, flung her arms around his neck, and pulled him toward the packed dance floor.

  “Eighty-three my ass,” she sneered. “Twenty and goddam spectacular. I’ve seen her out by the pool. Why are you keepin’ her a secret?”

  He shrugged. “No secret.”

  “No shit? So where is she, then?”

  “What are you—a dyke?”

  She pushed her crotch sharply against his. “If I was, baby, I’d be scratchin’ at your front door the moment you left, with what you got stashed at home.”

  He shoved her roughly away and went into his disco routine. He could give Travolta lessons—that’s how smooth and sensuous and goddam raunchy he was. Allan Carr, walk in and see me now!

  Shelly matched him move for move. She was good too. He began to enjoy himself. It was the first dancing he’d done in a long time, and when you had a partner who was with you all the way, well, that was a real hot feeling.

  They stopped when they’d had enough. When sweat coursed in little rivers down Shelly’s bare arms and chest. “Hmmm,” she said succinctly, “you’re good.”

  “So are you.”

  They returned to the table. “I should hope so. I’m a professional.”

  “A professional what?”

  She regarded him coolly. “Dancer.” She turned to greet a new arrival who had moved in next to Chickie. “Jer, babes, how’d it go tonight?”

  Jer babes was a young good-looking guy with nervous, shifty eyes. He shrugged. “The same crapshoot. Y’know the scene.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed sympathetically. “Hey—have you two met?” They shook heads negatively, summing each other up. “Buddy Hudson—Jericho Crunch,” Shelly continued, the perfect hostess.

  Buddy frowned. The loud music must be getting to him. Jericho Crunch! What kind of a name was that? Sounded like a religious Famous Amos!

  Jericho’s shifty eyes checked him over. “Are you an actor?”

  “What did you see me in?” Buddy asked quickly.

  “Nothin’. I’m an actor too.”

  “Yeah. What have you done?”

  Jericho reeled off a few familiar television shows, then licked his lips and added, “But I’m up for the big one. Think I’m gonna get it, too.”

  “What big one?” Buddy asked, immediately alert.

  Jericho looked secretive. “Nothin’ I can talk about.”

  “A television pilot?”

  “Nope.”

  “A commercial?”

  “Nope.”

  “So—what?”

  “A movie. A real biggie.”

  “A television film?”

  “Nope. The real thing.”

  “What’s it called?”

  Jericho narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m gonna tell you so you can go runnin’ after it, too. No way. Besides, I’m almost set. I got the castin’ bitch creamin’ at the thought of usin’ me,” he leered. “Get the picture?”

  Yes. Buddy got the picture. And the pisser was not about to give away a thing. He thought about Angel. She hadn’t meant to nag. She had just caught him at a bad moment when all he had left in the world was forty-two bucks and no idea where to score. Unemployment was out. He had never wanted to get involved with forms and papers and all that crap. And he couldn’t start now. “Gotta split,” he said, rising from the table. He pushed through the crowds, and took a deep breath as he hit the street.

  Shelly followed him out. “I need a lift home,” she said.

  He looked her over and decided she might be useful. “Sure. My car’s down the block.”

  She walked beside him, smelling slightly of sweat and a heavy musk scent.

  “What kind of dancing you do?” he asked.

  “Artistic,” she replied.

  “A stripper, huh?”

  “One of the best.”

  “Modest.”

  “Screw you. I am one of the best, and proud of it.”

  They reached the car, and he slid into the driver’s seat, springing the passenger lock for her.

  “And you’re an actor,” she stated, settling herself comfortably. “I should have guessed.”

  “One of the best,” he said quickly.

  She laughed. “Yeah. That’s why you’re driving this pile of crapola.”

  “It gets me around. I’m not into image.”

  “Can’t afford to be, huh?”

  “I’m gettin’ by.”

  She extracted a joint from her purse and lit up. “I’ll tell you somethin’,” she said, offering him a toke, which he declined, because who needed to get stopped by the cops at this time of the morning? “You’d make a terrific stripper. You’ve got the body an’ you’ve got all the right moves.”

  He laughed aloud. “You have to be kidding.”

  She was unamused. “What’s so funny? It pays good, and just as many guys are doin’ it today.” »

  “I’m an actor. I told you.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t take off your clothes and get paid for it.”

  “I guess you think Sylvester Stallone did that kind of thing to get on?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you read gossip?”

  “You can’t believe the junk you read in those rags. What about your friend—Brunch—Crunch—the great wall of Jericho. He take ’em off?”

  “Undressed he’s bad news. Sloped shoulders, knock knees, nothin’ much in the bread bin. He does a bit of waitering—Hollywood parties. Thinks he’ll get discovered that way.”

  The hell with it. Buddy reached for the joint and took a long satisfying pull, then casually he said, “Maybe it worked for him. Like, what’s this movie he says he’s all set for?”

  “Oh, c’mon. You don’t believe that, do you? If Jer served a canapé to Johnny Carson he’d tell everyone he was all set for The Tonight Show!”

  “So there’s no movie?”

  “He went on an interview.”

  “For what?”

  She laughed softly. “Wanna horn in on his action?”

  Carefully he eased the car into a convenient parking space opposite their apartment house. “It’s a free country.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So what’s the movie?”

  “Come up for a snort. Coke always jogs my memory.”

  He thought of Angel. Beautiful. Innocent. Waiting.

  Then he thought of forty-two lousy bucks. “Sure. Why not?”

  • • •

  Gina Germaine had an agent, a manager, a secretary, a makeup artist, a hairdresser, an accountant, a business counselor, an acting coach, and two ex-husbands to support. Sort of. They all depended on her for something.

  She was thirty-three years old—twenty-nine to the press. Blond—dyed, not natural. Pretty, with round, slightly protruding blue eyes, a retroussé nose, and a maneater mouth filled with sharp white perfect teeth. There were thousands of girls on the West Coast of America who were just as pretty as Gina Germaine. But her body made her something special. Long skinny legs, small ass, twenty-inch waist, and an enormous bosom. Thirty-nine firm fruity inches with huge pale-chocolate nipples.

  • • •

  Gina Germaine became a star because of her amazing breasts. Featured in Playboy at the age of nineteen, she was immediately discovered by Hollywood. “Send for her at once,” demanded two studio heads, three corporate executives, and four enthusiastic agents.

  She was already in town. Maxie Sholto, a canny hustler who knew a sensational pair of boobies when he saw them, had gotten there first. “Let me represent you
,” he had said, his shifty smile going full-force. “Let me make you a star.”

  The old-fashioned but meaningful words worked. Gina packed up a so-so modeling career in Houston, Texas, and flew with Maxie to Los Angeles, where he got her a few bit parts here and there. Nothing spectacular. Until one day she walked into a television executive’s private office, sat on a high-backed chair opposite him, and casually spread her long skinny sexy legs just as Maxie had told her she should.

  The executive’s bloodshot eyes bulged with excitement. Gina Germaine was wearing a short white mini-skirt with nothing underneath. No panty hose, no panties. Nothing.

  She landed a role in a weekly television sitcom, and a weekly rendezvous with her television executive, who expired two years later from a massive stroke.

  Gina was sorry to see him go. He was such a sweet old guy. But then again she really didn’t need him anymore. Television had made her a star, and Maxie had made her his wife.

  Gina’s television show lasted five years, her marriage only a few months longer, but Maxie and she parted friends, arid he was best man at her well-publicized wedding to a macho actor whose main hobby was beating her up, so she divorced him too.

  Her personal life was chaos, but her star continued to rise. A movie spinoff from her series had made big bucks at the box office. And she followed this with another money spinner. She was that rarity—a small-screen star who could make it on the big screen. All at once she was hot. Every movie she did made money. She supported sagging superstars, played straight lady to zany comedians, jiggled, wriggled, and took her clothes off with monotonous regularity.

  The public didn’t think so. The public loved her. She was their Gina. A gorgeous package of golden flesh. A movie-star whore with a heart of gold and tits to match. An old-fashioned type of movie star who evoked memories of Monroe and Mansfield.

  “I want to be taken seriously,” she cooed on the Johnny Carson show one night. “Y’know, John, I want to do different kinds of films—something with a social message.”

  Johnny had just looked to camera, his face a study in restraint; his expression said it all. The audience had roared with laughter, and Gina was smart enough to shut up and return to sticking out her tits and indulging in playful flirts. Inside she was seething with frustration. Why shouldn’t she do serious movies?