Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  Cast: Elaine Conti. Maralee Gray. Karen Lancaster.

  Menu: Salad, salad, salad. Nothing fattening. They were all on a permanent diet.

  Subject: Gossip.

  Karen to Maralee: “You look absolutely sensational. Palm Springs must have agreed with you.”

  Maralee, smiling: “It certainly did. I met this very interesting man called Randy Felix.”

  Elaine: “Did he live up to his name?”

  Maralee: “How would I know? It wasn’t that sort of relationship.”

  Karen, cynically: “There are no other kinds of relationships.”

  Maralee: “Randy is into preserving our environment.” Karen, sarcastic: “Really?”

  Elaine, down to earth: “How old is he? And does he have money?”

  Maralee, laughing: “I don’t know and I don’t much care. I’m not planning to marry him.”

  Elaine: “What are you planning?”

  Karen: “She’s planning to get into the poor kid’s pants. When does he get into town?”

  Maralee, affronted: “He’s not a kid. He’s at least twenty-six or -seven. And as a matter of fact he will be in L.A. shortly. He has his own apartment here.”

  Karen and Elaine in unison: “Sure.”

  Maralee: “God! You are a couple of bitches.”

  Karen: “Nothing wrong with getting laid.”

  Maralee: “I never said there was. And if I do decide to investigate ‘the poor kid’s’ pants, I’ll certainly be sure to let you know, Karen, dear.”

  Karen: “Details! I want details! Like is he hung and does he give good head?”

  “Karen!”

  “Sorry, sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  The three women were firm friends. They moved in the same circles and shared the same interests—clothes, money, and sex. Also none of them had children, which created a bond—Karen because she didn’t want any, Maralee because she had miscarried twice when married to Neil and had then given up, and Elaine because she could not conceive—a fact which had never bothered her or Ross.

  “Oh! Will you look who just came in,” Karen said.

  Three sets of eyes guarded by three sets of different expensive optics studied the entrance. There, suitably clad in a white silk Ungaro dress and jacket, with Cartier daytime diamonds, stood Bibi Sutton.

  Now Bibi was fifty years old if she was a day. But in the twenty years she had been one of the so-called social lionesses of the Beverly Hills elite she had not aged a jot. Her skin was smooth cared-for olive, her hair a rich burnished copper, her figure voluptuous, without one inch of fat. It was said she had been a journalist in her native France and had been sent to interview the American movie star Adam Sutton at his hotel in Paris. It had also been said that she was a highly paid call girl who had visited him every night in his suite at the Georges V. For free.

  Who cared? It had happened years before—and whatever she had been, she was now a lady to be reckoned with.

  Bibi Sutton set trends. She could make or break a designer, a restaurant, an artist, a caterer. If Bibi put the seal of approval on something or someone, that business or person was made. She had clout, style, and a forceful personality. Plus a French accent which even after twenty years sounded like Bardot on a bad day. She cultivated broken English; it was part of her charisma.

  In comparison, Adam Sutton was a tall, quiet-spoken man. A fine actor with two Oscars. Still a star at sixty-two, and an upstanding member of the Los Angeles community.

  They had two children, a girl of eighteen, studying at a college in Boston, and a boy of nineteen, away at Harvard. Rumor had it that there was another child born to Bibi before her marriage—the result of a torrid affair with George Lancaster. But Bibi had always denied it. “A filthy lie,” she told the one journalist brave (or stupid) enough to ask her. And the rumor was laid to rest.

  Bibi and Adam Sutton were Hollywood royalty. The perfect couple. Rich. Socially acceptable. Powerful.

  “Hmmm . . .” murmured Karen. “How I’d love to catch our Bibi with her pantyhose around her ankles.” She had always been amused at the thought of her father and Bibi locked in hot combat all those years ago.

  Maralee licked her lips. “And how I’d love to catch our Adam in bed one dark night. Preferably with me.”

  Karen looked amazed. “Adam Sutton! You must be joking. He has to be the most boring lay in Beverly Hills.”

  “Who would know?” Maralee retorted tartly.

  “I wouldn’t for one,” Karen replied. “In fact I can’t think of anyone who would. The man does not screw around.” “How unusual,” Maralee said.

  Elaine ignored them both. She was on her feet and heading full-speed in Bibi’s direction.

  “Darling!” Both together. Kissy, kissy on each other’s cheeks. Lips not touching skin. “How are you?” Still together. “You look wonderful

  The ritual was over. “Bibi,” Elaine said quickly, “I’m thinking of having a little soirée on the twenty-fourth of this month. It’s a Friday. Nothing vast. But it’s been such ages since I’ve had time to get anything together. Ross has been so busy. My God—I don’t have to tell you what it’s like. Can you and Adam come?”

  “Sweetie!” Bibi looked quite shocked. “Eh! How I know? You think I know anything without my book? You call me. We looove to come if we free. Okay, sweetie?”

  “Yes, fine, I’ll call you later,” Elaine said obediently. It would be unthinkable to plan a party on a date when the Suttons could not attend. Quickly she returned to her table in the fashionable sunlit garden.

  “Any luck?” demanded Karen, who knew every move.

  “I have to call her later,” Elaine replied sulkily. “She doesn’t know a thing without her book.”

  “Horseshit,” said Karen succinctly. “She never commits to anything unless she’s certain there is nothing better going on that night. Years ago my father had a birthday party for her, and she bowed out at the last minute to go to some half-assed dinner for Khrushchev. Daddy was furious.”

  “I bet,” agreed Maralee. “My father had Adam doing two movies for him, and she still wouldn’t invite Daddy to her house because he once failed to turn up at one of her special dinners.”

  Elaine stared at her two friends. Sometimes she got an uncomfortably insecure feeling when she was around them. They were so sure of themselves. And so they should be. They had both grown up in Beverly Hills with rich, famous fathers behind them, always had money, and whoever they were married to would always be accepted. It was their birthright. Little Etta Grodinski from the Bronx had had to struggle for everything. Marrying a movie star, landing up in a Beverly Hills mansion, and becoming attractive, clever Elaine Conti had been no easy job. Moodily she sipped her white wine.

  Think yourself lucky. These women are your friends. They accept you. They like you. They tell you about their lives and loves, their clothes and makeup, their plastic surgeons and gynecologists. You’re one of them now. You are. Don’t ever forget it.

  Etta. Elaine. How carefully she hid her background. Her parents, still alive, had long ago moved from the Bronx to a pleasant house on Long Island. To this day she had never invited them to visit her in Beverly Hills. To this day they had never met Ross. She phoned them once a week, and sent them a monthly check. They were nice simple people. They would never be comfortable in her world.

  You’re ashamed of them, Elaine.

  I’m not, I’m not.

  “Look who Bibi’s with,” said Karen.

  All eyes swiveled to inspect Bibi’s companion, who had arrived late and was now hurrying across the crowded restaurant to join her.

  “It’s only Wolfie Schweicker,” Maralee said dismissively.

  “My God! For a moment I thought it was a man!” exclaimed Karen. “He looks different. What has he done?”

  “Lost about forty pounds,” said Elaine, joining in.

  “So he has,” marveled Karen. “He’s positively slimline.”

  Wolfgang Schweicker. Professional
walker. The term was used for any affluent, well-connected man who escorted married ladies when their husbands were not available to accompany them to the various openings and galleries and restaurants where they simply had to be seen. Nancy Reagan had hers. Wolfie was Bibi’s equivalent. Once grossly fat, he had managed to slim down to merely chubby. He was round of face, short of leg, and expensively clad in the best Gucci had to offer. He was in his early fifties, and owned a very successful chain of designer bathroom shops with franchises across America. Everyone adored Wolfie. He was so witty. But he belonged to Bibi Sutton and never strayed.

  “Do you know,” Maralee said, tapping her perfect fingernails on the tabletop, “I once invited Wolfie to a brunch. Without taking a breath he asked if Bibi and Adam were coming. I was married to Neil at the time, he loathed Bibi, and didn’t care who knew it. Called her a socially miscast French cunt!” Maralee giggled at the memory. “Anyway, I said no, and he said no. Can you imagine? Wouldn’t even come to a tiny little brunch without her.”

  The lunch passed in a flurry of gossip, innuendo, and general bitchery. Reputations, love affairs, talent, and looks were casually pulled to pieces. Elaine asked for the check and charged it to her American Express card. Karen hurried off to her analyst, and Elaine and Maralee strolled outside to get their respective cars from an attentive parking valet.

  Maralee raised her sunglasses, peered conspiratorially at her friend, and said, “Well, what do you think?”

  Elaine cast a professional eye on Maralee’s recent surgery. She had not been married to a plastic surgeon without learning a thing or two. “Excellent,” she declared, after a thorough inspection. “Really a first-class job.”

  Maralee was thrilled. “Honestly?”

  “Would I lie?”

  “Of course you wouldn’t!”

  The parking valet drove up with Maralee’s brand-new Porsche Turbo Carrera. She grabbed every cent of alimony she could from Neil, but actually didn’t need a dime. Her father had settled two trusts on her, both of which she had gained possession of. When Tyrone Sanderson died she stood to inherit another fortune. “I’m going to Neiman-Marcus,” she announced. “Why don’t you come?”

  Elaine shook her head. “I have to get home. Now that Ross is back my time’s not my own.”

  Maralee nodded understandingly and headed for her car.

  “By the way.” Elaine placed a restraining hand on her friend’s arm. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Look, I know you’re not on the greatest of terms with Neil.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year!”

  “But could you . . . would you . . .”

  Maralee was getting impatient. “What, Elaine?”

  “I need a copy of Street People,” she blurted quickly. “It’s important. I need it immediately.”

  Maralee raised her eyebrows. “That piece of trash!”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Do I need to? Montana supposedly wrote it. Doesn’t that tell you enough?”

  Elaine felt a flush spreading across her face. How she hated having to ask anyone for anything. “Can you get it for me?” Maralee gazed at her friend shrewdly. “Don’t tell me Ross is interested?”

  Elaine shrugged in what she hoped was a noncommittal fashion. “He likes to see everything.”

  “Can’t his agent get him a copy?”

  “Apparently it’s under wraps.”

  “Probably because it’s so bad,” Maralee sniffed. “Oh, well, if you want it, it’s yours. There’s nothing in this town that I can’t get my hands on.”

  “Thanks, Maralee.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Lips brushed cheeks, once on each side, and they parted. Maralee roared off in her new Porsche, and Elaine climbed disconsolately into her four-year-old Mercedes. It would all change—soon. The Contis would be back on top and she would never have to ask anyone a favor again.

  • • •

  “I just left your wife,” Karen husked over the phone.

  “So?”

  “I told her everything.”

  There was a long pause while Ross digested this information. “You did what?” he said at last.

  Karen’s voice was filled with emotion. “Everything, Ross. I think she’ll probably kill you!” She could hold back her laughter no longer.

  “Clever cunt.”

  “You said it!”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my analyst’s waiting room. I’m just about to tell him all about us.”

  “Don’t!”

  “Why not? I’ll tell you what he says. I promise.”

  “Dammit, Karen, do not mention my name.”

  “What’s in it for me if I don’t?”

  “The biggest dick you’ve ever seen.”

  She chuckled happily. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Not good enough. When?”

  He wanted her, but he wanted the script of Street People more, and he did not plan to leave the house until he had it.

  “I said I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  She was not prepared to be so easily dismissed. “I understand it’s going to be party time in the Conti household soon.”

  “Yup.”

  “Elaine spent the entire lunch yearning after Bibi Sutton.”

  “Did she get her?”

  “She got a maybe. You know Bibi.”

  Ross understood the social mores of Beverly Hills. If Elaine could not get Bibi Sutton to their party she might as well not bother giving it. Maybe he would give Adam a call, pull the old-pals act.

  “I have to go,” Karen said abruptly. She wanted to be sure to get off the phone before he did.

  “Don’t you dare mention my name to your analyst,” he warned.

  She hung up without another word. Ross returned to the lounger where he was carefully taking the sun and imagined the scene at the Bistro Gardens—Bibi playing hard to get, Elaine chasing, and Karen enjoying every fawning minute.

  Karen. For one wild second he had actually believed her when she’d said she’d told Elaine. The broad had a wicked sense of humor. Maybe he should dump her.

  But why? She would never open her mouth to Elaine, and he certainly wanted more of her horny body and wonderfully erotic nipples. Oh, those nipples!

  More—but not immediately. When he’d seen the script of Street People. When Sadie La Salle was his agent. When he felt more . . . settled.

  • • •

  It seemed to Buddy that he had hardly closed his eyes when the phone woke him.

  “Whoozatt?” he mumbled.

  A burst of static, then, “Buddy? You awake?”

  “Call me in the mornin’,” he said sleepily.

  “It is morning,” replied his caller testily. “It’s eleven o’clock and about time you moved it.”

  “Randy!” Slowly he opened an eye. “How’re you doin’?”

  “Doin’ more than all right. I found me a real hot rich one.”

  “Hey—that’s good.” He opened the other eye and groped around the bed looking for Angel. She was not there.

  “Yeah,” said Randy briskly. “And no way do I aim to blow the opportunity. Like so far I am Mr. Straight, an’ she goes for me a lot—and with a great deal more input I think I can find myself really on the right track.”

  “Good, good . . .” mumbled Buddy, hoping the call had nothing to do with the apartment.

  “I’m driving in tomorrow,” Randy said, and then as if playing telepathic games, “and I’ll need my apartment. I know it’s short notice an’ all. But when I lent you the place we did agree it was only for a couple of weeks, an’ well—you been there awhile. I’ll be arriving around noon tomorrow.”

  “Noon?”

  “Right.”

  Buddy struggled for something to say. What could he say? Hey, man. I got nowhere else to go. I got no money. I got a wife to
support. I got nothing. He couldn’t say that. No way could he say that.

  Pride. He had enough not to admit that in the time he’d been back he had not scored one lousy stinking job.

  “We’ll be long gone by then,” he said cheerfully. “And thanks for the loan of the place, Rand. S’matter of fact we’ll be movin’ into Sunset Towers.”

  “Sunset Towers, huh? Everything’s goin’ your way, then?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Can’t wait to meet your old lady.”

  “We’ll call you in a week an’ get it together.”

  He banged the phone down and leaped from the bed.

  Shit!

  He stormed the refrigerator, gulped orange juice from a carton, grabbed a handful of raisins, and bit into an apple.

  Then he thought about what he could do.

  Gladrags. No longer in business.

  Maxie Sholto. Had to be the last resort.

  Frances Cavendish. Call her right away about Street People.

  Shelly. What did it take to become a male stripper?

  He pulled on his shorts and automatically started in on some push-ups. Then he remembered Gladrags’ roommate, the plump little fag with the horny dog who had thrust his card at him and said, “Call me.”

  So why not? Find out the score.

  Yeah. But where was the guy’s card? What had he done with it? He tried to concentrate on his push-ups, but it was useless. How could you concentrate on the body when you were about to find yourself out on the street?

  Abruptly he jumped to his feet and punched out Frances Cavendish’s number on the phone.

  “Miz Cavendish is in a meeting. Can she call you back?” droned an unfamiliar voice.

  “It’s urgent business,” he snapped.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll see. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Robert Evans.”

  Respect. “Yes, Mr. Evans.”

  A thirty-second wait, then, “Bobby, how are you? And what can I do for you?”

  “Frances, this is Buddy Hudson, and don’t get mad at me, this is urgent.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He spoke rapidly. “Frances, there’s a movie called Street People. There’s a part in it for me. You want to create another star? Then just send me up for it, okay?”

  Frances was more than exasperated. “Not okay.”