Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  His stomach was knotting up. Tension. If he carried on this way he’d have ulcers before he was thirty.

  Yeah. And why not? Randy was throwing them out of the apartment. He had no money, no job, and only hours before, Angel had calmly informed him she was pregnant.

  He shuffled restlessly.

  “I won’t be a minute,” Montana said, without looking up.

  I can wait. I mean, why shouldn’t I? I’m only another bum actor without a job. Why should anyone consider my feelings?

  He had taken Angel’s news calmly. She was so happy—somehow it had not seemed the right time to tell her that she’d have to get an abortion. No way could they afford a baby. He had tried to conceal his shock. Then he had dressed in his one good outfit and moved ass. Fast.

  Hitting on the Easterne offices had been a snap decision, and now he was here—and there she was—Miz Montana Gray. Not his type. No way. But quite a looker if you liked the strong ballsy type.

  She stuck her pen in her mouth, pushed her reading glasses up into her hair, and hit him with laser-beam tiger eyes. “Buddy Hudson,” she said coolly. “I don’t remember Bob Evans calling me about you.”

  She was no easy touch. He could see that. Try the honest approach and go for broke. He strutted toward her desk and kind of threw himself into a chair, legs casually apart. “He didn’t.”

  “He didn’t,” she repeated patiently.

  “Nope.”

  “Then maybe you’d like to tell me why you’re here?” Smoky ebony eyes met laser tigers and held.

  “Because,” he said slowly, with just a touch of arrogance, “you’d have been missing out if you hadn’t seen me.” He favored her with a long sexy stare.

  She stifled impatience. “I would?”

  He was brimming with false confidence. “Sure you would.” She removed the tip of her pen from between her lips. “Why don’t we cut out the shit, Mr. Hudson?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s cut out the I-am-the-most-desirable-sex-machine-that-ever-walked and let me get a look at the real you.”

  He frowned. “Hey—”

  She smiled agreeably. “Can’t win ’em all.”

  “I—”

  “Do you have pictures? A résumé?”

  “I didn’t bring anything with me.”

  “Then why don’t you just tell me what you’ve done?” She poised her pen above the notepad on her desk.

  Jeez! She was interested in his acting experience. Really interested!

  “I . . . uh . . . I’ve done a Starsky and Hutch. I was in Smokey and the Bandit. Well, like I mean I was in it, but by the time it hit the screen I wasn’t—”

  “I think I get the picture.”

  “Not that I wasn’t good in it,” he added hurriedly. “I mean—hey—I was very good, too good. Like it was a scene with Burt Reynolds and—”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He stood up and paced excitedly in front of her desk, forgetting image and impact for the moment. “I studied at Joy Byron’s school of acting, y’know. Like I was one of her best students. I played Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar. A special performance for talent scouts, agents, the whole schmeer. I was a smash, a couple of studios wanted to sign me, but I had this singing gig in Hawaii I was already committed to—an’ there was no way I would ever back out on a definite commitment.” He was speeding, his words tumbling out like an express train. “I’m a professional all the way—you can bet on that.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she murmured, watching him intently.

  “Yeah . . . well . . . like I came back from Hawaii straight into the recession. Ten thousand actors an’ ten jobs, y’know?”

  She nodded sympathetically. “I think I’ve interviewed most of them.” The buzzer on her desk sounded and she said “Yes” into the intercom.

  “Mr. Gray on the line,” said the receptionist.

  “Find out where he is. I’ll call him back.”

  Buddy returned to his seat in front of her desk and wondered if he’d said too much. What did she care if he was cut out of a lousy Burt Reynolds movie? What did she care about ten thousand actors hunting ten jobs?

  “Is the Starsky and Hutch worth seeing?” she inquired crisply.

  Honesty had suddenly become his best policy. “I got cut out of that too. Y’see—Paul Michael Glaser—”

  She laughed. What a laugh. Very sexy.

  “I know, I know. Paul Michael Glaser couldn’t cut the competition, right?”

  He grinned. “You got it.”

  “Then there’s no film we can see on you?”

  He pushed his hand through his hair nervously. “Nothin’ worth lookin’ at.” Buddy Boy. Mister Cool. Where was all this leading?

  “I understand.” She paused. “So . . . maybe you’d like to read for me, and if I like your work we can arrange for you to test.”

  He could hardly speak. “Test?”

  “If the reading works out. Here.” She handed him a script from her desk. “Take this outside. Study it for a while, then when you’re ready tell my receptionist and I’ll see you again.” He stood and grabbed the script. “Hey—you’re not going to regret this. I’ll be great.”

  She nodded. “I hope so.”

  He hesitated by the door. “Uh—which part?”

  She laughed aloud. “I bet you don’t even know what the film’s about.”

  He regained a little of his strut. “Who does? Every casting director in town is pissed ’cause they can’t get their hands on it. If I walked out with this copy now I could probably make myself a few bucks.”

  “And maybe lose the part of Vinnie.”

  “Vinnie. Right on!” He bolted from her office clutching the script.

  She watched him go. He had a quality she liked—plus devastating good looks and a certain vulnerability.

  Yes. Buddy Hudson certainly had it—if he could only act.

  • • •

  Elaine lay on a sunbed, quite naked apart from small plastic eye covers. She had abandoned the Sony earphones in favor of pure undiluted thought. How to have the best party in town? How to make it fun and exciting—the kind of party that people would talk about for days after?

  The mix. That was the most important ingredient. However great the food, the decor, the music, it all came down to the mix. If the people weren’t right then you might as well not bother.

  Bibi and Adam Sutton came first, of course. If you had them you were guaranteed acceptance from most of the other guests. Since bumping into Bibi at the Bistro Gardens, Elaine had called her twice. Both times she had been blocked by Bibi’s officious secretary, who faithfully promised Mrs. Sutton would return her calls. So far she had not.

  Elaine turned on her side and threw one arm up and back over her head. She had decided to obtain a light tan for her party, and the sun solarium was certainly better than sitting out in the real thing ruining your skin forever. She wished that Ross would stop baking himself to a deep mahogany, etching the lines even more deeply into his skin.

  A sharp buzzing sound, and the full-length machine automatically turned itself off. Thankfully she slipped from the clear plastic bed and studied herself in a full-length wall mirror. Every inch of her gleamed radiantly. But there was no one to admire her gloriously glowing body, and Ross probably wouldn’t even notice.

  She frowned. Maybe it was about time she had some fun. But with whom? Her choice was limited if not downright nonexistent. After the dentist and the small-time actor she had definitely decided affairs were not worth the bother. And the sex hadn’t been up to much either.

  You’re spoiled. Elaine After Ross, where would you turn? The Conti schlong is legendary.

  She smiled at her reflection. Maybe if she got him the script, and Maralee had promised. And then maybe if she got Sadie La Salle to the party and she became his agent.

  Good God! What kind of thinking was that? Did she have to get her husband in a good mood to lay her?

  Well . . . it would
certainly help.

  • • •

  Buddy bounced out of the Easterne production building on Sunset, and he was flying. The role of Vinnie was written for him—no doubt about it. He had given a dynamite reading, and the lady in the tinted glasses and cowboy boots, Montana Gray (she wasn’t his type, but he had to admit that she was something else in the looks department), had said that he was impressive. Yeah, “impressive” had been the word she’d used. And then, more magic words, “It looks like we’re going to have to test you,” she had said calmly.

  Holy shit! How could she stay so calm?

  “Hey!” he had exclaimed, and then louder and wilder, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” With a flourish he had grabbed her by the waist and whirled her around the room.

  She extracted herself from his grasp and fled behind her desk, where, alarmed by his lack of control, she had started in on a whole speech about how it was only a test and she would be testing other actors and not to get too high on something that might only result in disappointment.

  Didn’t she know that testing for a major role in a major movie was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life?

  “Who is your agent?” she had asked.

  Agent! Who had an agent?

  “Uh, like I’m kinda between agents,” he had managed.

  “I see. Let my secretary know where we can contact you, and you’ll be hearing from us with a date.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe in a week or two.”

  “Do I get to take a script with me so I can prepare?”

  “My secretary will give you the pages I’d like you to work on.”

  So he was walking tall. In spite of the fact that he still had no idea where he and Angel would be spending the night.

  Goddam Randy. Why couldn’t he stay in Palm Springs with the mother-and-daughter act?

  He needed a good agent. The fact that he was testing for Neil Gray’s film should be enough to tempt any smart agent to sign him up—pronto. He would go to the biggies—William Morris, ICM, Sadie La Salle.

  His old Pontiac sitting in a no-parking zone looked like a lump of rotting tin. The first thing he would do when he scored some big bucks would be to get himself proper wheels. A Caddy, a Merc, maybe even a Rolls. No, maybe not. A Rolls wasn’t his image. Something sporty would suit him better. One of those Italian jobs or perhaps an imported Jaguar XJS. Now there was a car!

  Jeez! He was finally on his way! He was going tó be a star!

  He opened up the door of the car, got in, and sat there silently buzzing with excitement.

  Two hours later he was down again. Somehow he had gotten the idea that now that he was testing everything would change. His luck was on the rise, and a good gambler always followed his luck. So, accordingly, he had presented himself at the William Morris Agency expecting action, and all he had got was a “leave your name and number” from a secretary. The same story at ICM. And at Sadie La Salle’s office a mini-skirted monster had told him to send in a photo, a biography, and a list of his credits. Didn’t the dumb bimbo recognize a new star when she saw one?

  He left the office on Canon in a fury and slumped into his car, which had now collected a parking ticket. It was then that he noticed the small white card on the floor and quickly he picked it up. JASON SWANKLE was printed in the center of the card, and down in the left hand corner INTERIOR DESIGN PERSONAL SERVICE, with an address and a phone number.

  Buddy kicked the old car into action. Well, what did he have to lose?

  • • •

  It was madness, of course. He was exhausted from a weekend of her company, but when Gina Germaine called, Neil Gray went running. He had looked at the whole situation very logically, decided she had to be dropped from his life, and then decided to hump her out of his system.

  They made love on her whorish pink quilted bed. Then she went down on him in her whorish pink padded bathroom with the heart-shaped tub in the center of the fur rug.

  Two orgasms left him dripping with sweat, his heart beating like a sledge hammer. “Enough,” he managed to gasp when she started to play with his limp organ yet again.

  “You’re never enough for me,” breathed Gina, wondering how far she could go with the dialogue. Not too far—Neil was smarter than most men, although once you got their pants off part of their brain seemed to disintegrate and you could say whatever you liked and they would believe it.

  “I’ve got to go,” Neil said weakly. “Pre-production on a movie is the most important time of all, and, my lovely lady, you are causing me to neglect my responsibilities.”

  “I understand,” she murmured sympathetically. “But we do seem to have something special together, don’t we? We make sparks fly.”

  Why did women always have to make such a big deal out of simple fucking?

  “Yes, we do,” he agreed, thinking of Montana and feeling more than a twinge of guilt.

  The afternoon sunshine filtered through the bathroom blinds, and he suddenly felt totally ridiculous lounging on the fur-covered floor of Gina’s overdecorated bathroom. The pounding of his heart was slackening somewhat. Christ! A session with Gina Germaine was probably equivalent to a week’s workout at the health club.

  He stood up. “I’ll have a shower if I may.”

  She was mildly turned on by his Richard Burton accent, but the real appeal was his talent. “You may have whatever you like.” She said, stretching provocatively. It was one of the most beautiful bodies in Hollywood. And she knew it. He stepped into the shower, turning the control knob until the water was bracingly cold.

  When he emerged, Gina had slipped a lacy bra and French knickers over her nakedness. She handed him a large bath towel. “Neil,” she murmured softly, “I have a confession.”

  “What?” Briskly he dried himself, feeling refreshed and ready to get back to work.

  “Well . . .” She hesitated as if reluctant to proceed.

  “What?” he repeated, reaching for his shorts.

  “When we were in Palm Beach I sneaked a copy of Street People from your suitcase and read it.”

  He was surprised. Gina had never struck him as a reader. “You did?”

  Her voice became crisp and businesslike, all trace of hesitant dumbness gone. “Neil, I loved it. And I’ll tell you something else. The role of Nikki is perfect for me—so so perfect.”

  He was speechless. Nikki! The innocent unspoiled beauty. The untouched-by-life sweet young girl. Nikki! Was Gina making some kind of obscure joke?

  “You see,” she continued earnestly, “the whole of my career I’ve been typecast. Cunty dumb blondes with hearts of gold—and that kind of part is not the real me.” She paused for breath, then plunged on, her huge bosom heaving with emotion. “Neil,” she stated dramatically. “The real me is Nikki. Everyone sees Gina Germaine, the big sexy film star. But underneath the dazzle lurks a vulnerable girl. A child of life!”

  Where, for fuck’s sake, was she getting her dialogue?

  “I want to do your film,” she continued, her round blue eyes protruding alarmingly. “I have to do your film. I’m right for it, I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “Gina, I just don’t know,” he managed, while trying to think of what to say. If he wasn’t bedding her it would be easy—enough actresses had pitched him for a part and he had always dealt with the situation in an honest fashion, sometimes a brutal one. “I know you’re a good actress—”

  “That’s a load of garbage,” she interrupted fiercely. “You’ve never seen me do anything decent.”

  “Yes I have,” he lied.

  “And you’re just about to tell me that I’m not right for Nikki?”

  He chose his words carefully. “What I am about to tell you is that you are too big a star to even consider the role.”

  She was silent for a moment, staring at him with eyes full of resentment.

  He reached for the rest of his clothes and began to dress. The sooner he was out of this conversation and out of her hous
e the better.

  “I think I should tell you that I am prepared to do a test for this part,” she said slowly. “And if that doesn’t convince you . . .”

  He imagined Montana’s expression if he told her that Gina Germaine wanted to test for the part of Nikki. The whole thing was nonsensical.

  “Why don’t I think about it,” he said soothingly.

  “Why don’t you think about the fact that I have a hidden video camera in my bedroom.” She had not been married to street-smart Maxie Sholto for nothing.

  “You have what?”

  “All I want to do is test,” she said sweetly. “Then it’ll be entirely up to you whether I’m right or not.”

  • • •

  “We’re moving.” Buddy said, entering the apartment and swinging Angel off her feet.

  “Moving? I don’t understand.”

  “Yup.” He kissed her on the lips. “Buddy Boy’s gonna be a star, an’ we’re movin’ on.”

  “Oh, Buddy! You got the part!”

  “Well . . . kind of. Like they want me to test. But y’know, that’s only a formality. I mean, everyone tests—even Brando had to test before he got The Godfather.”

  “He did?”

  He kissed her again. “Sure. I told you—everyone does it.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I knew that something good would happen for us soon, and I was right.”

  He patted her belly. “Something good already happened, didn’t it?”

  She nodded “Buddy, are you really pleased about the baby?” she asked earnestly.

  “Hey, of course I am.” And now that things were looking up, he was. Bye-bye abortion. Hello baby. “Why even ask?” he added, hugging her tightly.

  She lowered her eyes. “It’s just that, well, this morning—when I told you . . .”

  “I know. I kind of ran out of here. But I had a lot on my mind. You gotta understand me, babe, business first, then I can relax.”

  “Oh, Buddy.” She snuggled close. “I do love you.”

  “Me too, sweet stuff, me too.”

  “And we’re going to be very happy, aren’t we?”

  “Happy. Rich. Famous. You name it.” He pushed her gently away. “Hey—we really are moving. I forgot to tell you—Randy called and he’s coming back.”