Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  Montana would never wear a garter belt, as the Americans so charmingly called it. She would laugh in his face if he ever mentioned it.

  Milky white thighs, enclosed, encased. A thick bush in the center of the frame.

  Oh God!

  Gina shifted her weight, withdrew.

  “I’m not ready,” he objected.

  “I know,” she soothed. “But I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “Not another hidden camera?” he groaned.

  “Don’t worry. This is our celebration, and I want to make it a night to remember.”

  “The party—” he said thickly, watching Gina walk toward the door. He wanted her to come back and finish off what she had started. It was either that or someone would have to douse his ardor with a bucket of cold water.

  “We’ll go to the party,” she crooned. “Eventually.”

  He lay back in the chair and waited.

  There’s no fool like an old fool . . . a young fool . . . a middle-aged fool . . .

  The second woman he’d bedded was a Piccadilly prostitute. She charged him five pounds and gave him the clap. He was sixteen. She did not wear a suspender belt.

  Suddenly there were two of them.

  Gina. Voluptous. Wanton. The all-American sex goddess.

  And beside her a slightly built Eurasian female. Dark-olive skin, black hair that fell like a curtain to the top of her thighs, small breasts, and a tiny waist. She was quite naked apart from a white lace garter belt which emphasized her silky tangle of pubic hair. “This is Thiou-Ling,” said Gina. “My present for us. She speaks no English, but she understands. She has been trained in the art of making love since childhood. We shall celebrate our contract, Neil. And then we shall go to the party.”

  35

  “Your what?” said Oliver in horror, seeing his brilliant casting fade before his eyes.

  “Your what?” screamed Pamela. And then she started to laugh, great guffaws which shook her entire body. “This is Oliver Easterne,” she gasped between spasms of mirth. “This . . . this . . . angry little man.”

  George started to laugh too. “Yes, you silly sow. Mustn’t insult the producer, he’s the one who pays us.”

  She was choking with mirth. “Oh, he’s the one!”

  Oliver turned his fury and embarrassment into a sickly smile as he attempted to pull his pants up with a vestige of dignity. “Mrs. Lancaster,” he groveled. “Please forgive me. I had no idea. Mrs. Lancaster, it’s such a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “For God’s sake, call me Pamela. I think we know each other intimately enough, don’t you?”

  And with that she collapsed in a further paroxysm of uncontrollable laughter.

  • • •

  The furor with Pamela London and Oliver Easterne was over, but the sit-com star had not budged from Angel’s side.

  Buddy tried to ignore him. “We have to talk,” he said urgently, putting his hand on her arm.

  She shied from his touch. “I . . . I don’t think there is anything to say.”

  “There’s plenty to say.”

  “Why don’t you just back off, man?” said the sit-com star.

  Angel saw the anger building in Buddy, and she quickly said, “Please, don’t cause trouble. Maybe we can talk later.”

  What was she doing to him? What kind of a dumb game was she playing? She was his wife. He was her husband. “Now,” he said flatly. He had things to say that couldn’t wait.

  The sit-com star said, “Who is this creep?”

  Before Angel could intervene, Buddy swung a wild punch that glanced off the chin of the sit-com star, who, being a former stunt man, rolled with it and came back with a short tight poke to Buddy’s stomach that pulverized him. He bent double with pain, and by the time he could stand straight, Angel and her gallant escort had vanished into another room.

  • • •

  Maralee Sanderson flicked her paged blond hair with annoyance. Elaine had warned her she would be inviting Neil and his wife. So where was Neil? And why was Montana strutting all over the place like a deranged Indian? The woman looked ridiculous in all her fringes and braids. How old was she, anyway?

  It beat Maralee how Neil could ever have married her. She was a freak. Too tall. Too wild-looking. Too everything.

  Randy’s hand crept up her thigh. She slapped it away like an aggravating fly. Randy was okay in bed—great, in fact. But at a party like this he faded into the background. Didn’t he know anyone? He lacked what her father called “social strut.” It had never bothered her before, but tonight the way he refused to leave her side bugged her. Maybe Karen and Elaine were right. Neither of them had said anything, but she could tell they didn’t approve. You don’t marry a man like Neil Gray one day, and go with a man like Randy Felix the next. Besides which, she was beginning to suspect that he had no money, and nobody was getting one red cent of her inheritance. No mistake about that.

  • • •

  “The biggest prick I ever knew had the smallest!” exclaimed a soignée middle-aged woman in a chic black dress.

  “If it cost him a nickel to shit he’d vomit,” said a fast-talking producer.

  “Every day she comes to my office, locks the door, gets under the desk, and sucks my cock,” said the head of a studio.

  Hollywood conversation. Ross had heard it all before. His mind was racing with thoughts of his own. Why had Elaine called Karen looking for him? Had she perhaps seen the pictures? Little S. Schortz wanted ten thousand dollars. If Elaine had seen the pictures then the prick could go whistle for it—which he’d probably have to do anyway. There was no way he could come up with ten thousand in cash, he was overextended in every direction as it was. His business manager called him daily demanding a meeting. His business manager would shit himself when the bills for the party started pouring in.

  He just had to hope that Sadie La Salle would save his hide and bring him back to the top where he belonged. She had put him there once.

  • • •

  Oliver Easterne skirted the room looking for someone to talk to who had not witnessed his humiliation at the hands of George’s drag-queen wife. What a witch! Even he would find it hard sleeping with that, in spite of her millions. Although of course it was a well-known fact that Oliver would do anything for money.

  He had laughed with the redheaded cooze even though inside he was seething, his ulcer burning, and his hemorrhoids giving him trouble. He would get his own back though. When the movie was finished and there was more money in his pocket than in any of theirs.

  Oliver had not been in the business as long as he had for nothing.

  • • •

  Dinner is served. And who sits where? For in Beverly Hills the placement is almost as important as the party itself.

  Elaine had spent hours poring over the guest list deciding where to seat everyone. Twenty tables. Twelve people per table. Baccarat crystal. English bone china. Porthault napkins. Daisies, anemones, and freesia arranged in fine Waterford glass holders as a centerpiece to each table. The place cards were engraved—Elaine and Ross Conti at the top, and in fine calligraphy the name of each guest underneath.

  She had seated herself between George Lancaster and Adam Sutton. Ross she had placed between Sadie La Salle and Pamela London.

  After the Pamela/Oliver incident she had raced upstairs and gulped another Valium. By the time she came back down all was at peace. Oliver had apologized. And Pamela and George seemed to find the whole incident uproariously funny. Naturally, when George laughed, the whole world joined in. Elaine sighed with relief.

  • • •

  Ross watched Sadie approach his table. She certainly looked better in her fifties than she had in her twenties. She was almost slim, almost attractive. He wondered if she still cooked. What a cook! What a fuck! What tits! But she hadn’t been right for his image.

  She sat down.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said warmly. “Too long, and you’re looking s
ensational.”

  She fixed him with soulful black eyes—her eyes always had been one of her best features. “You told me that already, Ross.”

  “So you look good enough to tell twice, big deal. After all, you and I—we go back forever, don’t we?” He leaned confidentially toward her. “Remember poor old Bernie Leftcovitz? And that night I turned up at your apartment when you were cooking him dinner?”

  How could she ever forget? “Bernie who?”

  “Bernie Leftcovitz. You must remember schmucky Bernie. He was all set to hit you with a proposal. Come on, Sadie, it was the night you and I . . . the first time we . . .” He trailed off and grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that.”

  She smiled thinly. “You know this town—easy come, easy go.”

  A waiter hovered with the wine.

  “At last!” Pamela London said loudly, as if she had been sitting parched for hours instead of only five minutes. “Show me the label, waiter, and if it’s not a decent Cabernet Sauvignon you can take it back!”

  • • •

  Oliver Easterne bumped straight into Karen Lancaster. At the same moment he thought he spotted the girl from the beach on her way out to the tented patio with an older woman.

  “Excuse me,” he said quickly.

  “What’s the matter?” Karen asked with a throaty chuckle. “Got to go to the bathroom again?”

  He ignored her and walked outside. The girl was sitting down at a table that included Pamela London. Much as he wanted to make her a star, he was not about to go over with that woman there. As far as he was concerned, happiness was never having to set eyes on Pamela London again!

  • • •

  Montana had no desire to join the other guests. She wasn’t hungry, and she had already checked the place cards and found herself stuck between two people she didn’t know. On top of that, Neil had not yet put in an appearance, which really infuriated her. What am I doing here? she thought. I might as well split, because this is just not my ball game.

  Then she saw Buddy Hudson hovering by the bar. He looked about as pissed off as she felt. Maybe she could bring a smile to his face. She went over and touched him lightly on the arm. “Surprise. Are you having as much fun as I am?”

  Buddy turned around and faced the wild-looking female, all braided fringes and jet hair.

  “Montana Gray,” she announced, noting his confusion. “I look a little different out of working hours.”

  He whistled softly, relieved that Frances hadn’t tracked him down, and delighted to see Montana. “You can say that again.”

  “Friend of the bride’s or the groom’s?”

  “Huh?”

  “I figure the Contis are the bride, because they’re going to end up getting fucked—not to mention the check for all of this. And the Lancasters are the groom, because they don’t give a good goddam about anyone except themselves.”

  He laughed, ready to forget the dull ache in his gut. “I’m just along for the ride. I don’t know any of them.”

  “It’s the best way.” She took a sip of the Pernod and water she was holding, grimaced, and said, “Hate the taste, love the effect.”

  He was torn. Continue talking to Montana or try to find Angel? Instinct told him to stay with Montana—while heart told him to follow Angel.

  “What’s happenin’?” he asked automatically, expecting another bullshit “We’re still interested.”

  “I was going to call you tomorrow, after George Lancaster’s press conference.” She grinned. “But since you’re here . . .” Oh shit! Was she going to say what he thought she was going to say? All of a sudden his throat was dry. “Yes?” “You’re Vinnie, kiddo.”

  For one wild moment he thought he might piss in his pants. “Sweet Mick Jagger! Holy shit! I don’t believe it!”

  He was yelling, but what did it matter?

  “Shhh . . .” Montana laughed, enjoying his excitement. “I haven’t appointed you President.”

  He was flying high. “As good as!”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  “Give me a break—I’m out of my head!” He hugged her. “You’re sure? You’re not jivin’ me?”

  “Would I lie?”

  “Jeez! I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  “I . . . I gotta be dreaming.”

  “Buddy! I never had you figured for a farm boy. Calm down. It’s only a movie.”

  “To you it’s a movie. To me—it’s my life.”

  • • •

  Oliver Easterne stories were buzzing from table to table amid much mirth. Angel did not understand the ones she heard—to her way of thinking he sounded sick. She recognized him as the man from the beach. She hoped he did not remember her.

  All she could think about was Buddy. I love you, she wanted to say. But he had spoiled everything, and there was no going back.

  Only he looked so handsome tonight. And she was carrying his child. Perhaps they should talk in spite of everything. She felt bad about the sit-com star hitting him, but it was his own fault, he had struck first.

  She sighed, filled with confusion. She wanted Buddy. She didn’t want him. Yet she still loved him.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Liderman leaned across the table. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied politely. She should, in fact, be having a wonderful time, but Buddy had ruined everything.

  A curly-haired man in an immaculate white suit leaned across and said in a stoned voice, “I gotta go work the room—you think it’s easy bein’ me? Who are you, dear? I’m Frank.”

  He was good-looking. But not as good-looking as Buddy.

  • • •

  “. . . use my apartment? Honey, I wouldn’t let you use my Kleenex!”

  “. . . You know what the bum says to me? He says, ‘Don’t fuck on my property—you want to screw around do it on a bed someone else paid for.’ ”

  Elaine gazed around the room at her guests and smiled glassily at George Lancaster. “Everyone seems to be having a good time, don’t they?”

  “They sure do. But why have I got an empty seat beside me?” he complained.

  Elaine snapped to attention. “I’m so sorry! Gina was supposed to be sitting there. Have you seen her?”

  George leered. “If I’d seen her I wouldn’t forget it. She’s the one with the big—”

  “Quite,” Elaine said crisply, pushing her chair away from the table. “Let me see if I can find her. She’s probably still inside. I won’t be a moment.”

  “No problem, little lady.”

  She hurried into the house, where a straggle of guests were still sitting around. She spotted Montana Gray and some man she didn’t know chatting at the bar. Next to them were the Sean Connerys and the Roger Moores deep in conversation. Karen Lancaster and Sharon Richman emerged from the guest bathroom giggling and laughing.

  Oh, Karen. I’m not finished with you. In fact, bitch, I haven’t even started.

  She went to the front door and checked with security. Gina Germaine had not yet arrived.

  • • •

  “Where is Neil?” asked Pamela London in a loud voice. “I haven’t seen him all night.”

  Ross, who was trying to concentrate on Sadie La Salle, turned to the real guest of honor. She looked as if she were wearing a bright-red fright wig—why didn’t someone tell her about her hair?

  “He’s around, isn’t he?”

  “I haven’t seen him, and he’s supposed to be sitting next to me.”

  Christ, Ross thought. What kind of organization is this? Both guests of honor with an empty seat beside them. Can’t Elaine get anything right?

  • • •

  As soon as Elaine left the table, Bibi slid into action and moved next to George.

  “George, sweetie,” she sighed. “This party nice—but no exclusive. I ’ave very special dinner for you and Pamela. Just a few friends. What you think?”

  “I think you’re ho
lding up pretty good for an old broad.” He pinched her thigh. “You’re still a sexy piece.”

  “George!” She pushed his hand away and tried to act insulted, but it didn’t work. George Lancaster had known her since she was sixteen and walking the Champs-Elysées—something she hoped he had long since forgotten.

  • • •

  Montana put her finger to her lips and said, “Not a word to anyone, Buddy. I shouldn’t have told you until after the Lancaster story breaks.”

  “I’m starring in your movie an’ you’re gonna tell me I can’t mention it? Come on—I don’t have that kind of control.”

  “Learn it.”

  “If I had a wife could I tell her?”

  “Do you?”

  He hesitated for a second, then realized now was not the time to start revealing truths. “Do I look like the marrying kind?”

  She laughed. “So why are you asking dumb questions?”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Unconfuse yourself. You’ve got to realize it’s in your own best interest not to say a word. Hollywood law, kiddo—don’t jinx yourself.”

  “What happens next?”

  “We call your agent.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “So get one.”

  “How do I get an agent if I’m not supposed to say anything?”

  “Agents are like priests—you can confide in them. I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to Sadie La Salle, maybe set up an appointment for you tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “I think I love you.”

  They both laughed.

  In the distance he saw Frances Cavendish approaching, a furious expression on her face.

  “Like I gotta split,” he said hastily. “This . . . uh . . . person I’m supposed to be escorting tonight is comin’ my way, an’ I don’t want to expose you to the language.”

  Montana nodded gravely. “I understand.” She liked him—instinctively she knew where he was coming from and that it hadn’t been easy. She was pleased that he was going to get his chance.

  He took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thank you,” he said warmly. “I think you saved my life.”

  “Come on. Don’t get dramatic on me—keep it for the cameras.”

  • • •