Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  “Give me your number. I’ll have to call you back,” he told Ernie reluctantly.

  “Who was that?” Millie inquired, after he hung up.

  “Nothing. Business.”

  She arched an eyebrow but remained silent. When Leon was ready to tell her he would do so. She did not believe in prying.

  They spent the day on and off the tour bus enjoying the sights of San Diego. Or at least Millie enjoyed. Leon merely plodded along behind her, wondering what news Ernie had, and planning how to get some time on his own.

  From San Diego they were renting a car and driving to Los Angeles, stopping off at Catalina and Long Beach on the way. It was their last night in San Diego, and another couple they had met on the bus wanted them all to go to La Jolla for dinner. He resisted. She insisted. In Tijuana he had picked up a stomach bug, and he used this as an excuse, urging her to go without him.

  “Leave you alone?” she protested. “I can’t do that.”

  “If you promise to be back before eleven I think I’ll survive.”

  She was tempted. La Jolla, or so she had been told, was a quaint little beach resort only twenty minutes away. Picturesque open-air restaurants and interesting shops. A place not to be missed.

  She hesitated. “If you’re sure that you don’t mind my going without you.”

  The moment she left he phoned Ernie. They spoke for twenty minutes, Leon questioning, repeating, absorbing every bit of information that came his way. He made notes on a scratch pad and requested that the typed-up reports be sent on to him at the Holiday Inn in Los Angeles, where he would be arriving in three days.

  So, Deke Andrews had finally surfaced. In Pittsburgh and Texas. The bastard was out there somewhere . . . leaving a trail.

  Eventually he would be caught. When he was, Leon had every intention of being there.

  45

  Beverly Hills buzzed with the news of Neil Gray’s heart attack. Coronaries were a hot subject around town. Everyone had an opinion on how not to have one.

  Gotta keep fit.

  Gotta cut the cholesterol.

  Gotta pop vitamins.

  Gotta give up doing drugs.

  Gotta jog, run, skip, jump, pump iron. . . . Gotta exercise!

  Oh, yes, and . . . Gotta fuck a lot (this from a twenty-three-year-old studio executive who didn’t even know what a heart was!).

  Juicy secrets have a hard time getting kept anywhere—but especially in Hollywood, mecca of gossip.

  “Did you hear he was with Gina Germaine?”

  “Did you know they were taken into the hospital joined like a couple of mating dogs?”

  “Did you hear they were snorting coke?”

  “. . . smoking grass . . .”

  “. . . popping ammis . . .”

  “. . . gulping quacks . . .”

  “. . . shooting speed . . .”

  “He’s a fag, of course.”

  “She’s a dyke.”

  “They were having an orgy.”

  Oh gossip! Oh Hollywood!

  What fun everyone had with rumor and insinuation and downright dirt.

  Montana rushed straight to the hospital in her jeans and T-shirt, her long black hair flying wildly behind her. The photographers were lined up and waiting, along with the press, television, and radio.

  “Why weren’t you with him?”

  “Who was he with?”

  “Where were you?”

  “How come he wasn’t at George Lancaster’s party?”

  “Any comment?”

  “Can you say something for our viewers?”

  She rushed past them and into the arms of one of Oliver Easterne’s gofers, who escorted her upstairs to the great man himself.

  “Where have you been?” were Oliver’s first words. He stopped pacing the hospital corridor to stare at her accusingly. “What do you think it looks like to the press? A man has a heart attack and his wife is on the missing list.”

  “How is he?”

  “Christ! How is he, she asks. He’s in intensive care, that’s how he is. He’s been fighting to stay alive since he was brought in.”

  She endeavored to remain calm. “What happened?”

  He didn’t know whether to tell her the truth or to lie. Montana was smart. She wouldn’t be so easy to fool, and he himself had told her that Neil was with Gina earlier.

  He grabbed her by the arm. “I got the use of a private room. Let’s go talk.”

  “I want to see Neil.”

  • • •

  Elaine’s phone rang early. She reached for it in her sleep, ready to receive the stream of compliments from people thanking her for a sensational party. Her groping hand sent a glass crashing to the ground, and she opened her eyes with a start. She was not in her comfortable bed as imagined, but on a sofa in the living room surrounded by the aftermath of the party.

  “Ross,” she said aloud, and then she groaned.

  You threw him out, you dumb bunny.

  Don’t remind me, thank you very much.

  The phone was still ringing. She got up and approached it with caution. If it was Ross she had to be sure to say the right thing. He was a difficult bastard; it would take honey and coaxing to get him back. She lifted the receiver, not thrilled when she noticed it was only seven-thirty in the morning.

  “Hello,” she said sweetly, in case it was Ross.

  “Elaine!” sobbed Maralee. “Something terrible has happened.”

  Yes. To me. How did you know?

  “What?” she snapped. It better be really terrible for Maralee to wake her at this hour of the morning.

  “It’s . . . it’s Neil.”

  “What’s Neil?”

  “He’s had a heart attack. He’s been rushed to the hospital. I must go to him. Will you come with me?”

  Elaine was too shocked to reply for a moment. Anyone getting sick always shocked her. Somehow she expected everyone to stay healthy and live forever.

  “Gosh . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s awful . . .”

  “Can you come with me?” Maralee pleaded tearfully.

  “Not right now I can’t. I’ve got . . . er . . . problems here.”

  A very small disappointed, “Oh.”

  “But I’ll tell you what,” Elaine rallied. “I’ll meet you there later.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I don’t want to be alone at a time like this.”

  You’re never alone with your millions. Where’s Randy? How is he taking this sudden ex-husband love?

  “I understand. What hospital?”

  “Cedars.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She replaced the receiver, caught sight of her reflection in a mirror, and gasped with horror. Stale makeup ran riot over her face. She looked like a hag. How could she possibly have fallen asleep with her makeup on? God, she really must have been upset.

  • • •

  “And who else was there, dreamheart?” asked Koko. “Was it divine? Did you have a fabulous time? Aren’t you just full of the joys of spring today?”

  Angel smiled wanly.

  “Was Mrs. L. wearing lashings of diamonds?” Koko continued excitedly. “Did she outsparkle Pamela London? Is George Lancaster gorgeous? How about Richard Gere? Did he look divine? Who was there, darling one? Tell me all.”

  Buddy was there, she wanted to say. I know I have to forget him, but I love him so much it hurts. And he doesn’t even care for me anymore. He made that obvious enough by not coming back.

  “It was fantastic, Koko,” she said, summoning enthusiasm, because she knew how disappointed he would be if she didn’t give a glowing report. “Absolutely amazing.”

  • • •

  After dropping Montana at the hospital, Buddy raced back to Randy’s. Montana had loaned him the Volkswagen, which at least made him mobile again. He was worried about the movie. With Neil Gray in the hospital it had to mean a delay. Just his luck.

  He burst into the small apartment and was surprised to find Randy home—sprawled
across the bed asleep. All he needed to do was change and get out of there fast. It wouldn’t do to keep Sadie La Salle waiting. Problem. What to wear? Best jacket, pants, and shirt ruined. He opened the crowded closet, couldn’t see a thing, raised the windowshade.

  Randy growled restlessly, “Pull the goddam shade down and get lost. I’m sleeping.”

  A fine greeting. Quickly he shuffled through his things crushed at one end of the closet. He grabbed at his other Armani jacket. It was wrinkled and needed a trip to the dry cleaners, but it would have to do. The pants and shirt he chose were in the same condition. He swore softly and began to change.

  Randy sat up and glared. “Get your own fucking place, Buddy. I’m no charity, and man, I’ve had it with you.”

  “Things didn’t work out with Maralee, huh?” Buddy asked sympathetically.

  Randy was not amused. “Piss off, don’t come back, leave the key, and send me the fucking money you owe me.”

  Buddy got his things and put them in a suitcase. He couldn’t fault Randy. There was such a thing as overstaying your welcome.

  • • •

  A face-to-face confrontation with Neil’s ex-wife was not exactly what Montana had expected. But she stayed cool, introduced herself with a brief handshake, and was humiliated to have to ask, “Have you seen him?”

  Maralee, stationed outside intensive care, shook blond curls negatively. “No visitors,” she explained.

  I’m his wife, Montana thought. I’ll visit him whether they like it or not.

  The doctor appeared. He was good-looking, fortyish, and groomed to within an inch of his life. Montana did not trust him on sight. Gucci shoes and thick gold chains beneath a starched white coat had a way of making her uneasy.

  “Mrs. Gray?” he asked smoothly, heading straight for Maralee.

  “Yes,” gasped Maralee. She was one of those women who on stressful occasions adopted a breathy little-girl voice.

  “I’m Mrs. Gray,” Montana said forcefully, stepping between them.

  The doctor gave her a confused look. He plucked his eyebrows, she noticed, and hid the dark circles under his eyes with just the tiniest dab of pancake.

  Confusion gave way to a smile when he remembered that this was indeed Hollywood. “Ah,” he sighed knowingly. “You’re both Mrs. Gray.”

  “Top marks, Doc,” snapped Montana. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “You’re the current Mrs. Gray?”

  She withheld a sarcastic reply.

  He led her into a private office. Maralee tried to follow, but Montana stopped her with a look.

  “Mrs. Gray,” said the doctor, pressing his fingers together and gazing at her sincerely. “Your husband is a very sick man.”

  “I realize that, Doctor. I would like to know exactly what happened.”

  He picked up some papers from the desk and studied them intently. “Have you spoken to Mr. Easterne yet?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t tell me anything. Did Oliver Easterne bring him in?”

  The doctor hesitated a moment. “Mr. Easterne called me. . . . It was fortunate that he was with your husband at the time.”

  But Oliver had been at the party. Why would he leave the party and go and visit Neil? She frowned. Neil’s Maserati parked outside Gina Germaine’s house, and while she was waiting outside the gates for Buddy a car had arrived, traveling fast. On reflection it could well have been Oliver.

  Neil must have had the heart attack while he was with Gina. She had summoned Oliver. And Oliver had sent for the doctor, who was quite obviously supposed to keep the whole thing quiet.

  “What brought his attack on?” she asked coldly.

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Overwork, rich foods, stress—”

  “Sex?”

  He was no actor. Guilt clouded his handsome features. “Maybe sex. Anything can trigger these—”

  “With Gina Germaine?” she interrupted.

  Now it was the doctor’s turn to frown. Damn Oliver Easterne with his cover-up plans. The wife knew. And probably the whole hospital knew. It wasn’t every day that emergency admitted a couple locked together who had to be surgically parted. Especially when one half of the couple was a movie star.

  He sighed. “You’re obviously aware of the circumstances, Mrs. Gray. Unfortunate, but then we are all human, and I am sure that your main desire is to see Mr. Gray up and out of here.” He changed voices from understanding friend to businesslike doctor. “He has suffered two heart attacks. The first before we brought him in, and the second after he and Miss Germaine were . . . er . . . separated.”

  She wasn’t sure that she had heard correctly.

  “What?” she asked, feeling shivery and cold.

  Carefully he explained the procedure. “Vaginismus. A severe contraction of the vagina causing Mr. Gray to be . . . er . . .”

  She stopped listening. She felt sick. For Neil to have had a heart attack was bad enough. But the circumstances!

  Vaguely she heard the doctor droning on.

  “. . . debilitated and weak . . . unconscious . . . pulse and blood pressure nil . . . resuscitation brought good results . . . intensive care . . . condition now stable . . . everything possible being done.”

  She felt a weakness creeping over her body. A clammy feeling. Suddenly, with no warning, she slumped into a deep faint.

  • • •

  The faraway rustle of room service woke Ross Conti. Discreet sounds in the corridor outside his room, trays rattling, whispered Spanish. He stretched, cleared his throat, and reflected on the pleasures of sleeping alone. Then he reflected on George Lancaster’s announcement, and scowled grimly. What a way to ruin a movie. George Lancaster couldn’t act himself out of a French letter. Everyone knew that.

  His scowl deepened as he picked up the phone and ordered a large breakfast.

  So Elaine wanted out, did she? Well, if that’s what she wanted she could damn well have it.

  Elaine the nag. Elaine the ballbreaker. Elaine the shoplifter.

  He was fed up with being told to do this, do that, go on a diet, get to the gym. You’re fat. You’re old. You’re losing your hair.

  He was not losing his hair. If anything she was losing hers. It came out in handfuls in her brush—he had seen it. Gleefully he reminded himself to tell her.

  When? You won’t be seeing her, schmuck.

  He got up and emptied out his jumbled Vuitton suitcase. At least she had sent him on his way with decent luggage. Not that he gave a dog’s turd. Labels didn’t interest him; they never had. She was the one who lived her life by labels.

  He yawned loudly. “Don’t do that,” Elaine would say. He farted—a trumpeter’s salute. “God, Ross! You are utterly disgusting,” she would complain. As if she never farted. Come to think of it she probably never did. Now if only someone would come up with designer farts . . .

  He laughed aloud. He would survive. Leaving home means never having to see the early-morning bills.

  Room service arrived with a cart laden with goodies. Freshly squeezed orange juice, hot coffee, corned-beef hash with two eggs sunny-side-up, buckwheat toast and a side order of hash-browns. He fell upon it ravenously.

  He should call Karen, but he didn’t feel like it. He had not enjoyed her flashy behavior at the party. She had no claim on him. Besides, if he was going to be free, he might as well enjoy it and play the field. Now that he was on the loose he could think of several women he would like to meet—Gina Germaine, for one.

  He smiled to himself and tried to forget the disappointment of losing the part and being thrown out of his own house. At least he was seeing Sadie La Salle later in the day, and if anyone could save a sagging career she could.

  • • •

  It seemed that Neil had done the unthinkable. Montana had never thought he would fall into the obvious trap of an attention-grabbing big-breasted movie star—but he had turned out to be just another man. His betrayal stung, because she had expected so much more of him. It hurt that
he was weak. So weak he had almost killed himself.

  She didn’t hate him. Yet she didn’t love him. She was numbed by his behavior, and she knew for sure that whatever they’d had together was no longer there.

  She made her plans. While he was in the hospital she would stay by him. But when he came out—well, as far as she was concerned there was no going back.

  • • •

  Eleven o’clock. Punctuality is next to stardom. Buddy felt confident in spite of his wrinkled clothes.

  “Miz La Salle,” he said to the receptionist, who was busy filing her nails.

  “Who?” she staccatoed.

  “Miz La Salle.”

  This exasperated her. She was a girl of few words. “Who you?” she snapped.

  “Uh . . . Buddy Hudson.”

  She consulted an appointment book, indicated a chair, said, “Wait,” and relayed his name through an intercom.

  Five minutes grew to ten. He checked out Time magazine, Dramalogue, and the trades.

  Ten grew to twenty. He thought briefly of Angel, reviewed his evening with Montana. She was a fantastic woman, and he hoped that they would remain friends. The sex had been great, something they had both needed at that particular moment—but nothing permanent. He knew she felt the same way.

  The intercom buzzed. “Go,” said the girl, pointing a three-inch lacquered nail in the direction of a corridor filled with offices.

  He took a deep breath. Lately he was moving into the big time, and it was making him very nervous indeed. Buddy Boy could hold his own with the best of ’em. But suddenly it was all happening so fast.

  A secretary in a red dress headed toward him. “Buddy, welcome,” she smiled. “Please come this way.”

  She guided him to the end of the corridor, and flung open the door of an outer office where a man sat typing. He looked up and made a quick visual assessment of Buddy’s assets. “Hello,” he said. “Sadie won’t be a moment. Do take a seat.”

  “This is Ferdie Cartright,” the secretary explained. “Miz La Salle’s personal assistant.” She smiled and departed.

  Buddy sat down. Sweat was staining the underarms of his shirt. He hoped it wouldn’t seep through to his jacket.

  Ferdie finished typing with a flourish and pulled the paper from the machine. “Done!” he exclaimed. “Just a personal note from Sadie to Barbra.”