Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  Suppose she was trapped.

  She struggled to the rear and began feebly to hammer on the double doors. “Help me . . . please . . . please . . . somebody help me.”

  • • •

  How beautiful she was—his Golden Angel Of Hope. How different from the Joey he had first met.

  She was sobbing as he helped her from the van. That was all right. Water . . . tears . . . all the same thing.

  He half-dragged, half-carried her into the house. And knew that he desired her as he had never desired any woman on earth.

  That was because she was truly his. He had guided her life, eliminated the evil from her body, cleansed her totally.

  “Joey, sweet Joey,” he murmured, as he helped her up the stairs.

  “I’m . . . not . . . Joey,” she cried out desperately.

  Immediately he was angry. Why did she want to make him angry?

  Bitch.

  Whore.

  Prostitute.

  Roughly he pulled her into Sadie’s bedroom and pushed her onto the bed. “Don’t say that,” he screamed. “Don’t ever deny who you are.”

  He crouched over her, and the hardness entered his body. There was nothing sinful about giving up his hardness to Joey. They were man and wife.

  For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. Then the phone began to ring again, startling him into a frenzy. He leaped off the bed, grabbed the cord, and yanked it violently from the wall.

  Where is Mother?

  She would love Joey so pale and blond and beautiful. Such a lady.

  But a whore too. Mustn’t forget that.

  All women are whores.

  He stopped to think.

  Kill.

  Kill Mother.

  Kill Joey.

  Kill self.

  But first . . . the two women must meet. He owed them that.

  Abruptly he tugged a sheet from the bed and tore it into strips. Then he bound her once again, spread-eagling her across the bed.

  • • •

  He was mad. She knew that. His black eyes glared insanely at the world.

  Who was he? And why did he bear such a horrible, sickening resemblance to Buddy?

  Buddy was handsome.

  This man was ugly. A monster.

  The baby had stopped kicking. She felt a dull throbbing ache.

  He’s killed my baby, she thought. And he’s going to kill me too.

  Her flesh crawled. She would never see Buddy again.

  • • •

  “Mother. Mother. Wake up, this is important.”

  Deke’s face swam before her. His eyes so like her own—nothing of Ross.

  Poor Ross.

  Sadie tried to speak through the pain. Her jaw hung slackly. She could feel the jagged edge of broken teeth, and her eyes were no more than slits. At least he hadn’t used the knife . . . yet. How long had she been unconscious? It seemed like a long time. Why was he still here?

  Maybe it was only a few minutes. She felt herself going again and tried to hang on, but the pain was so bad.

  He was untying her from the chair. Maybe he was going to let her go. Maybe.

  She slipped back into unconsciousness.

  He said, “Mother. You’re being very stupid.” Then he screamed, “Mother! Wake up!”

  When she didn’t he kicked her. Joey was waiting. It wasn’t right to keep her waiting.

  Things fell into position.

  Ferdie Cartright worked for Sadie La Salle.

  Sadie La Salle was Buddy’s agent.

  Ferdie goes to see Sadie.

  She lives on Angelo Drive.

  She has the poster.

  Ferdie vanishes.

  Sadie not in Palm Springs where she should be.

  Phone does not answer at her house.

  Phone is pulled from socket.

  “Let’s go,” Leon said urgently.

  It was slow work pulling Mother upstairs.

  She was heavy, but he persevered. After all, a promise was a promise, and he couldn’t let Joey down.

  • • •

  Angel heard him approaching. “You’ve got to let me go,” she called out desperately. “I’m losing my baby. Please. Please. Let me go.”

  When he entered the room she froze, and despair washed over her. He lugged the body of a woman.

  She began to scream hysterically.

  • • •

  “Mother. This is Joey. Joey, say hello to Mother.”

  It was a shame that Joey would not behave. He was forced to gag her, and it really wasn’t right that she had made him do that.

  His head hurt. He remembered Philadelphia, so long ago and far away.

  He looked at Mother, propped in a chair beside the bed. Then he looked at Joey, bound and gagged.

  The two women in his life.

  The two special women.

  It had taken so long to arrange this meeting. And did they appreciate it?

  Did they?

  Furiously he stripped off his clothes, removing his boots last.

  He fingered his knife, tested the point, smiled a deathmask grimace.

  Desire flowed through him. Bubbling through his bloodstream, filling his mind. His head hurt, his eyes hurt.

  Joey was waiting. Her legs spread.

  WHORE.

  Joey was waiting for him, and she would never laugh at him again.

  ANGEL.

  He lifted her skirt, used his knife to cut her panties away.

  WHORE.

  Her face was contorted, her eyes huge. She wanted him. The Golden Angel Of Hope wanted to merge with The Keeper Of The Order.

  He straddled her, prepared for entry, raised his arm with the knife, ready to strike simultaneously.

  AND THEY SHALL BE JOINED.

  • • •

  Buddy grabbed him from behind, a desperate lunge that threw them both off balance and onto the floor. They struggled for a few seconds, then Deke made an inhuman sound in the back of his throat and slashed the knife toward Buddy’s face. The knife carved across the palm of his hand, and blood spurted freely.

  Buddy didn’t feel the agony, he just felt the fury, and the fury gave him strength. With his right hand he grabbed the wrist of Deke’s knife hand and bent it back . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . forcing it . . .

  For a brief moment their eyes fused. Black on black. Different and yet the same. “WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?” Deke screamed, and his wrist went suddenly limp, causing the knife to swoop down and slit his own throat.

  It was all over by the time Leon lumbered into the room.

  EPILOGUE

  The Sadie La Salle break-in, Ferdie Cartright’s murder, and subsequent events caused shock waves to hit Hollywood which really reverberated when early Sunday morning Wolfie Schweicker was found shot to death by an intruder in his own bedroom. People panicked. Security was taken to new lengths. There was a run on attack dogs, personal bodyguards, armored limos, and shotguns. Bibi Sutton started a trend by turning her bedroom into a fortress, complete with electronically controlled steel gates on the windows and a vaultlike door.

  Both Sadie La Salle and Angel Hudson were rushed straight to Emergency. Diligent doctors were able to prevent Angel from miscarrying. She was allowed home after a few days with instructions to take it easy and rest.

  Sadie was not so lucky. She had two cracked ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a broken nose, and multiple contusions. She was also suffering from shock and a total memory blank about what had happened.

  When Leon Rosemont questioned her he was unable to learn anything. Angel had nothing to say either. Both women offered no clues . . . they seemed locked in a conspiratorial silence.

  Leon had his suspicions, but even if they were right, what difference did it make now?

  Deke Andrews was dead. But the mystery lingered on.

  • • •

  Oliver Easterne followed the weekend events on various televisions dotted around his house. He set off for the office early Monday morning mullin
g over the idea of putting a writer on it immediately.

  What a movie it would make! And if he could only sign Buddy Hudson to play himself!

  Seven o’clock precisely. And an eager parking attendant waited to take his car at the front of the building. No underground parking for Oliver Easterne.

  The gleaming Bentley exchanged hands, and he hurried inside, stopping at the newsstand to pick up the morning papers and three packets of breath mints. A morning ritual.

  He jogged athletically up the stairs. Another morning ritual. He had no time for workouts or gym. Running upstairs was the perfect cardiovascular activity. Better than push-ups or skipping rope any day. By the time he reached the penthouse floor his heart was pounding at exactly the correct strenuous-exercise rate.

  He burst into the outer office full of the joys of screwing people on all sides. The big hustle. That’s what life was all about, wasn’t it?

  His secretary did not appear until nine o’clock. This suited him fine, as it gave him time to shower and make his New York calls without interruption. He opened the door to his office—a private sanctuary where he liked to sit behind his tooled-leather desk and admire the polished perfection of leather couches, fine rugs, and tasteful antiques.

  In the middle of his desk stood a large gift-wrapped box. Oliver liked receiving presents. He tore at the wrapping, opened up the box, sniffed suspiciously, then let forth a roar of absolute fury.

  He staggered back—a broken man.

  Montana chose that moment to saunter into his office. “Morning, Oliver. Just came by to pick up a few things.” She paused. “My God! What’s that smell?” She moved toward him. He stood like a statue carved in stone. She peered over his shoulder, then stepped back. “Oliver!” she exclaimed. “Someone has sent you a load of . . . bullshit. Oh my God!” She could not control her laughter. “Oh . . . Oliver! Who can have done this to you?”

  He had never been a physical man. If there was any punching out to be done, he had always hired someone else to do it. But a rage came over him of such magnitude that he could not control himself. He turned and charged.

  A mistake.

  Casually she stepped to one side, causing him to trip and sprawl on the floor.

  He yelled out in frustration.

  She exited gracefully. Oh, the lasting pleasure of Oliver’s horrified expression. And it had been so easy to organize. One call to an enterprising service, aptly named YOU WANT IT, WE DO IT, and, after a moment of surprise, they had risen admirably to the challenge and supplied a beautifully wrapped present fresh from a robust bull. She grinned to herself. Oliver Easterne finally had all the bullshit he could ever hope to handle!

  By noon the story swept Hollywood.

  • • •

  Rats Sorenson flooded the newsstands with copies of Truth and Fact the week after the Sadie La Salle headlines.

  Ross Conti achieved greatness. Well . . . not exactly greatness. More a reputation for being the biggest cocksman since Errol Flynn. There he was, in glorious color on the front cover in all his natural splendor. Accompanied by a very cooperative and very naked Karen Lancaster.

  It did for Ross what Cosmopolitan’s center spread had done for Burt Reynolds years before.

  Instant superstardom. Again.

  Full thrust back into the center of the limelight. Just like old times.

  It helped that he had a smile on his face and an erection that caused the magazine to be withdrawn from the stands by several angry pressure groups screaming about the obscenity laws. When the delivery trucks turned face and set about collecting the outlawed copies, there were none left.

  Ross Conti was a sellout.

  • • •

  Little S. Schortz did not receive a photo credit, but he did receive a handsome payment.

  He celebrated in a Marina Del Rey singles bar, where he met a girlish redhead who gave him herpes and stole his car.

  Elaine ruled the roost. She became the wife of the year. What sort of woman sat through the kind of indiscretions Ross Conti had committed—publicly—and came up smiling?

  Journalists clamored for her quotes. People magazine devoted two pages to her—calling her warm, witty, and wise. Dear Merv had her on his show and discussed infidelity and understanding wives. She was a celebrity in her own right. The Contis were the hot couple in town. Bibi Sutton called her. They were invited to every opening, party, and event.

  Together they enjoyed it. After ten years they had found each other, and that’s what really mattered.

  • • •

  Leon Rosemont returned to Philadelphia. Millie was not in their apartment upon his return. He waited weeks before contacting her. She was staying with her brother.

  “Come home,” he said dully. “It’s over.”

  “It’ll never be over, Leon,” she replied, her voice tinged with regret. “There’ll always be another case—it’s worse than there being another woman.”

  Perhaps she was right. He was too weary to fight with her. Maybe he was born to be a loner. Often he thought about Joey. Her cheerful disposition and her crooked smile.

  • • •

  Buddy Hudson achieved everything he had ever desired in life and more. His heroic rescue of Angel and Sadie, and his bizarre connection to Deke Andrews, made worldwide headlines.

  His billboard was a sensation.

  He had Angel back.

  Everyone wanted him. The big agents, the most important producers, network television executives, plus every magazine, talk show, and newspaper in the country.

  The mass attention was exciting in one way—terrifying in another.

  He turned to Angel. His beautiful pregnant wife—more wonderful and warm than ever, but with an extra gentle strength which he welcomed.

  “Don’t do anything,” she said simply. “Wait for Sadie. After all, she is your . . . agent.”

  Her advice was sound. When Sadie emerged for the hospital, she went back to work with a vengeance. And Buddy received top priority. She never mentioned Deke Andrews, Ferdie Cartright, or that fateful Saturday at her house. She never allowed anyone else to mention it either.

  • • •

  Gina Germaine had a run of disastrous publicity. It started with the reporter she had lunched with the day of Ross Conti’s car accident. The girl wrote an assassination piece of the first order. Gina sulked for a week.

  Then the Enquirer ran an exposé of her former life. TV Guide killed her in a cover story. And several supermarket rags took up the cause.

  Gina fled to Paris, where she had breast-reduction surgery in a desperate bid to be taken seriously, and fell in love with an aging cinéma vérité French film director who promised her real acting roles and starred her in a low-budget black comedy about a dumb blond American movie star. At last! She was being taken seriously as an actress. She cabled Oliver Easterne that it would be quite impossible for her to fulfill her commitment and return to America to star in his movie.

  He hit her with a lawsuit.

  She sent him a single word in reply.

  BULLSHIT.

  • • •

  Karen Lancaster left the country with her rock star. Daddy was unamused by her public indiscretion. Josh Speed found the whole thing hilarious.

  She became groupie numero uno as she followed Josh around on his sellout European tour. She enjoyed her newfound celebrity for a while, and then the airplanes, hotels, different stadiums, and parties parties parties became a boring routine.

  She missed Beverly Hills. She missed Giorgio’s and Lina Lee to shop in. She missed Ma Maison and the Bistro to lunch in. She missed Dominick’s and Morton’s to dine in.

  She missed Bibi’s wonderful Oscar-night parties. And Sadie La Salle’s star-studded casual dinners in her kitchen.

  She missed valet parking, hot sun, tennis, the Polo Lounge. Hell—she missed everything.

  It didn’t take her long to persuade Josh that he oughta be in pictures and that she was just the lady with the right connections to
arrange it.

  He loved the idea. And he was no slouch in seeing the usefulness of being with a woman like Karen. When she discovered that she was pregnant a few weeks later, they decided to get married.

  Karen’s eyes gleamed. “We’ll have the wedding of the decade!” she announced. “We’ll give Beverly Hills a show the likes of which will have ’em talking about it forever!”

  • • •

  Beverly Hills was abuzz. The Karen Lancaster—Josh Speed wedding was such an event that if you weren’t invited you might as well leave town.

  Venue: Disneyland.

  Dress: Whatever.

  • • •

  Sadie La Salle decided a beige lace suit was okay. She had lost a lot of weight, and with her new svelte figure could wear anything she wanted. She peered closely at her face in the mirror. Not a sign of the damage Deke had inflicted. Outwardly not a sign, but inwardly . . .

  She thought about Buddy. So handsome and vibrant. And then she thought about Angel. The girl was a gem. Sweet, kind, and genuinely nice. Sadie adored her. And the feeling was mutual.

  Angel was expecting her baby any day. Sadie smiled a secret smile. I’m going to be a grandma, she thought, only nobody knows it but me. Ross would have a fit if he knew.

  Ross Conti. Grandpa.

  Only he would never know. Because finally she had her revenge. And now she could forget him. In fact, she already had. She had something else instead . . .

  Buddy had told his story to Angel, and she in turn had related it to Sadie. The two women became very close. They had a silent secret . . . something they never mentioned . . . but it bound them together in a very special way.

  One day, Sadie decided, she would tell Buddy. In the future . . . when the time was right.

  • • •

  Montana read about the forthcoming wedding in Liz Smith’s column. Reading about Los Angeles reminded her of Oliver Easterne, and whenever she thought of him she grinned. That classic Monday morning in his office was one of the highlights of her life. Neil would have been proud of her!