Hollywood Divorces • Hollywood Wives: The New Generation

by Jackie Collins

‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Go put your disguise on and let’s catch a movie.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have courtside seats for the Lakers. And…I’m going as myself.’

  ‘Courtside? Are you kidding? They’re impossible to get.’

  ‘You see,’ she said triumphantly, ‘there are some advantages to being me.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘We’re not hiding any more, Michael. We’re coming out, so prepare yourself for an onslaught of press.’

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. ‘I got a strong suspicion I’ve been fighting this for too long,’ he said. ‘So…here’s the deal. From this day on–I’m all yours.’

  ‘You are?’ she said, her blue eyes gazing into his.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And about time, too,’ she said, smiling. ‘Because that’s exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear.’ A beat. ‘Oh, yes, and one other thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You–are going to be a daddy. So…I guess you’d better start getting plenty of sleep, ’cause I’m not leaving my bed at four a.m.’

  ‘You’re not, huh?’ he said, beaming.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to marry you and turn you into an obedient wife.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Forget it, Michael. I’m not the obedient-wife type.’

  ‘And…I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’

  And they fell into each other’s arms, blissfully happy.

  They were a perfect match.

  For Tracy, Tiffany and Rory:

  Didn’t I say–girls can do anything?

  And for

  India, Dylan, Ben, Chloe

  Jordan Jordan and Austin:

  You are the sunshine of my life.

  And for Oscar and Frank:

  You have my heart for ever.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Shelby Cheney took a long, deep breath and prepared to make her entrance. Head up. Shoulders back. Superwatt smile. Artfully windswept shoulder-length raven hair. Dazzling Badgely & Mishka lace gown cut down to Cuba. Diamonds at her throat and ears. Movie-star husband by her side.

  Shelby Cheney had it all. Or did she?

  Tonight she was at the Cannes Film Festival with her husband, Linc Blackwood. Each had a movie to promote.

  Hers: an edgy drama about a woman on the brink of a total collapse–a thirty-something sex addict who reveals more than her mental breakdown on screen, with nobody around to help her. And, of course, one blistering sex scene, because Shelby had all the attributes, and since this movie smelt of an Oscar nomination she hadn’t minded showing them.

  His: a tough-guy superhero movie. Hard-boiled cop. Sexy. Sardonic. A sequel to his two previous blockbuster hits playing the same character. Linc Blackwood, once one of the highest paid box-office stars in the world, was still up there.

  Tonight Linc wore a midnight blue Armani tuxedo with a dark blue silk shirt. No tie. Muscular body. Clouded green eyes. Longish dark hair. Stubbled chin. Crooked nose–broken in a fight or two before he was famous and powerful enough to insist on a double for his more dangerous stunts.

  Shelby and Linc. A movie-star couple set to thrill the throngs of fans who eagerly watched them as they made their way–flanked by various publicity people and assorted flacks–into the Palais des Festivals, where Shelby’s film, Rapture, was about to be shown.

  ‘Shit,’ Linc mumbled under his breath, waving at the paparazzi while flashing his trademark grin. ‘I need a fuckin’ drink.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Shelby managed to reply, as she smiled for the assorted cameras and TV crews lined up three deep, all shoving and struggling for the best shots.

  Linc’s drinking was a big bone of contention between them. He’d been in rehab twice, but it hadn’t done him much good, he was still a hard boozer whenever the mood took him. And tonight the mood was definitely taking him.

  Shelby knew he’d had a couple of shots at the hotel, and now he was muttering that he wanted more. This was not a good sign. She had hoped to relax and enjoy the night, but if Linc was on the prowl, she’d have to spend the evening watching him to make sure he didn’t embarrass them both–something he was quite capable of doing. When Linc got drunk it was disaster time. He either became belligerent and ready to pick a fight, or compulsively amorous, flirting outrageously with every woman in sight. Both were equally unappealing traits.

  Damn! Why couldn’t she simply revel in her triumph? Because everyone had assured her that her performance in Rapture was a triumph–everyone except Linc, who’d seen a rough cut of her movie, and immediately remarked that she looked tired and drawn and that the cinematographer hadn’t lit her well.

  Didn’t he get it? She was playing a woman on the verge, she wasn’t supposed to look her usual gorgeous self.

  The truth was that, even though he’d never admit it, Linc was jealous, eaten up with envy that she was starring in a movie that was destined to receive critical acclaim and box-office success–a combination he’d never quite managed to achieve.

  The one thing Linc craved was respect and acknowledgement for his acting talent, not merely his physical antics. His movies still made mega-millions, but his reviews were abysmal. This drove him slightly crazy–especially now that she was about to make a major impact as a serious actress. She had no doubt he loved her, but things were about to change for her career-wise, and she wasn’t sure how Linc would take it.

  Sometimes she worried that maybe she should give it all up, stay home and do nothing but look after Linc. After four years of a somewhat turbulent marriage she still loved him, in spite of his drinking and womanizing and going off on binges with his gang of asshole buddies whom she’d never been able to persuade him to get rid of. Lurking within the macho movie star was a little boy lost, and the little boy was always there, sweet and needy and, most important–all hers. Especially at night when they were in bed together and she snuggled up behind him and fell asleep breathing his smell, feeling his warmth, loving every inch of him. It wasn’t all about sex, and Shelby liked that. Linc was her man, and she desperately hoped that he always would be.

  Nobody knew the real Linc except her. Nobody had any clue about his abusive childhood with a father who’d beaten him daily and battered Linc’s mother, a gentle woman who was simply not capable of prot
ecting her only son from a man who victimized them both.

  Linc had one sister, Connie, who, at forty-eight, was six years older than her brother. They shared a tough family history. When Linc was twelve his dad had beaten his mom to death, then turned a gun on himself, blowing his brains out all over the kitchen walls, leaving Connie and Linc to fend for themselves.

  To her credit, Connie had never let her brother down. She’d taken a job as a waitress, managing to keep him out of foster homes until he’d run off to L.A. at the age of seventeen and started on the long and sometimes treacherous road to success. Connie was a dedicated lesbian, who refused to have anything to do with men. She lived with her girlfriend, Suki, on a ranch in Montana–bought for her by Linc. The two women rarely left it.

  On his own, Linc had achieved phenomenal success, and Shelby loved and admired him for it. On the other hand, Linc Blackwood was a handful and Shelby wasn’t sure how long she could continue putting up with all his games.

  She wanted a baby.

  He didn’t.

  She wanted to lead a less public life.

  He didn’t.

  She wanted him not to flirt with every woman who gave him the available signal. And they all did. Linc was a movie star, he might as well have FUCK ME emblazoned on his forehead.

  Shelby, however, was completely loyal to him. It wasn’t part of her moral code even to contemplate having an affair. Her parents had been together forty years, and they still held hands, exchanged loving looks and indulged in secret conversations. She often dreamed of a marriage as good as theirs.

  ‘Shelby!’ screamed the photographers. ‘Over here! Look over here! Shelby! Shelby! SHELBY!’

  As their pleas grew more frantic, Shelby obliged, turning her head this way and that, holding everything in, making sure she didn’t fall out of her daringly low-cut gown. She tossed back her mane of raven hair, her hazel eyes wide and appealing. Image was incredibly important, and even though Shelby was only thirty-two, she was well aware of the hordes of up and coming actresses rabid for their chance at stardom. They all wanted to be her. They all wanted to have her career, be married to a movie star and live in a magnificent Beverly Hills mansion.

  Tough luck, girls, she thought, smile fixed firmly in place. Linc Blackwood is mine. All mine. And in spite of his many shortcomings I definitely intend to hold on to him. So back off. Linc Blackwood is taken.

  ‘I want Linc Blackwood,’ Lola Sanchez said in her low-down husky voice, not looking at Elliott Finerman, the producer of her upcoming movie. He was sitting in the back of the limo next to her, while her husband, Matt Seel, a former professional tennis player, perched opposite beside her publicist, Faye Margolis.

  ‘We’ve gone over this a dozen times,’ Elliott said, barely able to contain his annoyance. ‘I was thinking Ben Affleck or Matthew Mc—’

  ‘No!’ Lola interrupted sharply. ‘I want Linc Blackwood. And if you can’t or won’t get him, then I suggest you find yourself another leading lady.’

  Bitch! Elliott thought. Who do you think you are? Four years ago you were a waitress at Denny’s, now you’re telling me what to do. Me, Elliott Finerman, producer of over thirty successful movies.

  ‘Well?’ Lola demanded imperiously, tilting her pointed chin.

  ‘If you insist, sweetie,’ Elliott said, forcing himself to sound calm. ‘However, I do think—’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, cutting him off again. ‘Then if Linc says yes, we’re all set.’

  Elliott stared out of the car window. It was glaringly obvious that this diva couldn’t care less what he thought. It was all Anna Cameron’s fault. Anna, head honcho at Live Studios, had only agreed to greenlight his latest movie, New York State of Mind, if he signed Lola Sanchez. And Lola had only agreed to sign if she had leading-man approval.

  ‘Give it to her,’ Anna had said. ‘You and I will steer her in the right direction.’

  Sure, Elliott thought bitterly. Some right direction.

  From the get-go Lola had started mentioning Linc Blackwood. He’d honestly believed that he could sweet-talk her out of her choice but, no, Lola wanted Linc, and she was one determined, spoiled, full-of-her-own-importance movie star.

  Elliott couldn’t understand why she was so insistent. She didn’t even know Linc, and when she did get to meet him she’d be sorry. Linc Blackwood was trouble, making outrageous demands on the set, and screwing other men’s wives when he thought he could get away with it. Elliott had personal experience with the way Linc operated. He used some of the oldest lines going, and yet women still fell for them. Not that they needed much pushing–when it came to movie stars, women were Open-leg City, ready to give it up for a glance, a smile. Elliott should know; his ex had been no exception. Lynsey Fraser, a pretty but easily influenced young actress. Three months after marrying her he’d foolishly given her a minor role in one of his movies, which starred Linc Blackwood. A week of location later he’d caught her servicing Linc with a blow-job in his trailer.

  That had been ten years and one divorce ago. Needless to say, Elliott had chosen not to work with Linc since.

  Elliott felt sorry for Shelby Cheney. She was a very talented actress and an extremely desirable woman, although obviously not too smart, because apparently she was completely unaware of what a cheating piece of crap her husband really was.

  ‘If you’re absolutely sure—’ Elliott began in an uptight voice.

  ‘Yes!’ Lola snapped, hardly giving him time to finish his sentence. ‘I’m sure.’

  Elliott fumed. Diva cunt! America thought she was such a sweet and sexy piece, when in fact she was a twenty-four-year-old killer bitch who happened to have been blessed with long legs, big breasts, full sensual lips, glowing skin and a stone-cold heart. America was in love with her legs, her lips and her wide appealing smile. They remained unaware of her failings as a human being.

  On second thought, Elliott mused, maybe Lola and Linc deserved each other. Between the two of them they could self-destruct their way out of the business. As long as New York State of Mind was a box-office smash, what did he care? Let them create chaos and garner major publicity. After the movie was launched they could ruin each other’s miserable lives.

  Movie stars! A bunch of overinflated assholes with a short shelf life. Five years down the line people would be saying, ‘Lola who?’

  Unfortunately Linc Blackwood would probably always be around. Like Stallone, Willis and Schwarzenegger, he was a survivor in a tough business. Plus his movies still made money, especially in foreign and video and DVD sales.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Faye Margolis announced. Faye was a formidable woman in her late forties, with an iron-grey, bobbed hairstyle and an unbeatable knowledge of the PR business. Any celebrity in Faye’s care was guaranteed maximum exposure and copy approval. Faye protected her select list of clients with a fierce loyalty.

  ‘How do I look?’ Lola asked, exhibiting a rare flash of insecurity.

  ‘Hot!’ enthused Matt, who was quite hot himself, with his athlete’s body, long dirty-blond hair and small Vandyke beard.

  Lola ignored him. ‘Faye?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘Make sure you stand up straight,’ Faye ordered, in her smoke-enhanced voice. ‘That dress is a walking hazard and don’t you forget it or your breasts’ll fall out.’

  Lola giggled. Only Faye could get away with speaking to her in such a fashion. Now that she was a big star she demanded respect from all who came into contact with her.

  ‘If her tits fall out she’ll make every front page in France,’ Matt sniggered.

  ‘Don’t you mean the world?’ Lola corrected, throwing him a withering glance.

  ‘If you say so, honey,’ Matt agreed, suitably abashed.

  They had been married for five months. As far as Lola was concerned the honeymoon phase was way over, although Matt had yet to realize it.

  They’d got married on a billionaire’s Malibu estate in a blaze of publicity, with helicopters hovering overhead, pa
parazzi hanging out of trees, and a star-studded guest list of people they hardly knew. An English magazine had paid two million dollars for exclusive pictures of the happy couple, and Faye had made sure that everything happened exactly the way she planned it. No mistakes was Faye’s motto, and anyone who made them was permanently off her extensive payroll.

  Lola wasn’t quite so thrilled any more. She got bored easily, and apart from beach-boy looks and a buff body, Matt did not bring a lot to the party. He’d given up professional tennis, preferring to leech off her. When she’d complained about his lack of activity, he’d assured her that he was writing a screenplay, and also planning on taking acting classes.

  Great! Why hadn’t he confided that he had aspirations to be in show business before she’d married him?

  Here’s what he didn’t know. She only married him to preserve her public image as the sexy superstar of the new millennium. Forget about Halle Berry, Jennifer Lopez and Angelina Jolie, Lola Sanchez was it, and she had to keep her credibility level right up there. Before her marriage to Matt, she’d been indulging in a high-profile romance with Tony Alvarez. He was a brilliant Latino movie director whom some considered to be the Pedro Almodovar of his generation, except Tony was a product of the Bronx, so the three movies he’d directed were pure Americana with an edge.

  Tony’s problem was that he had an ongoing drug habit, and in spite of a couple of well-publicized arrests for possession, and a lengthy probation, he still managed to get into trouble. Once his bad-boy ways began reflecting negatively on Lola’s image, her advisers had warned her that she’d better distance herself from him, as it was becoming increasingly possible that he might have to serve a few months in jail for supposedly dealing–which everyone knew was bullshit, but since Tony was a celebrity, the authorities had to look like they were doing something.