Hollywood Divorces

by Jackie Collins

  Lola, ever mindful of her public image, had reluctantly broken off their engagement and hurriedly married Matt, who could not believe his luck and had willingly signed an ironclad prenuptial agreement.

  Now she was stuck with him. But not for long. Lola had plans, and those plans included Linc Blackwood.

  • • •

  Cat Harrison was not happy to be at the Cannes Film Festival. Celebrity events were so boring, full of stars with enormous egos. Not that she’d been to that many, but ever since she’d written and directed her first movie, Wild Child, a film loosely based on her own somewhat unconventional life, she’d been forced to work the circuit. And ever since her low-budget (try nonexistent-budget) movie had become a cult hit, Cat was flavor of the month.

  Big freaking deal. She hated being the center of attention. She loathed having to get dressed up and play nice to the moneymen and movie big shots who were hot to finance her next project.

  “Ya gotta do it, luv,” advised her Australian musician husband, Jump Jagger—no relation to Mick, although he wished.

  “Why?” she’d argued.

  “ ’Cause it’ll be good karma for us both. An’ I could do with a bit of karma.”

  Trust Jump to put himself in the mix. He had an annoying habit of always putting himself first. It didn’t matter, though, because she was crazy about him.

  The child of divorce, Cat had grown up dividing her time between an eccentric English mother and a totally insane American father, which meant that she’d spent most of her childhood drifting between the two countries, until at seventeen she’d decided she needed her own space and her own career (Daddy was a hugely successful sculptor and Mummy an award-winning photographer). So she’d moved to New York, where she eventually met Jump—who’d saved her from a downward spiral of drugs and craziness. She was heading along a bad road, and he’d managed to pull her back just in time. Then they did the conventional thing, got married, and settled into a SoHo loft.

  While Jump worked on his music, Cat took various gigs as a nanny, dog walker, and personal assistant to a sullen but extremely creative theater director. One weekend, full of ideas and enthusiasm, she’d started writing a screenplay. Six weeks later she began shooting her film on an old Sony Handycam she’d taken from her father’s basement. She’d used their weird and wonderful assortment of friends as actors, while Jump had worked on putting together an edgy and interesting sound track with his group. Voilà! Instant movie.

  A friend’s uncle had introduced her to a small distributor, who’d picked up her film, and from the first screening—like The Blair Witch Project before it—the buzz began. First there was a website, then there were two, then three. Within weeks there were twenty-one websites devoted to discussing Wild Child.

  Cat was beyond excited, until reluctantly she was thrust into the spotlight. The media loved her. It helped that she was now nineteen, tall and agile, with short, spiky, natural blond hair, olive green eyes, and a challenging face with high cheekbones. She could’ve easily been a model or an actress. Neither profession interested her; she got her kicks out of being on the other side of the camera, the side where she was able to maintain a certain degree of control.

  Merrill Zandack, head of Zandack Films, had taken over distribution of Wild Child, and now he was planning to finance her next project, Caught, a quirky film she’d written about a womanizing con man and a duplicitous female undercover cop. Hence her visit to the Cannes Film Festival.

  “Be nice to everyone, kitten,” Merrill had told her when she’d arrived. “You’re on the fast track.”

  “I’ll be nice if you stop calling me ‘kitten,’ ” she’d responded, a tad irritably. It pissed her off that men thought it was quite okay to call women cutesy names. How would he like it if she called him “puppy”?

  Merrill, a plump, balding man, who spent most of his time sweating profusely while sucking on a large Cuban cigar, found Cat to be a refreshing presence. He admired the way she didn’t kowtow to anyone. He enjoyed her nonconformist attitude. Merrill had a gut instinct for talent, and if Cat kept her head and didn’t annoy too many people with her ballsy approach, she was destined to soar.

  • • •

  Shelby did the dance and she did it well. Linc did it better. Linc was an expert at making everyone feel they were his best friend. He had charm and then some. Shelby watched him as he flirted with a very svelte looking Sharon Stone. She got a kick out of watching him when he didn’t know she was looking. He was so damn sexy.

  “You’re a beauty, hon,” Merrill Zandack said, puffing on his cigar as he lumbered up behind her. “Can’t wait to see your movie.”

  “Thanks, Merrill,” she said, turning toward the powerful studio head as he planted a sweaty kiss on her cheek, leaving an irritating wet spot that she was dying to wipe off.

  “You an’ me gotta work together,” Merrill continued, blowing a stream of expensive cigar smoke directly into her face. “I hear tell you’re dynamite in tonight’s flick.”

  “You do?” she said, surreptitiously attempting to wipe her cheek dry with the back of her hand.

  “I was supposed to give it a private screenin’,” he wheezed. “Never had time.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Naw, this way’s better,” he said, blowing more cigar smoke in her face as he managed a not-so-discreet peek down her cleavage.

  She took a step back and smiled politely at Merrill’s date, a statuesque Anjelica Huston clone. Since his wife had died several years ago, Merrill had rarely been seen with the same woman twice. He appeared to favor a long line of interchangeable brunettes, women he never saw fit to introduce.

  “Well . . . I do hope you enjoy it, Merrill,” Shelby said, once more glancing over at Linc, who was now in an intense conversation with Woody Allen. No rescue there.

  “You look beautiful, hon,” Merrill repeated.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, and to her relief, Merrill spotted Lola Sanchez making a much admired entrance, and immediately headed in her direction, his brunette date trailing regally behind him.

  Shelby’s appointed P.R. person, a young Frenchwoman with her hair worn in a tight bun, and a sulky, turned-down mouth, hovered nearby. “Do you wish to meet with the reporter from Paris Match now?” the woman asked.

  Shelby shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was speak with a journalist. “Tomorrow, at the press conference,” she said.

  The woman’s thin lips tightened. “He has to leave for Paris early in the morning. He will not be able to attend the press conference.”

  A couple of years ago Shelby would’ve said yes to anything. Two years of therapy and she’d learned to say no.

  “If he’s so anxious to speak with me,” she suggested, “then perhaps he should stay over.”

  Before the P.R. woman could reply, Linc reappeared and took her arm. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said warmly, winking at the P.R. woman. “Let’s go take our seats.”

  Shelby nodded, her stomach fluttering. This was her big night and she was determined to relax and enjoy it.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  2

  Cat was staying on Merrill Zandack’s yacht, a luxurious ninety-footer with six guest bedrooms and a staff of twenty. It was some setup. She wished Jump could see it as she prowled around her cabin getting herself together, finally taking a long look in the bathroom mirror, squinting at her full-length reflection. She’d made a supreme effort. Low-slung Juicy Couture jeans, showing off her finely toned abs and a recent diamond piercing in her navel; a black Rolling Stones cutoff tee, Loree Rodkin chains and crosses hanging around her neck; and large gold hoop earrings.

  Her outfit probably wasn’t everyone’s idea of how to impress at a big film festival, but screw it, at least she was comfortable. She hadn’t worn a dress in years and she wasn’t about to start now. Besides, Jump was on tour with his band in his native Australia, and without him by her side she felt ever so slightly vulnerable.<
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  Whenever she went anywhere by herself, guys came on to her. She did not get off on the attention. Cat was a one-man girl, and in spite of her fiery independence she kind of missed having Jump beside her. They did everything together. Or at least they used to, before her career took off at such a startling pace and Jump decided to hit the road. Not that she minded him getting out there; it was something they’d both been working toward, and the success of his sound track had thankfully helped him score a few good gigs. Opening for mega rock legend Kris Phoenix in Sydney was a real break. Jump and his band were totally psyched. She was happy for him, although she still couldn’t help wishing he was with her tonight.

  A knock, and Jonas Brown, Merrill Zandack’s diligent assistant, put his head around the door.

  “The tender is ready to take us to shore,” Jonas announced.

  “Where’s Merrill?” she asked, staring at Jonas, who was the complete opposite of his loudmouthed, somewhat uncouth boss. For a start, Jonas was young—probably still in his late twenties. And quite good looking in a low-key, not at all her type, way.

  “Mr. Zandack has already left,” Jonas said. “He asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you at the premiere.”

  “You mean I’ve got to go there on my own?” she complained, hating the thought of walking in by herself.

  “I will accompany you,” Jonas said.

  “I don’t know why he wants me there,” she grumbled, reaching for her fringed purse.

  “Mr. Zandack feels it is important for you to be seen,” Jonas said, his narrow gray eyes inspecting her outfit. “Is that what you’re wearing?” he asked, unable to conceal the note of disapproval in his tone.

  “No,” she snapped, annoyed that he seemed to be judging her sense of style. “I’m planning on changing into a black Prada uniform so I can look exactly like you.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing,” he said quickly.

  “Yes, you were,” she retorted, adding an airy “That’s okay, I’m totally secure in the way I dress. Who needs affirmation?”

  “Then we should go,” Jonas said unblinkingly. “Mr. Zandack does not appreciate being kept waiting.”

  “Glad you shared that with me,” she drawled with a sarcastic edge. “Wouldn’t want to be the one who kept the big man waiting.”

  • • •

  Lola spotted the back of Linc walking into the theater. Damn! She’d wanted to impress him. And who wouldn’t be impressed with the way the cameras were flashing just for her, while every journalist in the place clamored for her attention?

  Linc Blackwood might be married to a movie star, but she, Lola Sanchez, was the movie star of the moment. Nobody was hotter or more desirable.

  A big difference from her last encounter with Mr. Blackwood. Oh yes, things were very different then.

  Flash Back Six Years

  Lucia Conchita Sanchez. A pretty girl of eighteen. A would-be actress-singer-dancer getting nowhere fast. Waitressing by day and playing records by night— helping out Carlos, her disc jockey boyfriend, who worked three nights a week at a Hollywood club. Lucia had long, chestnut brown hair that reached below her waist, and a curvaceous body. She lived at home, in Silverlake, with Claudine, her half-black, half-Native American mother, and her philandering Mexican father, Louis Sanchez, a small-time boxer who considered himself a regular stud. She had two older, married sisters, Isabelle and Selma, and a lazy, out-of-work brother, Louis Junior, who aspired to be exactly like his dad. Lucia couldn’t wait to leave home.

  At school she had excelled at singing, dancing, and drama class. Acting was her passion, so as soon as she graduated high school she had set out to pursue an acting career. She was very ambitious and quite determined to break into show business. Problem was, nobody wanted to hire her. She couldn’t even get an agent to take her on. “You’re too ethnic looking” seemed to be the general opinion.

  Ethnic looking? As far as she was concerned she was gorgeous, with her sultry looks, smooth olive skin, and voluptuous body. Okay, so she wasn’t cookiecutter pretty, but she had her own particular style.

  After numerous rejections and no callbacks on the auditions she did manage to get into, she tried approaching a modeling agency. “Too fat,” announced a skinny bitch with legs like a couple of twigs and no ass.

  Too fat. Ridiculous! Just because she did not conform to Hollywood’s obsession with thinness. She went on a diet anyway—eschewing Claudine’s delicious fried chicken and her dad’s favorite enchiladas.

  Her parents thought she was crazy. Her papa sat her down one night and told her that she had absolutely no chance of making it, and since she’d been quite good at math in school, she should get herself a proper job, working in a bank like Selma, where she had a chance of eventual promotion. “Waitressin’ ain’t gonna take you nowhere,” Louis informed her.

  Like boxing was such a big deal. Louis Sanchez had two cauliflower ears, scars all over his face, and a permanent limp. It certainly didn’t seem to stop women from throwing themselves at him.

  Her mother was a real beauty, with exotic features, waist-length hair, and a sexy, rounded figure—maintained in spite of having given birth to four children.

  Lucia liked to think she’d inherited the best of both her parents in the looks department. She had her mama’s long legs, big bosom, and thick chestnut hair. And her papa’s slightly flat nose, seductive brown eyes, and full lips. “Lover’s lips,” Louis was fond of saying. “They run in the family.”

  Yeah, Lucia thought. Those lips of yours have run all over the neighborhood.

  Sex was not an open subject in the Sanchez household. Although everyone knew about Louis’s indiscretions, they were never mentioned. When Lucia was old enough to hear the stories about her unfaithful dad, she was shocked. It always amazed her that Claudine allowed him to get away with it, and never said anything.

  As soon as Lucia hit puberty, boys were all over her. They coveted her big breasts, fine ass, and the flirtatious attitude she’d inherited from her dad.

  “Do not give it up,” Mama had warned her, wagging a skinny finger in Lucia’s face. “Let ’em look, watch the poor fools drool, then let ’em beg for more. You give it up, girl, an’ you’ll be good an’ sorry. The last thing you want is a baby growin’ in your belly.”

  Those ominous words were enough to frighten her off sex, until at sixteen she fell for a bad-boy rapper who lived down the street, and after several delirious months with him she did get pregnant. Claudine was so mad that she refused to speak to her daughter for weeks. Louis was more understanding. He took her for an abortion at the local clinic. Selma came too. It was one of the worst days of her life.

  After that experience she swore off sex, taking it no further than an occasional blow job—and that took place only if she really liked the boy.

  Oral sex was a two-way street with Carlos, and although, when he had her skirt around her waist and her bra off in the back of his car, he pleaded with her to let him take it further, she held fast. No more abortions for Lucia Conchita Sanchez. She’d learned her lesson.

  One night Carlos informed her that he’d scored a gig disc-jockeying at a fancy party in Bel Air, and he wanted her to assist him. For a moment she was too excited to speak. Bel Air. Stomping ground of the rich and famous. Maybe she’d finally be discovered, or at the very least meet an agent who was prepared to represent her.

  She did not let on to Carlos how psyched she was. Carlos was kind of laid-back, with long greasy hair and gaunt rock star looks. Music was his thing; he was a master at putting together the sounds that everyone wanted to hear. According to all their friends, Carlos had a future.

  The party, thrown by megaproducer Freddy Krane, was taking place in Freddy’s magnificent old mansion at the top of Bel Air. It was reached by driving up a long, winding, palm-lined driveway.

  Lucia sat next to Carlos in his 1968 souped-up silver Mustang, savoring every moment. When they arrived, she helped him set up his equipment out by the enormous bla
ck-bottomed swimming pool. There were servants and caterers, bartenders and waiters swarming everywhere, preparing for the evening’s festivities.

  Lucia took it all in—the hundreds of votive candles in exquisite crystal holders surrounding the pool, the lavish flower centerpieces on every table, the white-and-silver tablecloths and black silk napkins. She willed herself to remember every detail so that she could tell Mama, Isabelle, and Selma.

  Although quite impressed, she forced herself to maintain a cool exterior as she sorted through Carlos’s extensive CD and record collection, setting everything out in neat piles. Carlos was very particular; he liked things just right.

  There were times she daydreamed that if she didn’t get a break in show business soon, perhaps she should consider marrying Carlos. He was hot to screw her, so she knew it would be no problem nudging him into a proposal, if that’s what she decided she wanted.

  Would marrying Carlos be such a bad thing?

  Maybe not.

  Once the party got going it was a blast, full of faces Lucia recognized from the popular entertainment magazines she devoured each week. It could be her imagination, but after a while she began to think that Freddy Krane kept glancing her way. Freddy, a big, sloppy-looking man, with an unruly reddish beard and small piggy eyes, was old, at least fifty, and that was ten years older than her dad.

  Lucia had dressed for the occasion in a short brown fake-leather skirt (unfortunately the real thing was far too expensive) and a midriff-baring white tee shirt that showed off her large breasts, encased in a flimsy bra, her nipples at attention through the thin material. Her long chestnut hair hung below her ass—she hadn’t cut it since she was eight.

  She knew she looked hot. A couple of the waiters sniffed around trying to get her phone number. She politely declined, although she was secretly pleased they’d asked.