Hollywood Divorces

by Jackie Collins

  “No, no, you can take off,” Merrill said, waving his cigar in the air.

  “Then I’ll say good night to everybody,” Jonas said, shooting Cat a quick look as if to say, I’m out of here. Sorry, but you’ve got to stick around.

  Oh man! Cat thought. Now it’s just Merrill and me. Wonderful!

  When the caviar and champagne arrived, Merrill clicked his fingers at the steward and instructed him to pour Cat a glass.

  “I asked for water,” she said, wishing she was anywhere but here.

  “You’re having champagne,” Merrill argued.

  The steward filled a champagne glass and placed it in front of her.

  She had no intention of drinking it.

  “How you liking Cannes?” Merrill asked, giving her his full attention. “It must be quite somethin’ for a girl like you.”

  What was that supposed to mean? She wasn’t some kid straight out of nowheresville.

  “I’ve been here many times before,” she said quickly. “My father has plenty of friends who own villas here.” For a moment she flashed onto the famous old artist and the nude painting he’d done of her. Age thirteen seemed like light-years away.

  “Thought this was your first trip,” Merrill said, obviously miffed that he was not the first to introduce her to the south of France.

  “No,” she said patiently. “My family’s very cosmopolitan. I have an American father arid an English mom, so I grew up traveling between the two countries.” If you’d concentrated on my movie, she thought, you would’ve realized it was based on my life.

  “I’ve been around talent all my life,” Merrill announced. “And you’re going places, kitten. With my help and backing, nothing’s impossible.”

  “Cool,” she murmured, watching him as he proceeded to knock back a full glass of champagne.

  “Now,” he said, getting up and holding out his hand. “Come with me, I got somethin’ t’ show you.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Oh great! Now he was slurring his words.

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Zandack . . . Merrill,” she said, coming up with a fast excuse. “I promised I’d call my husband. He’s in Australia, and the time difference is wacko, so I’d better get to it.”

  Merrill couldn’t care less where her husband was.

  “You’ll talk to him later,” he said, pulling her up.

  Reluctantly she followed him inside as he swayed unsteadily down the long corridor to his master suite. He flung open the door.

  She ventured inside, checking out the luxurious space, tastefully decorated with expensive antiques, a large bed, and a wide-screen TV. She was actually looking for his Russian girlfriend, who appeared to be nowhere in sight. Rumor was that he kept her stashed in another cabin and brought her out only when he required her sexual services—whatever they might be.

  “So,” she said, lingering near the door, “what is it you want to show me?”

  “This,” Merrill said. And quick as a flash he unzipped his pants, slipping out his somewhat shaky member.

  If it wasn’t so funny it would be incredibly sad. As she stood there staring at his flabby prick, she recalled a joke her mother used to tell about a man exposing himself to a woman on the street and saying, “Whaddaya think this is?” And the woman replying, “It looks like a cock, only smaller.”

  She stifled an insane urge to burst out laughing. This was such a cliché situation. The mogul and the almost hard-on. If she wrote about it nobody would believe her.

  “Suck it!” Merrill commanded, red in the face.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said in amazement.

  “Suck it!” he repeated.

  She managed to stay cool. There had to be a civilized way to handle this. “Uh . . . I think you might’ve had too much to drink,” she said at last.

  “If you want me to make your movie, then get down on your knees an’ suck it now,” Merrill roared. “That’s an order.”

  “You know what?” she said, backing toward the door. “You can take my movie and shove it up your sorry ass. Because, Mr. Zandack—I am out of here.”

  “Don’t you dare leave me,” he bellowed.

  “Screw you!”

  And with those words she marched out of his cabin, hurried straight to her room, and started packing.

  Men! Young or old. They were all the same when it came to sex.

  She might be only nineteen, but she’d certainly covered the waterfront.

  Flash Back Two Years

  There was one thing Cat had always possessed, and that was strength of character. Where it came from, she didn’t know. Maybe she’d inherited it from one of her eccentric parents; they had to be good for something. -

  Growing up, she’d soon realized that her parents couldn’t stand each other, although they’d obviously once enjoyed an extremely passionate and complex relationship. She knew this was so, because they always had nothing but bad things to say about each other. Gable couldn’t wait to put down all her mother’s husbands, while Bethany openly laughed at her father’s series of much younger girlfriends—none of whom he married.

  Cat didn’t care. As long as she didn’t have to go to school and nobody was on her case, she was content. Especially once she got caught up in the drug scene.

  At fourteen—thanks to her live-in boyfriend, Brad—she was into ecstasy and speed. At fifteen she was dabbling in crack. By the time she was sixteen she and Brad were experimenting with heroin.

  When her father found out about her experimentation, he’d merely laughed. “It’s a phase,” he’d said. “Went through it myself. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Bethany never said a word, although Cat was sure that Gable must have told her. Cat had a feeling that Bethany was simply happy that she was out on her own. Bethany did not appreciate having a young, attractive daughter; it made her feel old.

  One memorable night—a few days after Brad lost all his money in a sudden Internet crash—Cat came home late from a party. Brad had not gone with her, claiming he didn’t feel like it.

  She entered their apartment, quite bombed and happy with her never-ending round of parties and drugs. Brad was sprawled on the floor in the living room. A mournful Lou Reed crooned depressing songs on the stereo, while Howard Stern inspected women’s breasts on TV.

  Brad had a tourniquet around his arm, a needle clutched in a death grip, and no pulse. His eyes were wide and blank. He was quite dead.

  Time to move on, Cat thought, too stoned to realize the severity of what had happened.

  Later that week she left Brad’s apartment and moved in with two gay friends, who loved her and tried to protect her.

  A few months later, she was hanging with the usual crowd of misfits she spent all her time with, when she ran into Jump. She and her friends had covered the club scene, and later they’d crashed a party. She’d sneaked into the bedroom and was about to shoot up—which was her new favorite thing to do—when Jump walked in on her.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Playing tennis,” she responded rudely, staring at the tall skinny dude with the long ratty hair and heavily tattooed arms. “What do you think?”

  “Your funeral, mate,” he said, staring back at her.

  “What’s that stupid accent?” she asked.

  “Australian,” he answered. “Why? You wanna rag on it?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, thinking he was just another guy on the make. “So,” she offered generously, “wanna share?”

  “What kind of moron shares needles?” he said in disgust, glaring at her like she was the stupid one.

  “You gonna stand there an’ watch?” she inquired belligerently.

  He backed out of the room without another word.

  When she rejoined the party and discovered it was his apartment, she was embarrassed. Then he started jamming on the guitar with some musicians, and she began getting into the music. Later she told him so,
and he gave her what she perceived as a pitying look.

  Cat was used to men coming on strong. Jump was different. He had girls all over him; it seemed he hardly noticed her. Except he did, because when she was on her way out, he caught her at the door, surprising her. “Get straight, an’ I’ll take you out sometime,” he offered.

  And that was the start of her first real love. She was seventeen. Jump was twenty.

  He told her he thought they should get married five weeks after they were together. “Only you gotta give up hard drugs,” he warned her. “You can do weed. Anything else an’ I’m outta here. Got it?”

  Yes, she got it. And that’s where her strength of character came in. She could give it up if she wanted to. Now that she had Jump, she didn’t need drugs.

  When she informed her parents she was getting married they did not put up any objections. Why should they? They didn’t care. All they’d ever done was hand her money and drag her along on their exotic trips, competing with each other to get her to like them best. The result was that she didn’t like either of them very much.

  Neither of them attended her wedding, which took place in Bali. It was her and Jump on a private beach, very romantic. Then Jump took her to visit his widowed mother in Sydney, and they spent a couple of weeks exploring the outback and the Great Barrier Reef. It was a whole new experience, and she loved it.

  Jump was the kind of man who made her want to get up in the morning. He energized her, forcing her to realize there were more important things than partying and getting high—although he was not averse to smoking weed morning, noon, and night.

  Jump was very into his music; he had a passion. Cat decided she’d better get a passion of her own, and one day she came up with the idea of writing and directing a movie. The story of a poor little rich girl, a girl who had everything except love, then found it with the right guy.

  Jump encouraged her to write the script. She found it easy, considering her real education had been spending three quarters of her life in movie theaters.

  She knew she could do it. She had the fire and the will to achieve.

  When Jump read her script he said, “You’re a bloody good storyteller. You gotta go for it.”

  So she did, and Wild Child was that movie—full of eccentric characters and crazy people, full of the stories she’d encountered along the path of her somewhat unconventional life.

  When her movie became a runaway success, her father saw it and laughed. “You certainly nailed Bethany for the bitch she is!” he cackled, obviously not recognizing himself. “I’m glad. The cunt deserves it.”

  Bethany saw it a few weeks later. “What a charming work of fiction,” she said curtly, refusing to acknowledge that it was the truth. However, she did recognize Gable, whom she called an egocentric asshole.

  Wasn’t it comforting that her parents thought so well of each other?

  • • •

  Cat was not a girl to mess with. Movie or no movie, she had no intention of putting up with Merrill Zandack’s insane sexual antics. Old men with hard-ons. Part of her past. Sometimes she thought that was the story of her life.

  Well, Merrill Zandack was not getting away with his bad behavior. First thing in the morning she was out of there.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  7

  The muscles in Shelby’s cheeks ached due to the fact that she’d been smiling all morning. Interview after interview. Photo after photo. Now it was lunch with a journalist from USA Today, and after that, more interviews.

  She dreamed of getting up one morning and having nothing to do except nothing. What utter bliss!

  Then once more she dreamed of having a baby, Linc’s baby, even though he had expressed no desire to start-a family.

  Surely she could persuade him?

  Why not? She was convinced he’d be happy if it was a fait accompli situation and she got pregnant.

  No more birth control pills, she thought. A baby might solve all our problems. Because even though Linc would never admit it, their problems were escalating every day.

  The journalist from USA Today was a sandy-haired, middle-aged man dressed in a leisure suit. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and had an obvious crush. “Very much enjoyed your performance in Rapture,” he enthused as soon as they sat down.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” she answered politely, ordering a bottle of Evian and a salad Niçoise from an attentive waiter.

  “You’re quite marvelous in it,” he added, fiddling with his glasses. “And extremely brave.”

  “Thanks,” she said modestly, hoping the interview would not take too long.

  “I’m trying not to sound like a gushing fan,” the journalist continued. “Only I’m forced to speak the truth.”

  “Well,” she said, bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on him, “if you’re going to speak the truth, then I’ll attempt to do the same.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware that your smile lights up the screen,” he said admiringly. “You must’ve been told that dozens of times.”

  This was more like a fan fest than an interview. Shelby reminded herself that even though the man was all over her, she should not let her guard down. Sometimes journalists tried to lull their interview subjects into a false sense of security. They softened them up with compliments, then wrote an all-out bitchy piece.

  “Your husband has to be very proud of you,” the journalist continued, tapping his stubby fingers on the table.

  “He is,” she replied, thinking of Linc passed out on their bed, still reeking of liquor. Was he proud? Probably. In his own way.

  “Linc Blackwood is a much more accomplished actor than everyone thinks. It’s a shame the public don’t get to see how good he is.”

  “I agree,” she said, happy to talk about Linc. “My husband is definitely underrated.”

  “Surely it upsets him, not getting the recognition he deserves?”

  “Not really,” she answered carefully, aware how her words could be twisted and turned.

  “I read that he’s considering tackling a romantic comedy.”

  “Yes,” she said, wondering where this interview was headed. “Linc would be wonderful in that kind of role. It’s not exactly general knowledge, but he has an excellent sense of humor.”

  “I bet he didn’t find your nude scene too funny.”

  There it was. The zinger. Up went her guard. “Excuse me?” she said, a touch frostily.

  “Well, you know,” the journalist said, leaning closer. “A man watching his wife with everything on show up there on the big screen. It can’t have been easy for either of you.”

  She glanced around for her publicist, who appeared to have vanished. Damn! This man was not to be trusted; she sensed it.

  “We’re both actors,” she said, endeavoring to remain calm. “Linc understands that it’s my job.”

  “And his of course.” A beat, then: “How do you feel about him doing steamy love scenes with beautiful younger women?”

  “Perfectly fine,” she replied, trying not to grit her teeth. And what was that crack about younger women? She was only thirty-two, for God’s sake. “As I said before,” she added graciously, “we’re both professionals.”

  “You certainly are.”

  How she loathed the process of giving interviews. Unfortunately it was a necessary part of her job.

  Smile firmly in place, she continued to be as charming as humanly possible. The power of the pen was a dangerous and slippery weapon.

  • • •

  The first thing Cat did when she awoke was to try and reach Jump on the phone. It seemed there was never any answer from his hotel room. She dressed, finished packing, and immediately went to see the captain, thinking that the sooner she was off this boat, the better.

  “I’ll be leaving today,” she said briskly. “Please arrange to have the tender take me to shore as soon as possible.”

  “Mr. Zandack didn’t say anything about this,” the captain said, frowning.
>
  “Mr. Zandack has no say about when I come and go,” she replied, sounding a lot calmer than she felt.

  The captain nodded unsurely, while Cat made her way onto the deck, where breakfast was laid out.

  It was a glorious day, the sea was calm and smooth like Venetian glass, and the sky a perfect blue. She poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and sat down at the table.

  A few minutes later Jonas appeared, his hair kind of rumpled as if he’d recently fallen out of bed. She decided that he looked much better when he wasn’t so groomed.

  “The captain tells me you want to leave,” Jonas said, coming right to the point.

  “Correct,” she replied.

  “Why?” he demanded, staring at her.

  “Because I want to,” she said, sipping her juice and returning his gaze, daring him to argue. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Does Mr. Zandack know?”

  “What is this obsession with Mr. Zandack?” she said irritably. “I keep on telling you—I’m a free person. Don’t you get it?”

  “You can’t leave without his knowledge,” Jonas said, circling her.

  “I can do what I want.”

  “I’ll have to wake him, and believe me—he does not appreciate being disturbed this early in the morning.”

  “Tough, huh?” she said sarcastically.

  “Maybe you can tell me exactly what happened?” he said, ignoring her sarcasm as he sat down next to her.

  “What makes you think anything happened?” she said defensively. Ha! Like he doesn’t know what his boss is all about.

  “Something must’ve happened to make you want to leave so abruptly.”

  Absently she picked up a piece of watermelon with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. “Come on, Jonas. You know exactly what his trip is.”

  “No. I don’t. How about filling me in?”

  A long, meaningful pause. “Your boss is a major pervert,” she finally blurted. “Is that what you’re waiting to hear?”

  There was a short silence during which Jonas remained stony-faced. “I’ll have to wake him before I can authorize your departure,” he said at last.