Hollywood Divorces

by Jackie Collins

  Jonas had trained himself not to have feelings for any of the actresses he came in contact with—and working with Merrill, there were many. But Cat was not an actress, she was a writer/director, and he suddenly found himself extremely attracted to her, which he realized was not a wise thing. This kind of attraction had not happened to him in a while. He’d given up on girlfriends because they were too time consuming—not to mention demanding. He preferred to concentrate all his energy on Mr. Zandack, a most demanding boss.

  Watching Cat, it suddenly occurred to him what he was missing.

  “Man, you were so hysterical on the skis,” she said, breaking into a fit of giggles. “I warned you not to bend your arms. The moment you bent ’em, it was all over. You took such a dive.”

  “Glad you’re amused.”

  “I wish you could’ve seen the expression on your face!”

  “I had a better time sitting in the boat watching you.” “I’m a fine skier, huh?” she said boastfully. “A champion!”

  “Not bad.”

  “Ha! Admit it—I am a champion!”

  “Yes, Cat, you’re pretty damn great.”

  Christ! He’d better put a hold on his feelings before he made an idiot of himself. She was being friendly and he was falling in love.

  “We should be getting back to the yacht,” he said, checking his watch.

  “How’ll we get back?”

  “I thought maybe we’d swim.”

  “And he has a sense of humor too,” she said, laughing.

  “You were under the impression I didn’t?”

  “Well . . . I am getting to know you better. You’re not as uptight as I thought.”

  “Uptight?”

  “Don’t sound surprised. You’re so into your work, it’s frightening.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “All work and no play,” she said flirtatiously.

  “Let’s go,” he said abruptly. He didn’t want anyone getting to know him better, not even Cat.

  “Five more minutes,” she pleaded, rolling onto her stomach and, to his extreme discomfort, unclipping her bikini top. “I’m having such an amazing time.”

  “You can sunbathe on the yacht,” he pointed out, trying not to stare.

  “No, I can’t. The crew are everywhere, and I don’t fancy the idea of Zandack leering at me with a hidden camera. I bet he has them stashed all over the place.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Face it, Jonas. He’s a dirty old man. And old perverts get off on hidden cameras. By the way,” she added casually, “does he proposition all his actresses too?”

  “How would I know?”

  “ ’Cause you know everything he does.”

  “Not everything,” he said, marveling that this girl possessed such an extraordinary talent for moviemaking. Where did it come from? Today she was just a kid having fun.

  “C’mon,” she said persuasively. “We’re friends now. You can tell me.”

  “Nothing to tell,” he said. “And if there was—I’d be loyal to my boss.”

  “Loyal, my ass,” she snorted. “You think he’d be loyal to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could’ve warned me about him,” she said accusingly.

  “Why would I do that? You might have liked it.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said sarcastically. “There’s nothing I like better than sucking—”

  “That’s enough,” he interrupted, hurriedly holding up his hand.

  She giggled. “You’re a prude.”

  “No, I’m not. Can we please go now?”

  “If you insist,” she said, sitting up and fastening her top.

  He attempted to avert his eyes, an impossible feat.

  “Tell me about tonight,” she said, reaching for her shirt. “Who’ll be there I should play nice to?”

  “You don’t have to be nice to anybody,” he assured her. “Your talent speaks for itself.”

  “Jonas,” she said, wriggling her long legs into her shorts, “that’s the coolest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  • • •

  Granting an interview for Vanity Fair was a treacherous path indeed. Faye had already negotiated the cover, so Lola felt confident that the photographs would be fantastic since Vanity Fair employed only the best. She was hoping the photographer would be Annie Leibovitz or Greg Gorman, both of whom she’d worked with before. However, she was nervous about the interview, especially as for once Faye had been unable to secure copy approval.

  Starting off in the south of France was not bad, and thankfully the interviewer was male. She always enjoyed a better rapport with men. Sometimes women were jealous of her, even though she did nothing to promote their feelings of inadequacy. In fact, she went out of her way to be extra nice to them.

  She walked into the interview, attitude in place. Gorgeous yet humble. Sexy yet approachable. A girl who’d made it from nothing, and now appreciated every minute of her phenomenal success.

  The interviewer, an older man of stature, put her at ease immediately, and then they were off.

  As usual, Faye had warned her that she was not to talk about Tony. “What if he brings him up?” she’d said. “I have to say something.”

  “You’ll say what I told you before,” Faye had answered sternly. “And remember, you are now a married woman, so it would not be appropriate for you to discuss another man.”

  “I know,” Lola had argued, “but by the time the magazine hits the stands I might not be a married woman.”

  “Nobody knows that, do they, dear?”

  “Surely the magazine will be pissed if I talk lovingly about Matt, then dump him? They won’t have time to change their copy.”

  “Go ahead and pretend that you’re happily married,” Faye had insisted, refusing to change course. “We’ll deal with the divorce when it comes.”

  So that’s exactly what she did. She talked about her past movies, her future career plans, Matt, and the things they enjoyed doing together. “We like sending out for pizza and watching videos,” she found herself saying. “The simple things are best. Family, close friends. Our favorite evenings are spent staying at home.”

  Thankfully, after an hour and a half it was over, to be continued in L.A.

  “God!” she complained in the car, driving back to the hotel. “It’s so tough. I have to keep a smile on my face, listen to everything he says, ask him about his family, and appear to be interested. The truth is if I saw him on the street tomorrow, I wouldn’t even remember his name.”

  “Why do you feel you have to put on this persona for journalists?” Faye asked. “Why not be yourself?”

  “You try it, Faye,” she said irritably. “It isn’t easy. They come in with a preconceived idea of who I am and what they intend to write. Because I’m sexy and successful, they immediately think I’m going to be a diva or a bitch. It takes mucho energy and concentration to change their minds.”

  “You do a good job, Lola.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Try and get some rest before the party tonight.”

  “I plan to.”

  “And since I won’t be there, make sure that you and Matt do not fight in public. There will be photographers everywhere.”

  “Yes, Faye. I promise, Faye,” Lola chanted, fed up with hearing the same old thing.

  She ran into a couple of producers and an important director on her way up to her suite. It was always good to be seen in the right places.

  She entered the suite on a high, from which she rapidly came down when she was greeted by the sight of Matt lying on a massage table in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but a towel. The masseuse, clad in an electric-blue halter top and crotch-hugging shorts, looked more like a hooker than a professional.

  “Oh,” Lola said sarcastically. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Naw, that’s okay,” Matt said, not getting it as usual. “Nadine’s easing the tension in my back.”
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  Lola checked out his towel, noticing that he had an impressive hard-on.

  “I’ll be in the bedroom, I need my privacy,” she said, seriously pissed that he had some strange masseuse in their suite. For all he knew the woman could be a spy for the tabloids, and he was lying there with a hard-on. It simply wasn’t cool. Plus her stylist and her makeup and hair people would be arriving soon for touch-ups, and she wanted to be free to wander around in her robe. Matt was an albatross hanging around her neck. She would be so much happier when he wasn’t around.

  Deciding to take a shower, she marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Standing under the stream of warm water washing away her cares, she began to relax.

  Naturally, after a few moments she started thinking about Tony and whether she should call him one more time. She couldn’t blame him for being mad; his macho pride was hurt. If the situation were reversed she would be livid, and probably never speak to him again. Perhaps he needed more persuading that they should get back together.

  Tony Alvarez. She thought about his long black curly hair, dark sexy eyes, low-down dirty laugh, and the way he touched her in all the right places.

  Yes. Tony Alvarez. He was the man.

  And she wanted him back.

  • • •

  The moment Shelby entered their suite, Linc was all over her, barely giving her a chance to catch her breath. “You look beautiful. I missed you so much. C’mere, sweetheart, I love you,” he said, pulling her toward him. “Lemme see your ring. It sparkles like your eyes.”

  He smelled of mouthwash, a bad sign. And he was extremely loving—even more so than usual. She wanted to ask him if he’d been drinking, but she knew he’d get furious and deny it, so what was the point?

  He almost carried her into the bedroom. The bed was strewn with rose petals; a bottle of champagne stood in an ice bucket close by.

  “It’s not our anniversary,” she said, quite startled. “What is all this?”

  “It’s for you, baby. I’m showing you how much I love you.”

  “Then let’s not open the champagne.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” he asked, sounding hurt. “I told you, I’m not drinking anymore. Hey—one lousy glass of champagne never hurt anyone. Right, sweetie?”

  “You never stop at one glass, Linc.”

  “Don’t nag, Shell, I promise I’ll behave,” he said, starting to kiss her.

  She couldn’t resist him. Ever since the first time they’d met he’d always had a certain effect on her. Physically he was the most exciting man she’d ever been with. Not that there were many—only two before Linc that she’d actually slept with.

  He pushed her down on the bed. “When did you get time to do all this?” she gasped, overwhelmed by the sweet smell of the rose petals and Linc’s relentless touch.

  “I have my ways,” he said mysteriously, his practiced hands moving up and down her body.

  “I like your ways,” she said, shivering.

  “You do?” he said, releasing the clip on her bra.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “And you like this?” he continued, fondling her bare breasts.

  “Oh, yes, yes.”

  “Y’know, sweetie, I’ve been thinking,” he said, stopping for a moment and propping himself up on one elbow.

  “About what?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I think it’s about time you quit taking the pill.”

  She didn’t dare tell him that she’d stopped taking the pill three months ago. He was so paranoid about her getting pregnant that he usually pulled out before he reached orgasm.

  “Are you telling me something that you know I want to hear?” she asked softly.

  “I’m telling you you’re the most beautiful, sweetest woman I’ve ever met,” he said, caressing her nipples with his fingertips.

  Did this mean he was actually ready to make a baby?

  Yes, she was sure it did.

  A feeling of euphoria swept over her. This was the Linc she loved, the man she’d married. And now he was telling her that she could have his baby.

  She put all thoughts and doubts out of her mind, lay back, and totally surrendered to the moment.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  11

  “It’s about time you got your lazy, good-for-shit, fuckin’ dumb ass back here,” Merrill screamed at Jonas as soon as they returned to the yacht.

  Cat was shocked. She’d never seen Merrill like this—red in the face, eyes bulging, sweaty double chins quivering like jelly. Since she was used to standing up to bullies—her father was a classic example—she was not at all intimidated. “Quit with the screaming,” she said, staring defiantly at the angry mogul. “You were the one who made him spend the day with me. And we’ve had a very nice time, thank you—in case you’re interested.”

  “He’s got work to do,” Merrill yelled. “Fuckin’ work. We’re throwing a goddamn party, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Whatever you need, Mr. Zandack,” said Jonas, quick to fall back into loyal assistant mode.

  “I need you to get your useless ass in gear,” shouted Merrill.

  Cat headed downstairs to her cabin. She didn’t care to watch Jonas being humiliated in front of everyone. Today she’d discovered that he was a nice guy; he didn’t deserve to be treated like shit.

  Once in her cabin she picked up the phone and finally got through to Jump in Australia. “I’ve been desperate to speak to you,” she said, totally psyched to hear his voice. “What’s going on? You’re never in your room.”

  “I’m here now,” he mumbled. “An’ it’s the middle of the freakin’ night.”

  “Oh, sorry. How’s it going?”

  “Rock ’n’ roll, babe,” he said, giving a loud, audible yawn. “What can I tell you?”

  “Merrill’s behaving like a pig. I can’t wait to fill you in on all the horror stories when I see you. The best news is that I’m definitely getting my movie financed.”

  “ ’S good.”

  “So tell me everything about the tour. What’s Kris Phoenix like?”

  “He’s a cool dude, big star.” Another loud yawn.

  “You sound out of it.”

  “You’d be freakin’ out of it if you were woken up in the middle of the night,” he grumbled.

  “You could’ve called me.”

  “Gettin’ through to a boat is a hassle.”

  “What’re you talking about?” she said, frowning. “It’s a boat, not the freaking moon.”

  “You tryin’ to pick a fight with me?” he said belligerently. “Is that why you called?”

  “No, Jump,” she answered patiently. “I called to tell you that I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He was in one of his obnoxious moods, probably zoned out on weed. He was a big stoner—joints for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “I think you should call me when you’re conscious,” she said, determined not to lose her cool.

  “Whatever,” he mumbled.

  She slammed down the phone. What kind of a bug did he have up his ass?

  Grabbing her iPod, she lay down on the bed, put on her Bose headphones, and began listening to Eminem at full volume. Playing loud music always made her feel better.

  • • •

  Donatella Versace had designed Lola a drop-dead, in-your-face, cut-down-to-the-crack-in-her-butt, and plunging-in-the-front gown. There was not much material involved, but what there was, in slinky white silk cut on the bias, showed up every inch of her spectacular body. Her olive skin gleamed; her chestnut hair was wild and curly, swirling around her shoulders; diamond starburst earrings adorned her ears; and an emerald bullet hung around her neck, nestling between her breasts. She knew she looked hot.

  When she left the hotel on Matt’s arm, the photographers confirmed it by causing a small riot, all of them struggling and pushing to get the best shot. Matt was happy to pose beside her, the proud husband, determi
ned to score a career of his own.

  Merrill Zandack’s people had organized a flotilla of small boats to take the guests out to his yacht, which was majestically moored in the bay like a solitary shimmering summer jewel.

  “How will I get on a boat in these heels?” Lola worried, pointing at her Manolas.

  “Take ’em off,” Matt suggested, adding a gallant “I’ll carry you.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “I’d do anything for you, you’re my wife,” he said, thinking of the photo opportunities.

  She hated it when he was nice; it gave her an attack of the guilts. And Matt had been nice when she’d first met him. Nice and sexy and well endowed. Now he was just plain boring.

  Fortunately the sea was smooth as glass, making the ride to the yacht fast and easy. Several crewmen began tripping over one another to help her aboard. She realized as she climbed onto the yacht that she was giving everyone a fine view of her ass. Let ’em have a cheap thrill, she didn’t care.

  The yacht was festooned with fairy lights and exotic flowers; a Brazilian group played seductive background music; uniformed crew members were everywhere, plus good-looking, hot young waiters in tight white jeans and tee shirts with The Zandack emblazoned on the front in red lettering.

  Lola plucked a glass of champagne from a tray and basked in the attention coming her way.

  Merrill greeted her with a sloppy wet kiss on both cheeks. She wished people wouldn’t do that, it ruined her makeup.

  Sharon Stone wafted by; the woman seemed to be everywhere. And then Lola spotted Linc Blackwood and Shelby Cheney, who, according to the buzz, was the actress of the moment.

  Lola felt a shiver of resentment. Why couldn’t she score a role like Shelby had in Rapture? Why couldn’t she work with an Oscar-winning director like Russell Savage?

  She glanced around, seeing if she could spot Elliott Finerman. He’d better have made an offer to Linc, because if he hadn’t done so, she would be seriously angry. Elliott needed her to get his movie made. Surely he realized that without her he had no movie.