“Richard wasn’t boring,” Serena sighed, naming her English bad-boy lover who’d dumped her.
“Nor was Andy,” Petra said, naming her violent, soon-to-be-ex, football star husband.
“And neither was Tony,” Lola said, naming her cocaine-addicted ex-lover. “So I’ve made a decision— I’m getting him back.”
“Lucia!” Isabelle exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”
“No, dear Sis, I’m finally sane, and I want my Tony back.”
“Tony Alvarez is a hottie,” Serena remarked.
“Tony Alvarez?” Petra said. “The director guy?” “That’s him,” Lola said proudly.
“Baby, go for it!” Petra encouraged her. “That man is gorgeous. Why’d you ever leave him?”
“Don’t you read the tabloids?” Isabelle snapped.
“Only about myself,” Petra retorted.
“Tony Alvarez is a drug addict,” Isabelle said flatly.
“Who isn’t?” Petra responded. “I can’t get through the day without a couple of Vicodin and a shot of vodka.”
“God! Lucia!” Isabelle cried, rapidly sobering up. “What will Mama say?”
“It’s my deal,” Lola answered boldly, full of smooth red wine. “Nobody’s business but mine.”
“I bet Tony’s a wild man in the sack,” Petra said, eyes gleaming.
“Richard was a wild man,” Serena said wistfully. “I’ve never experienced anyone like him.”
“Big dick?” Petra asked matter-of-factly.
Serena blushed. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not, honey?” Petra said, admiring her gold fake nails. “They talk about us.”
“He went back to his girlfriend in England,” Serena said miserably. “I hate him! He used me.”
“You can get him back if you really want him,” Lola offered. “Men are easy.”
“For you,” Serena said.%
“For any woman with half a brain and great boobs,” Petra said, fluffing out her white-blond curls.
“I don’t have great boobs,” Serena wailed.
“Then buy ’em,” Petra said. “I did. And in case anyone’s interested, my Andy is a solid eight and a half inches, and I’m walking away from that ’cause he’s a no-good, battering bastard, and I’ve had it.”
Both Lola and Serena applauded. Isabelle didn’t. She was too shell-shocked by her sister’s announcement and the direction this conversation was taking. Isabelle considered herself a worldly woman; however, discussing the size of a man’s member was plain dirty—although she couldn’t help making a quick mental note to bring a ruler to bed. Armando would definitely be a winner!
• • •
Much to Shelby’s surprise, Linc agreed to go into rehab. “I don’t need to,” he said resignedly, “and the rags’ll make a meal of it, but if that’s what’ll make you happy . . .”
Shelby was relieved. Since getting back to L.A., her cold and unforgiving attitude toward him had obviously had the required effect.
She called Brenda, who said, “Yes, get him in there immediately.”
The next day she drove him to a discreet Malibu retreat where many of the big stars went when they needed help.
“You do know this is a big joke,” he said as he got out of the car. “I’m perfectly sober. Haven’t had a drink in days. You know I don’t need this.”
For a moment she weakened. He was right; no drinking had taken place since they’d arrived back from Europe. Unfortunately that didn’t mean it was over. Linc needed professional help.
Unbeknownst to her, Linc had switched from booze to cocaine. He’d discovered that a quick snort got him through the day and was less detectable than a swig of scotch. Shelby would never suspect drugs; she was too naive, which was one of the things he loved about her. Even though she was an actress, living and working in the thick of Hollywood, she’d managed to maintain her innocence when it came to the wilder things in life. The truth was he didn’t want to lose her, and sometimes he knew he came perilously close. London had not been good. He’d blown a shitload of money at the casino, and later he’d ended up in some bimbo’s apartment getting a mediocre blow job.
Christ! Not smart. Thank God Shelby hadn’t found out.
Upon entering the facility, a polite man at the front desk asked to go through his bag, then searched the clothes he had on.
Linc didn’t care. It wasn’t as if he was addicted or shit like that. Cocaine. Booze. He could leave them both alone if he wanted to.
The problem was that he didn’t want to.
• • •
Cat embarked on a major shopping spree—not for clothes; she was more interested in getting her apartment in shape. She took a trip to Melrose and discovered an interesting rug shop where she purchased several colorful rugs. Next she ordered two Shabby Chic couches and an ornate Mexican mirror. Then she found a stately stone Buddha, and an old oil-painting of jazz great Billie Holiday. After that came the big splurge—she moved on to Robertson and purchased a highly expensive oversized bed, and tons of enormous soft cushions. Then, finally, two flat-screen TVs, a DVD player, an Apple computer, and an extremely extravagant Bose stereo system.
At last she felt at home. Now she could get back to work.
CHAPTER
* * *
17
Claudine Sanchez called a family conference. Lola was surprised it had taken so long, since she’d been home from the spa for almost a week. She phoned Mama back, told her she was busy and couldn’t make it.
“You will make it, Miss Movie Star,” Claudine retorted with gusto. “And you will make it tonight.”
There was no arguing with Claudine Sanchez. Once her mind was set, everyone in the family had to jump— including Lola, although she still couldn’t figure out why she had to comply. She was rich. She was famous. But the bottom line was that she was still Claudine’s daughter.
On the business front things were good. She was pleased because Elliott had gotten Linc Blackwood to sign on for New York State of Mind. She’d already started costume fittings and getting her head in the right place. Every movie was different, and this one was bound to be more than interesting. It was payback time, and now she had the perfect opportunity.
Big Jay, her bodyguard/driver, delivered her to her parents’ house, where the entire family was gathered. Louis Sanchez, Isabelle (with a smug, I-had-to-tell-them look on her face), her other sister, Selma, and Louis Junior— like it was any of his business.
Lola marched into the living room. “What?” she demanded impatiently, throwing down her new Gucci bag. “Why did I have to come here tonight? I’m about to start a movie. This is not good timing for me.”
“In this family,” Claudine said sternly, “divorce is not good timing either.”
“What are you talking about?” she said irritably.
“I’m talking about the things your sister told me.”
“And what exactly did she tell you?” Lola said, shooting Isabelle a killer look.
Claudine gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s no good trying to deny it, Lucia. Isabelle says you’re planning on divorcing Matt.”
“What if I am?” Lola said, exasperated. “Is it anybody’s business except mine?”
“I don’t understand what’s become of you,” Claudine said, shaking her head. “I taught you to be a good daughter. Now it seems that all this fame and stardom has gone to your head.”
“How’s the house, Mama?” Lola said, standing her ground. “Comfortable? Because all my fame and stardom is what bought it for you.”
“Don’t sass me, girl,” Claudine said, her tone sharpening.
“I warned her not to marry Matt,” Louis said, joining in. “The poor bastard’s got no cojones. He’s not a man. It was never a match.”
“Be quiet,” Claudine said, silencing her unfaithful husband with a steely glare.
“It’s true, Mama,” Louis Junior said, slouching across the room.
“You stay out of this,�
�� Lola snapped, turning on her brother. “It’s none of your business. Do you get it?”
“No, I don’t get anything,” Louis Junior whined. “Mama and Papa get a house, my sisters get all kinda shit—an’ I get nothin’.”
“What is it you expect from me?” Lola demanded.
“You’re my sister,” he said sulkily. “You should give me a job.”
“Why me? I’m not responsible for you. If you shifted your lazy ass you might manage to get a job on your own.”
“Who’re you callin’ lazy?” Louis Junior retaliated. “If you—”
“Stop fighting,” Claudine ordered. “Lucia—what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m twenty-four years old, Mama,” Lola said, furious that she had to deal with this crap. “I can do anything I like. And if I decide to divorce Matt, it’s between him and me.”
“What happened with you an’ Matt?” Louis Senior asked, scratching his chin. “The bastard beat you? ’Cause if he did—”
“Ha!” Lola scoffed. “I’d like to see a man beat me. I’d kick him in the balls exactly like you taught me, Papa.”
Louis grinned, proud of his famous daughter, who quite obviously possessed the cojones her husband lacked.
Selma spoke up. “It’s really none of our business,” she said. “If Lucia feels this is the right thing for her to do, then she must go ahead and do it.”
“Thank you,” Lola said gratefully. “And as for you,” she added, shooting another venomous glare at Isabelle, who sat on the couch, hands clasped in front of her as if she wasn’t Miss Gossip of the World, “I gave you three fabulous days at a luxury spa, and this is how you repay me? You couldn’t wait to run to Mama and tell her about me and Matt. I’m surprised you didn’t sell your story to one of those supermarket rags.”
“Your mama’s right,” Louis Senior said, deciding to take on the role of man of the house. “You better have a special reason for divorce.”
“Yeah,” agreed Louis Junior. “A very special reason.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Lola exploded, fed up with being spoken to as if she were a child. “Will you all butt out. It’s my fucking divorce.”
“Excuse me, Miss Movie Star?” Claudine said, her face thunderous. “What did you say?”
“It’s my fucking divorce,” Lola repeated.
“Leave now,” Claudine said, standing up, full of rage. “I will not put up with street language in my house. Come back when you can behave yourself like a lady.”
“Why should I answer to any of you?” Lola said, getting more angry and frustrated by the minute. “You can all go screw yourselves.”
She turned around and walked out.
Damn! They were ignorant. How dare they think they could still boss her around? She was a star. A rich movie star. She was important and famous.
Big Jay jumped to attention, hurriedly opening the car door for her. She got in, muttering to herself.
“You say somethin’, Miss Lola?” Big Jay asked. He was a huge tree trunk of a black man with Rastafarian dreadlocks and a soft, Michael Jackson voice.
“Yes,” she said, still simmering. “Unless there’s a gun to my head, never bring me here again. And that’s an order.”
• • •
”Casting is a strange and wonderful thing,” Merrill lectured, sitting behind his enormous desk in his vast office overlooking the city of Los Angeles.
“I know,” Cat replied carefully. “But if the casting’s not right, then nothing works.”
“You’re still a neophyte in this business,” Merrill said, puffing on his usual fat Cuban cigar. “If I can persuade Lola Sanchez or Shelby Cheney to play the lead in Caught, you should kiss my ass. And I think I got Nick Logan hooked for the con man. A star makes all the difference at the box office.”
“I don’t care,” she said, her mouth set in a stubborn line.
“You’re not dealing with a small, piece-of-shit movie now, Cat. You’ve moved into the big leagues. So grow up and start realizing how lucky you are to have me behind you.” More thick smoke wafted in her direction.
She glanced over at Jonas. He was sitting at the side of Merrill’s desk, taking notes. No help there.
“But Mr. Zandack—” she argued.
“How many times I gotta tell ya—call me Merrill.”
“What if you sign an actress who’s completely wrong for the role?”
“You tellin’ me my business?”
“I’m just—”
“Shut up an’ listen,” he said, interrupting her. “If I say we hire a big star, that’s what we do. An’ if that big star doesn’t want you to direct—you gotta go along with that too.”
“If I don’t direct,” she said, sitting up very straight, “there’ll be no movie.”
“No kiddin’?” Merrill said. “Guess you’re forgetting about the contracts you signed.”
Alarm bells started going off in her head. “What contracts?”
“Let me jog your memory, kitten. When my company took over distribution of Wild Child, you signed contracts givin’ me all rights on your next project. Which means you’ll direct if the star wants you to—and if she doesn’t, too bad.”
“I don’t believe this,” she said, standing up.
“Believe it. You wanted a big-budget movie, you got it.”
Dazed and confused, she left his office. She needed time to digest what he’d said and study the contracts that she must have signed. It wasn’t enough that she’d had such a shattering experience with Jump. Now this.
Downstairs in the parking lot she climbed into her rented car—a red convertible Mustang. Her mind was racing. She knew what she had to do: hire a sharp lawyer and stop behaving like a foolish little girl. It was quite apparent that Merrill Zandack was a man used to doing things his way, and she was naive for not getting professional advice in the first place. And that was Jump’s fault; he’d always had an aversion to lawyers. “Why pay when you can figure it out for yourself?” he’d said. So when Merrill’s business affairs people had given her contracts to sign, she hadn’t bothered consulting a lawyer; she’d simply gone ahead and signed, thinking she could trust Merrill not to screw her.
Wrong! She was an idiot. A fool. According to Merrill she’d signed away all rights.
As she was driving from the parking lot, Jonas came running up to her car. “Glad I caught you,” he said.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said flatly.
“We should go for coffee, talk about things.”
“What’s to talk about?”
“Plenty.”
She frowned. “Can you explain what just happened?”
“I can try,” he said, genuinely eager to help her out.
“Then get in the car and let’s go,” she said, deciding she had nothing to lose.
He shook his head. “Can’t do it now, I’m working. How about later?”
“Come by my apartment.”
“I’ll be there soon as I finish.”
“What time?”
“Depends on his mood.”
“Great,” she said irritably. “You can’t even tell me what time you get off work.”
“Don’t start with me, Cat. I’m trying to help you.”
“In that case, do me a big one and bring me copies of the contracts I signed.”
“Hasn’t your lawyer got them?”
“Uh . . . I don’t have a lawyer,” she admitted, knowing how dumb she must sound.
“That isn’t smart.”
“Like tell me something I don’t know.”
“Look,” he said sympathetically. “Everything’ll work out.”
“Sure,” she replied, unconvinced. “My heroine will either have a Latino accent or an English one. And a big, sexy ass. Perfect for the role of an edgy undercover cop.”
Jonas made a valiant attempt to change the subject. “You didn’t mention Australia. Was it fun?”
“Oh yeah,” she answered sarcastically. “An absolute
blast.”
“That’s not a happy voice.”
“I don’t want to get into it now,” she said, realizing that for some inexplicable reason she felt like crying, and wouldn’t that look weak in front of Jonas. “Later,” she said, revving her engine.
And with that she drove off.
• • •
The woman sitting at the bar was mysterious, in her tinted glasses, big hat, long straight black hair, with heavy bangs concealing most of her face, and formfitting black tailored suit. Her legs were encased in the sheerest of black stockings, and on her feet were the highest of heels.
“Hey,” the man said, sliding onto the bar stool next to her.
“Hey, yourself,” the woman responded.
“You come here a lot?” the man asked. He was Latino and handsome, not particularly tall, with longish jet-black hair, full lips, and brooding eyes.
“Occasionally,” the woman replied, sipping a martini.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a housewife. And you?”
“A salesman.”
She placed her glass on the bar. “Is there something you’d care to sell me?”
“Come up to my room and we’ll see if I got anything that interests you.”
“I’m sure there’s a possibility,” she murmured.
The man slid a key into her hand. “Room three-oh-six, five minutes.” He left the bar.
Slowly the woman finished her martini, paid the bar tab, got up, and sashayed from the room. Several eyes swiveled to watch the mysterious creature.
Traveling up in the elevator she took several deep breaths before walking down the corridor to room 306. The anticipation was a killer.
The woman slipped the key into the lock and entered.
The man was lying on the bed in black bikini underwear. Naturally he was hard. The woman would not have expected anything less.
“Is that what you have to show me?” she said boldly.
“Lock the door,” he said in a low voice. “Strip, baby. Gimme a show.”
The woman turned around and locked the door. Then she removed her sunglasses and hat. Her long straight hair still mostly concealed her face. Anyone with a practiced eye could tell it was a wig.
Hollywood Divorces Page 17
