His career continued to progress in the best possible way. He found himself in the enviable position of being able to pick and choose what films he would do. His notices were always the best: ‘CHARLIE BRICK SHINES AGAIN’; ‘BRICK SAVES THE FILM’; ‘THE COMIC GENIUS OF CHARLIE BRICK’.
Lorna and he decided to move from their country home to a penthouse in Knightsbridge. The affair with Michelle had more or less finished, due to the fact that they were both working in different countries, and meetings became impossible to arrange.
Of course he realized he had been a fool. It had all been his fault. But the actual thing of making it with Michelle Lomas had been too much for him to miss. He felt, in a funny sort of way, that maybe he and Lorna would be closer because of it.
She didn’t feel the same. She was cold and unfriendly in spite of his attentiveness.
He decided to buy the penthouse in the hope that new surroundings would bring them together again.
Lorna did not become enthusiastic about it. She insisted they hire an interior decorator, and left the whole thing to him.
Two weeks after they moved in, Charlie had to go to Spain. When he returned, Lorna had moved out. She had left the children, and a short note saying: This is all your fault, don’t ever blame me.
She had vanished, and it took Charlie two weeks to find her. A private detective discovered her in a hotel room in Bayswater, in bed with an out-of-work stuntman. The detective took photos, and that was that. One divorce coming up.
At first Charlie couldn’t believe that Lorna would leave him for a ‘nothing’, a ‘nobody’. Why, the man wasn’t even good-looking.
But Lorna didn’t seem to care about anything. ‘Go ahead and divorce me,’ was all she said, ‘it will be a pleasure.’
He was left with the children, a nanny, his chauffeur, and a huge penthouse.
He could hardly believe it. He had finished with Michelle. He wanted Lorna. She was his wife. Couldn’t she understand that? He was prepared to forgive her for the stuntman. Surely she should forgive him? For the children alone she should be prepared to try again.
But she didn’t want to know.
She moved in with her boyfriend, and shortly afterwards her lawyer demanded the children. The law being what it was, she got them, but Charlie had ample access.
He sold the penthouse and moved into a hotel suite. He spent long evenings alone, sometimes just staring blankly at a wall, sometimes getting stoned on pot.
There were many girls. One night he would be with a stripper, the next with a married woman whose husband just happened to be out of town.
And they all let him down. One by one they tried to use him in some way or other.
With all of them he told his story: how unhappy he was; how his wife had left him for another man; how life and success only meant something if shared.
The women he saw more than once all half-expected him to propose. He hinted at it all the time. He made them each feel as if she were the only woman he wanted. But he treated them badly, stood them up, never called when he said he would, contacted them only when he felt like it, sometimes at two in the morning. He felt, in a way, he was getting his own back on Lorna. A different woman every night. But none of them meant anything.
It was a big change from the days when he had gone after Lorna. He had been the chaser then, and she had certainly given him a hard time.
They had met at a party in Manchester. He could remember his first impression of her very clearly as she was so unlike any other girls he had met. Her hair was pale yellow, pulled severely back into a bun, and she wore huge National Health glasses, which made her face look strangely small and pathetic. She wore no make-up, and was a bit on the short side. No raving beauty by any means, but to Charlie she was lovely.
Within a year they were married and spent their wedding night in the best hotel in Manchester, an extravagance they could hardly afford but which Charlie decided would be worth it. It wasn’t.
Although he had been seeing her for nearly a year, it hadn’t been an every night thing. Most of the time he was travelling round the country, and their time together had been limited. She lived with her family and had told him firmly and clearly, early on in the relationship, that there would be ‘none of that’ until she got married.
It was one of the reasons he decided to marry her. He was getting plenty of ‘that’ elsewhere, and the thought of a ‘nice’ girl he could marry and have children with was appealing. Besides, she really seemed to care about him. And he certainly cared about her.
At twenty-one Lorna was still a virgin, and from the way she carried on, it seemed she planned to stay that way.
She had undressed in the bathroom, and then refused to come out until all the lights were out. She then made a quick dive into bed, and by the time Charlie had washed and cleaned his teeth, she appeared to be asleep, bundled up beneath the covers with her dressing-gown still on. He slid into bed beside her.
After ten months of seeing each other as often as possible, they were still complete strangers as far as their bodies were concerned.
‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered, trying to work his hands beneath her tightly tied dressing-gown.
No reply.
After a struggle he reached her breasts. He played with them gently. She lay as if still asleep, eyes tightly shut.
It was very exciting for him to fondle this strange motionless body. After a short while he became so excited that he pulled all the bedclothes away and roughly yanked her nightdress above her waist.
She opened her eyes rapidly and started to protest.
She was the only virgin he had ever been with, and he became so carried away that he forgot about the fact that it was her first time. He bore down, harder and harder, until at last he came to a shuddering, shattering halt, and fell off her exhausted.
She lay there sobbing until gradually the sound of her crying got through to him. He lazily reached out and put his arm around her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said tenderly. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘It’s not all right.’ Her voice was harsh between her sobs.
‘What are you talking about?’ He was genuinely surprised. ‘I love you. I know it’s not good for you the first time, but it’s best to do it quickly, get it over with. Next time you’ll love it, you’ll see.’
But the next time didn’t happen for months, and when she finally did consent, it was only under protest.
On the few occasions they made love she lay beneath him as stiff and as still as a board. Perhaps if she had liked it better Michelle would never have happened . . .
Things improved when Charlie got a job in London. It was only in a run-down nightclub, but it was better than trudging from town to town week after week.
Lorna was pleased. They rented a small flat in Old Compton Street. It was no more than one large room, but it was somewhere permanent, more or less. Apart from their unsatisfactory sex life things were fine.
Charlie stayed at the nightclub for three years. He was sort of MC and comedian rolled into one, and although it was a clip-joint, it was a good steady living.
He was seen there one night by an American producer, who arrived backstage. ‘I want you to come to my office tomorrow and read for the part of Bernie the Pimp in my new show. It’s a small cameo, but important, very showy.’
Charlie started to protest that he wasn’t an actor, but the producer thrust his card at him and said it didn’t matter, he was just right.
The next day he read for the part and got it.
After six weeks of touring, the show finally came to London, and Charlie with his ‘small cameo’ part walked off with all the reviews. The show was panned, but he came out of it glowing.
He got himself an agent, and slowly but surely things started to happen. Another show, in which he again stole all the reviews. A small part in a film. A television appearance which turned into a highly successful series. A play. Several more films, and then the big break – a major Briti
sh comedy film in which he was the star. From there he never looked back.
After his success in the first show, Lorna became pregnant and they had a son – Sean. Then two years later, a little girl – Cindy. They moved into a big house in Wimbledon, and everything was fine until the film with Michelle.
* * *
Charlie wondered how Michelle would greet him. It had been nearly two years since they had last met. He was so fed up with the endless procession of girls who were only too willing to jump into bed with him at the mention of his name or the thought of being seen out with him. A woman like Michelle was different. Thank God.
He reached for one of the many scripts stacked on a table. He liked to read everything sent to him. That way there was no chance of missing out on anything good that might go to another actor.
He started to read. Thinking about Lorna had depressed him, but he soon became immersed in the script, and fell asleep while reading.
Chapter Four
Carey St Martin was a tall attractive black girl of twenty-eight. She wore her hair in a sleek Vidal Sassoon bob, and her clothes were smart and gave the impression of being expensive. She smoked twenty cigarettes a day, drove a pale beige year-old Thunderbird, and lived in an elegant three-room apartment high above the Strip.
Carey had done very well for herself.
It was a hot June day and the smog hung like cobwebs over Hollywood.
Carey yawned. What a drag for the agency to pick her to go and persuade Sunday Simmons to get her ass back on the picture. These starlets were all the same. Cute dumb bits of fluff, who had finally laid enough guys to get on film. Carey was proud to think that she had never laid anybody in her career to get where she was today.
She stopped at a red light, and a man in a Lincoln tried to catch her eye. She ignored him, and turned the air conditioning higher. Wow – it was hot!
Carey worked for Marshall K. Marshall, one of the biggest agents in town. She had started as a secretary seven years ago, and now she was, and had been for two years, a personal representative, looking after some of the clients he handled. Actually for some time now Carey had been seriously thinking of branching out on her own. What she really wanted to do was personal management. Carey St Martin, Public Relations & Management. Incredible!
She parked her car near the Château Marmont where Sunday was staying, and picked up the contract lying on the seat beside her. It stipulated that Sunday Simmons was contracted to work three weeks for Milan Productions from June 3rd to the 24th. Clause three mentioned a nude scene from the waist up, as written in the script.
Carey wondered what Sunday’s problem was. She must have read the contract before signing it.
Marshall had told her, ‘Get the silly little broad back to the studio – and fast. If she’s not back by four she’s off the picture, and they’ll probably sue. Anyway she won’t be able to work anywhere else – stupid bitch!’
Carey put on green-tinted sunglasses and walked into the Château. She was wearing a green linen two-piece dress purchased at Orbach’s, a Paris copy.
‘Yes?’ The little old lady at the desk glanced up.
She asked for Sunday’s room. It was funny how the lobby of the Château always seemed like a piece of Hollywood long gone. Shades of Sunset Boulevard.
Sunday had a suite on the fifth floor and Carey took the newly decorated elevator. Her mind was dwelling on an office building nearby where she had looked at space the previous week. She really meant to break with Marshall soon.
Sunday answered the door. She was dressed in a short orange muu-muu, her feet were bare, and she still had on her film make-up.
Carey felt a jolt at the sheer magnetism of the girl’s face. She held out her hand and said, ‘Hi, I’m Carey St Martin. Marshall K. Marshall sent me over to see if we can get things sorted out.’
‘I suppose you had better come in.’ Sunday’s big eyes were cloudy.
She led Carey into the living room, which was strewn with clothes and half-opened suitcases. Carey couldn’t decide if she was packing or unpacking.
‘Would you like a Coca-Cola? I’m afraid there’s no ice.’
‘Lovely. Can I get it?’
‘No, that’s all right.’ Sunday padded into the kitchen.
Carey sat down and opened up the contract. She wondered if Marshall had seen this girl.
Sunday came back in and handed her a glass. ‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she said quickly. ‘I know it makes me look like I’m being difficult, but really, I must explain it to you.’
‘Yes, sure,’ Carey replied, slightly taken aback. She hadn’t expected the apologetic bit, rather the ranting and raving scene. ‘By the way, if we can get you back on the set by four, all will be well.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t go back. Not unless things are different.’
‘You signed a contract, you know.’
‘I do know. Everyone keeps on pointing it out to me. But I have certain principles, and one of them is to be treated like a human being – not a piece of prize meat. Let me tell you about it. I’m sure, as a woman you will understand.’
Carey was fascinated by Sunday’s low husky voice, and the way she seemed to pick her words so precisely. She sat back and listened as Sunday related the whole story.
At the end she felt quite sorry for her. What a bunch of rat finks most guys were. However, it didn’t really merit the walking off the film bit. After all, she wasn’t a star, and only stars could get away with action like that. Besides which, there was still the contract to consider.
‘Look, honey, I know it’s tough. But the guys don’t mean any harm, and you did agree to take your clothes off. Now how about if I take you back to the studio, have a word with Abe Stein, and stay there with you?’
Sunday shook her head stubbornly. ‘No, I am definitely not going back. Not unless I get a formal apology from Mr Stein and a closed set.’
Carey sighed. ‘You’re asking the impossible.’
The phone rang and Sunday picked it up. The operator said, ‘The Hollywood Reporter is on the line, dear, and three other calls from papers holding on.’
She covered the mouthpiece. ‘The newspapers. What shall I tell them?’
Carey took the phone. ‘Let me deal with it.’ How the hell had they picked it up so quickly? She answered questions smoothly. No, Miss Simmons wasn’t available for comment. Yes, it would all be sorted out. No, she had not had a fight with Jack Milan. Yes, Miss Simmons would be back on the set later on today.
‘Why didn’t you tell them the truth?’ Sunday questioned after Carey had dealt with all the calls.
‘Because, sweetheart, if you’re smart we’ll take off for the studio right now. You don’t want a lawsuit on your hands, do you? And I gather you have plans for working in this town again. After all, everyone takes off their clothes today, there’s nothing wrong with it.’
Sunday suddenly laughed. ‘Carey, you’re a nice girl, very helpful, but we obviously are not going to see eye to eye on this, so I don’t think I should waste any more of your time.’
Carey looked at her in surprise. Was she being dismissed? What a laugh! She had expected to walk in here, deal with some hysterical attention-grabbing actress, dump her back at the studios and that would have been that. Instead she was faced with a girl, who seemed to know exactly what she was doing and went about it in a cool and calm fashion.
The phone rang again, and this time Sunday picked it up and kept it.
‘Yes, this is she. Yes, that is correct. No, I will not be returning unless I get a formal apology from the director and Mr Milan. I feel that as a woman I have every right to be treated with respect and that . . .’
Carey listened in amazement. She had a funny feeling that Sunday Simmons was going to be a big star. She just felt it.
The interview was perfect. Carey could see it in print now. Abe Stein and Jack Milan were going to appear as the villains, and Sunday a put-upon innocent.
Oh boy, she had done her duty
for Marshall K. Marshall; now how about looking at it from Sunday’s point of view, and becoming her personal manager?
This girl was a natural.
Chapter Five
London was going through a once-in-a-blue-moon heatwave, and Charlie was delighted that he had insisted on having a swimming pool built in his mother’s Richmond garden.
It was the weekend, and he had arrived to spend the day with his children, who were staying with their grandmother for a few days. It seemed to him that Lorna was only too anxious to get rid of Cindy and Sean whenever she could. It was a bloody shame that the judge hadn’t given him custody of them. Sean, at eight, was sturdy and tough, and Cindy, two years younger, was a prettier version of her mother.
Charlie lay on a beach-chair next to his mother, watching them splash in the pool. She was a bird-like woman, clad in a two-piece swimsuit that showed off gnarled flesh and drooping bosom. She wore vivid make-up, heavy rouge, green eyeshadow, and a splash of carmine for her mouth. Her hair was mostly hidden beneath a cyclamen scarf, and a cigarette drooped permanently from her mouth.
‘I look wonderful for nearly sixty,’ she would often proudly announce. And indeed there was always a ‘gentleman friend’ around.
Charlie adored his mother. Such a character, always happy, living life to its full potential. Serafina Brick, exile from the variety palaces of England.
Charlie had brought a girl with him. Her name was Polly Quinn. At least she didn’t talk too much.
She emerged from the house wearing a polka-dot bikini. Bouncy breasts and baby rolls of fat around the middle. She settled herself on the grass, next to Charlie. ‘Isn’t this weather super?’ she stated, and lying on her stomach she unhooked her bra strap. Not another word was heard out of her until lunch.
Natalie and Clay Allen and their three-year-old child arrived at twelve. Clay was one of Charlie’s best friends, an ex-actor, now a successful screenwriter. They had known each other from the days of Charlie’s first film. Natalie Allen was thin and attractive. She and Charlie had a sort of unspoken ‘thing’ going. He knew she fancied him, but she being Clay’s wife and everything, nothing had actually been done about it. Once at a party when they had both been drunk, they had necked, but Charlie was rather ashamed of this one lapse.
Sinners Page 3
