Shakily she got out of bed. She felt dirty and used. She just wanted to get away from these two sick people. She just wanted to get out of the house.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater.
‘Where are you going?’ Claude asked, as she walked unsteadily to the door.
‘A wedding.’
‘Fine. But we work tomorrow as usual. I’m sure when you think about it, you’ll see how right everything is.’
She picked up her big bag and left without another word.
Fortunately her car was outside. She leaned her head on the steering-wheel and tried to think where to go. It was too far to attempt to drive to Los Angeles, at least in the state she was in. Yet she had nowhere else to go. It was seven o’clock in the morning. A hotel?
Suddenly she thought of Charlie Brick, He had a house. Carey was getting married there that afternoon. She fished in her bag and found the address, then drove to the nearest filling station and asked directions.
Chapter Fifty
Charlie always woke up early. He liked to swim before it got too hot. This morning in particular he was anxious to check everything out, to inspect the patio and the archway of flowers specially erected for the wedding, to test out the platform where the couple would stand to be married.
Long white trestle-tables stood ready to be laden with food. Striped awnings, hung with flowers, protected them from the sun.
He put his two movie cameras, the Japanese Argus and the Bolex, carefully on a special table. Next to them went the stills cameras, the Leica, Rolleiflex, and Pentax, and a neat pile of film.
Carey was arriving at eleven, the caterers at twelve, the preacher at one, the guests at two.
The wedding was planned to take place at two-thirty. There was plenty of time.
He glanced at his watch, it was just past seven. There was not much left for him to do. He had decided what to wear. Perhaps he should give old Marsh a call, wake him up and tell him to come over for coffee. Marshall was staying with friends nearby.
Then he heard a car arriving, and he strolled out to the driveway to see who it was. The car screeched to a halt and Sunday Simmons jumped out.
At first he didn’t recognize her. Her hair was uncombed, wild, and there were deep shadows under her eyes. Then he looked at the rest of her and remembered. There was no one else built like that!
‘You’re a bit early, love,’ he said, and then noticing how her eyes couldn’t quite focus, he quickly went over to her and took her arm. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’
She leaned on him, not quite sure how she had ever found the house, feeling sick and tired. ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ she muttered. He got her inside and over the downstairs toilet. He held her while she vomited.
What was it all about? Was she a drinker? Had she been on a bad drug trip?
She was wearing nothing under the thin sweater. She had probably had a bad scene with her boyfriend. But why come to him?
When he could see she was all right, he left her alone, went into the kitchen and told the maid to make tea and toast. He drank a big glass of apple juice, and took two spoonfuls of wheat germ and honey. He was on a health kick.
She didn’t emerge for twenty minutes. She had washed her face and brushed her hair back.
He took her hand, led her into the breakfast room and made her drink the hot sweet tea waiting there.
Neither of them spoke.
She leaned back in the chair and stared out of the glass doors at the wedding preparations.
He thought he had never seen a woman quite so beautiful.
‘This is the best cup of tea I’ve had since I was in London,’ she said at last. ‘Can I have some more please?’
He poured her another cup. ‘I always bring me own tea,’ he replied in a funny Cockney accent. ‘These bleeding Yanks got no idea when it comes to tea.’
She smiled softly.
The phone rang and she signalled wildly that she was not there.
It was Marshall. Charlie kept the conversation short and told him he would call back later. He turned to Sunday and said, ‘Don’t you think I should know what’s going on?’
She nodded. ‘I suppose you should, since I came and dumped myself on your doorstep. It’s a long story and I feel pretty awful. What I’d really like to do is have a bath and a sleep. I came here because I didn’t want to miss Carey’s wedding. I don’t want her to know about any of this, I don’t want to spoil her day. You see, she was right all along, she warned me that—’
She stopped abruptly as Maggi came bouncing in, clad in a short towelling beach jacket, her red hair in bunches. ‘Ooops, sorry, am I interrupting something?’ said Maggi brightly. ‘I thought I’d get up early and help.’
‘That’s all right, love.’ Charlie was secretly choked. Maggi had never risen before ten yet. She was just bloody nosey.
‘Maggi, this is Sunday Simmons.’
‘Hello,’ Maggi said, and sat down, grabbing a piece of toast.
‘I expect your room’s ready now,’ Charlie said to Sunday. ‘Y’know, love, it’s really a nice surprise you were able to get here so early. Come on, I’ll show you the way.’ He led her upstairs. ‘Take no notice of Maggi,’ he said, ‘she’s an idiot. Have you got anything to wear for the wedding?’
Sunday shook her head. ‘I don’t even have shoes.’
‘If you write down your sizes I’ll send someone to Saks for an outfit.’ He took her into a guest suite overlooking the garden.
‘You’ve been really kind,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain it all to you later, but please, promise me, don’t tell Carey.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell her, have I? She’ll be here at eleven, but I’ll put her in the other side of the house, and if you stay here, I’ll come for you before the wedding. OK?’
‘Fine. Thanks again, Charlie. I just don’t know how to thank you.’
I do – he thought – I know the ideal way. Bye, bye, Maggi, it was short and sweet.
* * *
Carey had a mild case of panic coupled with a bad attack of nerves. She arrived accompanied by her sister, a fat girl dressed entirely in pink. What a mistake to have brought Mary Jane before the others. She didn’t understand, or even approve of the whole scene. To marry an older man was bad enough, but a white one was worse. Carey’s whole family presented a united front of ill-concealed disapproval.
She cornered Charlie. ‘Listen, it’s not that I usually turn on before lunch, but if you don’t want a collapsed bride on your hands, please – just a little smoke.’
He grinned. ‘What a marvellous idea, love, come along to my bedroom.’
‘Let me just get rid of my sister and I’ll be there.’
They sat on his bed, giggling a bit, and Carey said, ‘Isn’t this silly? Why should I be afraid of getting married?’
Charlie agreed, dragging on the joint and passing it to her.
When they came out Maggi was hovering. ‘What have you two been up to?’ she accused.
‘Nothing that would interest you, my love,’ Charlie replied, deciding that one couldn’t make a bloody move in his own house without Maggi poking her nose in. He was half tempted to tell Carey about Sunday. After all, Carey was his friend, and surely his loyalties lay with her? But there was something about Sunday that inspired his confidence and he knew he wouldn’t give her away.
* * *
The wedding went off beautifully. Carey made a stunning bride in a short gold brocade dress with flowers in her hair. Marshall was nervous and flustered. The place was thick with relatives from both sides, and although black and white made no difference to Carey and Marshall, both sets of relatives bristled with prejudice and resentment.
The ceremony itself was short and simple, and then there was champagne, a cold buffet, and a huge wedding cake inscribed ‘100 per cent at last!’
Charlie tried to keep an eye on Sunday, but shortly after Carey and Marshall departed for their honeymoon and the guests started to thin out, he
couldn’t find her. She had taken her car and gone.
Chapter Fifty-One
Sunday hoped that no one noticed her departure as she slipped out just before Carey and Marshall. She felt badly about Charlie Brick. He had been extremely understanding and kind, and maybe she owed him an explanation, but why involve him in her life? She had a decision to make, and only she could make it.
She was filled with anger, and disgusted with herself for being such a fool. Hadn’t she learnt anything about men? She should have seen Claude Hussan for what he was at the very beginning. What kind of a man was it who broke into a hotel room and made love to a woman by way of introduction? And what kind of a woman was it who responded to an introduction of that sort?
‘A frustrated one,’ she muttered. ‘And he knew it and just walked right in.’
She drove the car hard and fast, heading for Los Angeles and sanity.
Did Claude and his wife really think she would accept what had happened and continue with the film?
She wished she could have told Carey, but Carey had gone to Hawaii for a week, and she didn’t want to spoil her honeymoon. Knowing Carey, she would have cancelled her trip and stayed to sort things out.
Actually there was nothing to sort out. Whatever happened, whatever harm it did her, Sunday had made up her mind not to finish the film.
Claude would lose too. He had gambled on the fact that her career meant more to her than her pride. She was an actress after all, and actresses always put their careers before all else, didn’t they? Through all the hurt there was at least a slight sense of satisfaction that she could hurt him too. Her decision was to go home and wait. Claude had to make the first move. He was the one who had created the situation.
Of course there was the boy, Jean-Pierre. Still at her house. She was quite willing to keep him, indeed she would do anything rather than give him back to Claude and his wife.
She entered the city on Sunset tired and hungry. She pulled the car into a drive-in and ordered a tuna sandwich and a glass of milk.
‘Hey, Sunday, I can’t believe it!’ It was Branch Strong. He looked suntanned and brawny in T-shirt and jeans and was carrying four large milk-shake cartons balanced on top of one another. ‘I thought you were still in the Springs. When did you get back? Why didn’t you call?’
‘I just got back. I’m on my way home now.’
‘You drove? Alone? If you had asked I’d have come and fetched you.’
She smiled. ‘Where are you going with all those milk shakes?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Well – er, these are for Max. He’s got a craving for them right now, he’s like an old lady. Hey, why don’t you come back and see him. He’d like that.’
Branch knew perfectly well that Max would hate it, as at that very moment he was probably preparing himself for Branch’s return by draping his naked body on the new fur bedspread he had bought. Max liked milk shakes followed by sex, and he didn’t like varying the routine.
‘I’m just grabbing a sandwich, then it’s straight home. I’m really exhausted.’
Branch shrugged, disappointed yet relieved. ‘Listen, I want to ask you to do me a real big favour. There’s a première of The Twelve Guns tomorrow night. I only have a small part – but important – like it could mean a lot for me. It’s a big première – everyone’s going to be there – will you be my date?’
‘I just got back – I don’t know – I hate premières – I don’t think so.’
His face fell. ‘Hey, Sunday – like, please. I need you there. It would be so good for me to walk in with you. In fact I told the studio you were my date. They gave me great seats.’
‘How could you do that? You didn’t even know I’d be here.’
He looked sheepish. ‘I know. I figured I’d say you couldn’t get away at the last minute. It was really kind of a stupid thing for me to do. Your name is advertised with the list of stars that are going. How about it? A helping hand, huh?’
‘Oh, all right.’ Let Claude see that she didn’t give a damn.
They made arrangements and parted.
Branch was elated. He ran whistling into Max Thorpe’s house. Max, as expected, was reclining nude on the fur bedspread.
‘Bad news,’ Branch mumbled, placing the milk shakes carefully on a bedside table. ‘I just ran into Sunday and she came back specially to go to the première with me. She saw all the ads and figured she should be here.’
‘What?’ Max said, going red in the face. ‘But what about me? You promised the ticket was for me.’
‘Yeah, I know that. But I had to tell the studio I was taking a girl, and it was your idea I said Sunday as she was away. Well, now she’s back.’ Trying to hide a smirk, Branch unzipped his trousers and pulled off his T-shirt before joining Max on the fur bedspread.
Max waved him peevishly away. ‘I don’t want you tonight,’ he said in a petulant voice. ‘What about my violet dinner jacket? Brand new and wasted.’
Branch shrugged, quickly getting up and pulling on his clothes. ‘Sorry, it’s not my fault.’ He was fed up with Max, bored with the whole faggoty scene.
He liked girls. How much longer before he could tell Max Thorpe to get stuffed?
* * *
Sunday was surprised, there were lights and music coming from her house. She glanced at her watch; it was nearly eleven. What was Katia up to? She had been hired because she seemed quiet and responsible.
She walked into her house, into a sea of strange faces, most of them Mexican, dancing to a James Brown record, colourfully dressed and noisy.
In the midst of the crowd she saw Katia pressed up against the wall by a young man, her face soft and smiling. She was wearing a blue dress that belonged to Sunday, and nearby, curled up in a corner, his knees tucked under his chin, was Jean-Pierre, his big eyes gravely watching.
‘Hey, baby, who are you?’ A boy grabbed Sunday’s arm. ‘Where did you spring from?’
Angrily, she snatched her arm away.
A perfect ending to the day!
She strode over, picked up Jean-Pierre, and turned on Katia. The girl’s eyes had become big and frightened and she was stammering something about it being her birthday.
‘Get everyone out of here right now,’ Sunday said and, carrying Jean-Pierre, she marched into her bedroom.
All her clothes were spread out across the bed. A spilled bottle of perfume dripped from the bedside table.
‘Are you all right?’ She hugged the little boy.
He nodded shyly, burying his head on her shoulder.
She moved the clothes off the bed and put Jean-Pierre beneath the covers.
There were sounds of doors slamming and cars starting up.
Sunday brushed her hair back wearily and sighed. Would this day never end?
Chapter Fifty-Two
Herbert Lincoln Jefferson confronted Louella Crisp the day-after Marge had told him about the deal – and the money Louella had to have. They had never met, although of course he had seen her through the window when he was spying on Marge. She had stringy breasts and short veined legs and rolls of fat around the belly of her otherwise skinny body.
He prepared himself carefully, showering, shaving, combing his straight dark brown hair for a long time. He cleaned his fingernails, and had Marge polish his shoes, a job she had given up because of her recent triumphs. He wore a grey suit recently returned from the cleaners, and a sickly yellow sports shirt with a green wool tie.
He considered he looked immaculate, and admired himself for quite some time in the bathroom mirror.
Louella Crisp would soon see she was dealing with a man of substance, not a pathetic fool like Marge.
Louella in fact took one look at Herbert and decided that here was a mean sonofabitch. She didn’t want to mess with him: she wanted to grab the money and run. Maybe she might even forget about the money. He had such evil little eyes, cold, empty and spiteful.
He sat down in her living room and stared at her. ‘I’m not Marge, you
know,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve been taking advantage of Marge. I know what’s been going on. I’ve seen the things you do in this house.’
‘Never mind what you’ve seen,’ Louella said quickly, making up her mind that she would get the two thousand dollars out of him. ‘What about the things I know. Personal things about you, things my friends in the police department would be interested to hear about?’
His eyes stared at her, flat and expressionless. ‘You’re not talking to Marge. I’m not a fool. The money’s for you. Two thousand dollars, and that’s the end of the matter. I can get it for you, but I’ll need your help.’
‘In what way?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘In a way you’ll like. In the way you make your money now.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced two glossy photos of Sunday Simmons which he had stolen from her house. Across one he had scrawled, ‘Any time you call – Love, Sunday.’
He handed the pictures to Louella, who looked at them blankly. ‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend of mine,’ he said briskly. ‘A very close friend of mine. In fact, we’re so close that she’d do anything for me.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Anything.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
When the last guests departed Charlie felt depressed. He had sent Maggi packing during the afternoon. She had started to say things like, ‘All my friends say I should be an actress, what do you think?’
‘I think you’d better go home,’ he had replied.
Now he was alone again and miserable. So miserable in fact that on impulse he climbed into his new black Ferrari and started to drive to Los Angeles. He felt in need of company, a change of locale. He planned to check into the Beverly Hills Hotel and telephone Clay.
Sinners Page 27
