Hollywood Sinners

Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.

‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’

‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.

‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’

Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’

‘There’s talk that—’

He climbed in and slammed the door.

An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.

‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’

‘’S no big deal.’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’

Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’

Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.

So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.

4

Los Angeles

The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.

‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.

‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’

Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.

‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’

It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.

‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’

‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’

Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.

‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.

Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.

‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.

Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.

At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.

It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.

‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’

Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’

‘Come to lunch.’

‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’

‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’

Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.

It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.

‘You’ve got talent and you’re beautiful,’ Rita had said after their meeting, grinding out a cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Believe me, it’s rare. We’re going straight to the top, sweetheart.’ Her agent had gone on to secure a string of small but carefully selected TV deals, and a little over a year later Lana had landed her first break: a starring role in one of America’s most beloved sitcoms. Since then she’d gained precious credibility in a couple of cleverly positioned independent films, and in the months that followed LA’s casting agents were over her like a rash.

‘And don’t forget Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party next week,’ said Rita, dragging her back to the present. ‘I know it’s not easy with the Cole situation.’

‘Hmm.’ Lana felt a crunch of dread. Kate diLaurentis was a ruthless actress in her forties with balls of iron and a face full of Botox. She was also Cole Steel’s ex-wife.

‘My advice? Conserve your energies,’ Rita said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s invited press so you and Cole are gonna have to look the part.’

Lana closed her eyes, giving in to the alternate notes of exhaustion and fear that his name evoked.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m here.’ She checked the time and started to get her bag together. Cole’s driver would be turning up in minutes and she couldn’t be late for the car–anything extraordinary would arouse her husband’s attention.

‘I know it’s difficult,’ said Rita, blowing out smoke. ‘We never thought it would be easy. But you’re doing it, girl, and that’s what matters.’

The women said their goodbyes and Lana hung up. She’d do anything to be able to confide in Rita about the affair with Parker Troy, but she knew she couldn’t–there was too much at stake. No, if anyone knew the importance of keeping a secret, it was her.

When her pager beeped Lana scooped her bag on to her shoulder, pulled on a baseball cap and headed out of the trailer. Keeping her head down and ignoring one especially persistent paparazzo who had been trailing her for days, she made her way through to the car. Cole’s driver was waiting, a big Hispanic guy with arms folded across his broad chest.

Nodding an acknowledgement, she slipped into the Mercedes’ black leather interior.

When the door closed and darkness enveloped her, she knew she was going home.

5

Cole Steel stepped out on to his glass-bottomed terrace and squinted against the afternoon sun. Drawing a pair of shades from the top pocket of his crisp, white shirt, he ran a manicured thumb around each lens until it gleamed.

With the sheer expanse of his gated Beverly Hills mansion spread out below, his beautiful wife due home any moment and his role in a sure-fire action adventure tied up just this afternoon, Cole was a happy man. In the acting game since the eighties, he had realised pretty quickly that you had to work your balls off for this kind of life. And you had to know who to trust.

On cue a security camera to his left–one of thirty-six on the property–turned on its pivot, sensing motion. These cameras were like highly trained dogs: anything Cole needed to know about and they’d be hot on it. The bottom line was that these pieces of kit were loyal–they told him everything. People, on the other hand, did not.

He checked the time on his Tag watch and frowned a little, careful not to let the lines run too deep. Just last month he had been for his first Botox session and had decided never again. For days after his expression had been totally blank–thank God it had been rectified before Venice. He recalled spending an hour in front of the mirror, eyes staring wild from a frozen mask like something out of a horror movie. Not to mention the panic at one side of his mouth going slack as though he’d had a stroke. No, never again. All that filler shit, none of it was for him–he was a serious actor, for crissakes: his trophy room was testament to that.

He buzzed the intercom. The house was so big he needed a network of them to oil things efficiently. ‘Consuela, get me a fresh lemonade.’

The Spanish maid was with him in seconds. He took the drink without thanking her.

Where the hell was Lana? She was due back by now. Leaning on the balustrade, he narrowed his eyes at the view. In recent weeks he had been prey to a niggling feeling that his wife was hiding something. She was staying in her rooms a lot more these days and, he was sure, avoided looking at him directly. Whatever it was, he’d get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, Lana needed to sort out her attitude and fast. It wouldn’t do for Cole Steel’s wife to be touring LA looking miserable–she was married to royalty!

Taking a slug of the cool drink, Cole felt something small and hard catch at the back of his throat. He gagged, gasping for air, the force of it dislodging his sunglasses.

Consuela came rushing out, nervously knotting her hands in her apron. ‘Mr Steel? Is everything all right?’

He spat on to the terrace and out flew a lemon pip. ‘No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ he hissed, eyeing her fiercely over the shades that hung drunkenly off his immaculate face. ‘Can’t you squeeze a piece of fruit, you freaking idiot?’

The Spanish woman felt her cheeks flush. She nodded furiously.

‘Forgive me, sir. It was my mistake.’ She nodded to where the pip had landed on the terrace, embarrassed in its solitude. It was about half the size of a fingernail. ‘I will clean.’

Cole turned to go inside. He felt nauseated. ‘Make a thorough job of it,’ he said grimly. And then, for effect, ‘I want to see my face in this before the sun goes down.’ Yeah, that sounded great: maybe he should write it into one of his movies.

With a mild sense of panic Cole headed to the west bathroom to clean his teeth, realising this would throw off his five o’clock session. He brushed eight times a day at two-hourly intervals–they didn’t say he had the best smile in Hollywood for nothing. Now that dumb maid had compromised his routine, something he didn’t like. He’d fire her tomorrow.

Downstairs, he checked his schedule. Tomorrow’s go-green fundraiser, that launch in Chicago he’d promised his agent he’d attend at the weekend, Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party on Wednesday. He grimaced. The thought of spending an evening with his monstrous ex-wife and her can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants comedian husband left a sour taste in his mouth. If only it didn’t pay to keep her sweet.

Before taking Lana as his wife, Cole had been married to Kate diLaurentis for seven long years. These days she was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced actress he had once known: pumped to bursting with every filler going and practically comatose on prescription tranquillisers, she had wound up a sad, fading actress watching her career spin rapidly down the shitter. Prone to barking pithy digs after one bottle too many, Cole thanked Christ she had never found out about him, the reason why he couldn’t …

Fiercely he shook his head. No, that was something he had never told anyone. He’d take it to his grave.

Turning off the solid silver faucets, Cole appraised himself in the gilt-framed mirror and liked what he saw. Yes, he’d be set for the week. There was no one in Hollywood who came close to Cole Steel and, smirking knowingly at his reflection, he conceded it was hardly a surprise. Perfection was a difficult thing to achieve, but it was even harder to maintain. Cole had it nailed. Since his boyhood he had imagined being the man he now saw in front of him. Some days he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed himself up.

As the Mercedes slid through the black cast-iron gates and snaked up the winding driveway, Lana was stunned, as she was every time, by the magnitude of Cole’s mansion.

She tapped on the partition glass and the top of the driver’s head came into view. His black hair was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.

‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.

‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.

Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.

They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.

Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.

Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.

‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.

It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.

Or at least that was how it looked.

Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.

‘You’re home.’

Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.

‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.

Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.

‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.

Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He took the stool next to hers.

‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’

‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.

Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.

Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.

‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’

Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.

He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.

‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’

Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.

Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.

6

Las Vegas

‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.

Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.

‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.

‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’

The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.

‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.

Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’

Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.

‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’

As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?

She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.

Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.

‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet ribbon.

‘Thank you,’ said Elisabeth, taking a seat at her dressing table. In the mirrors she could see the old Italian, now reclining in a red velvet chair with his legs crossed. He was tall and sinewy, with thick pure-white hair and a hook nose. The room stretched out behind him, fragments caught in diamond shapes like a kaleidoscope. He was watching her intently.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, reaching for a black velvet box with a little card from Robert tucked inside.

‘Never mind that,’ Alberto said, coming to her. He placed his dry hands on her bare shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘A star is born tonight.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. It was no great secret that Alberto harboured a schoolboy crush–it’d been that way for ages. She and Robert laughed about it.

‘Oh, give it up,’ she told him, applying a flush of rouge. ‘I don’t need to sleep with you to keep this gig. You work for my fiancé, remember?’

Alberto chuckled. ‘You are right, bellissima. When you do sleep with me, it will be of your own free will.’

Elisabeth turned round. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she told him. ‘You’re an old horse, Bellini, it’d probably kill you.’

‘You kill me a little every time.’ He held his arms up and made a face like a sad clown.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She’d known Alberto since she was a little girl–he’d always been around when she’d been growing up–but she could never tell if he was being serious or not.