Hollywood Sinners

Jessica pouted and pushed back her brown hair. She was pretty in a pretend kind of way, but her nose was a fraction too long, her skin two shades too orange and, she was convinced, her hair too thin. Her stylist called it ‘fine’ but Jessica was appalled by the idea she could be bald by thirty. She didn’t have the natural beauty Elisabeth possessed and she knew it–nor did she have the attentions of their father. Jealousy defined her behaviour.

‘Fuck all of you,’ she said, taking a slug of her drink. ‘You’re all assholes.’

‘Could you pass the bread rolls, please?’ asked Alberto. The basket was right beside Jessica but she made no attempt to pick it up. Robert leaned across and obliged.

‘Honey, I gotta go to the little girls’ room,’ Christie Carmen whined, bobbing up and down in her seat. They would have forgotten she was there if it weren’t for her trussed-up breasts spilling into the soup starter.

‘Go on, then, baby,’ grumbled Bernstein. Then he imagined the blow job he’d be receiving later and instantly felt better. After two marriages, young and dumb was order of the day.

Christie Carmen was a hot broad with big tits and a nice tight pussy–it was everything he required from his women these days.

‘Get that ass back here quick.’ Bernstein winked as he patted his girlfriend’s retreating behind. She tottered off in a silver mini-skirt and four-inch heels, drunkenly weaving into an oncoming dessert trolley. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d come back without her knickers.

How depressing, Elisabeth thought, observing her father’s latest accessory stagger off in her imitation Jimmy Choos. She glanced at Robert, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet. He was folding his napkin into exact squares. His dark eyes were unsettled.

She could sense Alberto Bellini watching her from across the table, the tip of his tongue just visible between his lips.

The photograph was face down, its edges mottled and stiffened by time.

Alberto drew it from the oak chest of drawers, clasping it to his chest. He closed his eyes, his breath escaping in a hoarse, thin stream, like air seeping from a punctured tyre. It reminded him that he was old.

Supper tonight had exhausted him. He didn’t know how much longer he could bear it–loving Elisabeth entirely and yet knowing she belonged to another man.

He scanned the picture one more time, before slipping it back and closing the cabinet. The sound reverberated through the rooms of his expansive Italian-castle-themed mansion.

Linda Sabell.

She was gone. She had never been his in the first place. He had to forget her.

Yet how could he, when every time he clapped eyes on Elisabeth it was like walking straight back into the past? Frank Bernstein would murder him if he ever found out. Or get someone else to do it for him. Though Bernstein never admitted as much, it was clear to all of them that precious Elisabeth was his favourite daughter. If only he, Alberto, could have shared a child with Linda.

Alberto grimaced. He poured himself a brandy and chucked it back. He was getting tired of this game, he wanted out. Too many years he’d spent drinking and gambling, chasing women in an attempt to forget the only one he had ever loved …

Linda.

She was dead, and yet he saw her every day, every time he watched the show at the Desert Jewel, every time he caught her mirror image laughing with Robert St Louis.

Linda had loved him, he knew that much, and he had made her happy where Frank Bernstein could not. Elisabeth was the gift she had left behind.

Alberto had wanted Linda’s daughter for years, way before Robert St Louis had come on the scene. Only now, with her wedding fast approaching, the time had come to take action.

Elisabeth belonged to him.

As far as he was concerned, resistance was futile.

12

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Elisabeth, peering over the top of her D&G shades. ‘I’ll sing at the premiere.’

At the opposite end of their Olympic-sized pool, Robert shook out his muscles. She watched as he plunged into the crystal water, his impressive body gliding down its length, a bronzed Adonis shimmering in the blue.

He emerged, shook his dark hair and used two strong arms to pull himself out. Droplets of water glistened on his skin.

‘Whatever you like,’ he said, taking a seat on the lounger next to hers.

It was the following morning and the couple were relaxing on their poolside patio. The terrace was just one feature of their immense Vegas home, a near-two-acre estate modelled on a European palace Robert had spoken at several years ago.

‘I think it’ll send a very clear message,’ she said, adjusting her gold bikini.

Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘Come on, you’re above all that.’

‘Am I?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got to stand up for myself, Robert. Show my father I’m serious about this.’

‘He knows you are,’ said Robert, flipping open a copy of the Vegas Business Reporter. ‘He just doesn’t want to admit it.’

‘Why the hell not?’

Robert laid the paper across his chest. The edges turned grey as they absorbed the water from his body. ‘Do you want to know what I really think?’

‘Of course.’

‘I think Bernstein’s scared you’ll go the same way as your mother.’

Elisabeth chewed her lip. ‘What, he thinks he’s going to lose me in some freak plane crash? Don’t make me laugh.’

Robert shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. Lose you some other way, perhaps.’

Elisabeth was quiet a moment. ‘Are you happy about hosting this premiere?’

‘Of course.’ He resumed reading. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You just seem a bit … on edge about it.’

‘I’m never on edge.’

Elisabeth smiled, entwining her fingers with his. She adored Robert’s hands–they were strong and capable, the hands of an artist. ‘I know. That’s why I love you.’

He didn’t say it back. She pretended not to notice.

Picking up her celebrity magazine, Elisabeth flipped past a piece on Kate diLaurentis and her goofy–though strangely attractive–comedian husband. Kate had been pulled over for speeding in a white sports car and she had been photographed in conversation with a policeman, a borderline manic look on her face. Two miserable kids stared out from the back of the vehicle.

‘Ugh, welcome to Hollywood,’ she muttered. ‘Vegas is in for a treat.’

Over the page she caught sight of A-list movie star Lana Falcon and her husband Cole Steel. Cole was remarkably handsome but Elisabeth thought Lana had a slightly weak look about her. These days they called it the ‘girl-next-door’ appeal, but surely that was just a euphemism for ‘rather plain’.

‘Ah, the main attraction,’ she said, waving the magazine in front of Robert’s face. She read out the article headline: ‘CoLa–I can’t bear it when they do that–more in love now than ever?‘ She chuckled. ‘Not sure I believe it.’

Robert glanced up, caught sight of the page and instantly averted his gaze.

She’s a different woman, he told himself. Not the girl you knew.

‘Lana Falcon,’ he said flatly. Her alias died on his tongue. ‘I guess so.’

Elisabeth squinted. ‘Do you think they’re happy?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Who?’

‘These two. Lana and Cole.’

‘God knows. Who cares.’

She looked at him sideways. ‘You obviously do.’

Robert’s head snapped up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? ‘

Elisabeth laughed. ‘Do you know her?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s only a question.’

‘It’s a stupid one.’ He resumed looking at the page, though the words were little more than a blur. ‘I’ve never met Lana Falcon before in my life.’

It wasn’t a complete lie.

Elisabeth stared at him. She’d never seen Robert lose his cool over anything, not even her father’s constant interfering. ‘There’s no need to get aggressive,’ she told him.

A muscle went in Robert’s jaw.

She decided to change the subject. ‘Her husband clearly adores her.’

Robert stood up. He could bear it no longer. There were many things he wanted to tell Elisabeth, but none of them he could: how once upon a time he had adored Lana; he’d carried her, helped her, saved her damn life. Not this Cole Steel jackass, whoever he was.

‘I’m going for a swim,’ he announced. He dived cleanly into the water.

When he emerged, Elisabeth had joined him. Her blonde hair was secured in a knot and she had removed her bikini top. A pair of golden breasts bobbed invitingly on the surface.

‘Let’s not fight,’ she said, reaching for him.

Robert swam up and put his arms around her. ‘Do you fancy a trip?’

‘OK,’ she laughed, pleased he was no longer cross. She kissed him, feeling his growing hardness. ‘You always take me where I want to go.’

He smiled. ‘No, I mean, like a vacation.’ He kissed her back. ‘I’m meeting investors in the South of France. We leave at the weekend.’

She put a finger over his mouth and wrapped her legs around his waist. ‘St Tropez?’

Robert put his hands on her ass, pulling her close. Deftly she freed him from his shorts.

‘It sure is,’ he managed, the words catching as she pulled aside her bikini bottoms.

‘In that case, yes,’ she said, lowering herself on to him. ‘Yes yes yes!’

13

London

Chloe French stepped out of the car into the cold September evening, cursing her decision to wear such a flimsy dress. She wanted to look special for Nate, especially as she couldn’t wait to tell him her big news.

There was some commotion at the entrance to the club, a renowned hotspot in Mayfair and venue for tonight’s gig. She punched a number into her phone. It rang a few times before he picked up.

‘What?’ Nate said snappily. ‘We’re testing, I can’t talk.’

‘Can you come let me in?’

The line crackled. ‘Why?’

‘There’s more people out front than I thought.’ Silence. ‘It’s more discreet?’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ There was a pause while Nate mumbled something to the band. She heard them laughing in the background. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Come round the side in three, I don’t want to get mobbed.’

He made her wait at least five. Just as she was contemplating calling him again, the door sprang open and Nate stuck his head through.

‘Come on,’ he said twitchily, scanning for groupies, ‘I’m on in ten.’ He briefly put his tongue in her mouth by way of hello and gave her tit a quick squeeze, which seemed distinctly unromantic. She decided to forget it.

Chloe trailed him through the dark corridor, the low thump of music bleeding in from the lounge. The club was famed for its unusual decor–glinting chandeliers dripped from the ceiling while tired old sofas crouched down below, their stuffing bursting free at the seams. It was a fusion of the sophisticated and the shabby that was perfect for young, rich clientele who couldn’t decide which camp to affiliate themselves with.

She knew Nate didn’t like to be distracted before a gig, but couldn’t wait to spill her LA news as soon as the time was right.

‘What’re you doing after?’ she asked his back. She noticed his jeans were hanging so low he had to wear two belts to keep them up. Maybe that was the point.

‘Dunno, babe.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, it’d be good if we could …’

When they got backstage Nate turned round in front of his band mates. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

Chloe was embarrassed. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

‘Hey, man,’ said Chris, the band’s drummer, ‘for luck.’ He produced a bag of white powder from his pocket and threw it at Nate, who caught it with his left hand. Then, turning to Chloe, ‘All right?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘Break a leg.’ There was something about Chris that Chloe didn’t trust: the way he and Nate talked together about women, and how they sometimes shared private glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. He was a bad influence on her boyfriend. Plus he had greasy hair that went down way past his shoulders–yuck.

Twenty minutes later The Hides were on stage. Watching them in action was a kick, and when they broke into their top ten single ‘Red Rock Road’ the crowd went wild.

Chloe was up front in the swarming mass of devotees next to a pretty weekend TV presenter called Erica Lang and a balding socialite in tragic slacks, apparently a friend of Prince Harry. Her hair kept getting pulled and someone trod on her foot, which hurt. This is a million miles from Hollywood, she thought excitedly, just as a man in a sweaty black T-shirt with living legend across the front sloshed beer down her back.

Nate looked gorgeous and she got a thrill when she remembered he was hers. Every girl in the room wanted a piece of the sexiest frontman in London, but it was only her he wanted. She remembered the first time she’d seen him–a photo in one of the papers of him stumbling out of a Kensington hotel room with whippet-faced heiress Jessica Bernstein, daughter of Frank Bernstein, the Las Vegas hotel magnate and all-round powerhouse. She’d felt a stab of attraction, unable to forget his come-to-bed green eyes and wiry leather-clad body. When they’d turned up at the same party a couple of months later, Chloe couldn’t believe her luck. The rest was history.

The Hides moved into a slow song, one of Chloe’s favourites. Nate lit a cigarette in a minor act of rebellion. The song was about a girl who was just so beautiful that it was impossible to capture her in words, and Chloe liked to imagine that she was the inspiration, even though it had been written way before she and Nate had met–and actually not by him, but by his lead guitarist, Spencer. But Nate was crooning into the mike and every so often he looked over and she knew he was singing it for her.

Melissa, her agent, hadn’t been enamoured with the partnership at the time. Chloe was the sweetheart of the fashion world and could be jeopardising future contracts by associating herself with his lifestyle–but the press had gone crazy for the romance. And the irony was, of course, that in reality Nate Reid–full name Nathaniel Buckley-Reid–was a lot posher than either of them: in fact he was aristocracy. His own father, Lord Fergus Buckley-Reid, and mother Penelope lived in a great country pile in Wiltshire and were friends of the royals. Naturally this was all kept under very tight wraps and Nate was unremittingly sensitive about it: his whole working-class-boy-done-good persona was, as it turned out, fake.

The band was getting pumped up now as they launched into the single that had made them famous. Nate strutted across the stage like a prehistoric bird.

‘He’s amazing!’ squealed Erica Lang, so close to Chloe’s ear it was painful. ‘You’re so lucky!’

Chloe smiled to herself. She was. With Nate Reid in her life, she was a very lucky girl indeed.

Later a gang of them fell into two black cabs and there was a brief quarrel about where they should go to continue the party. The paps were having a field day.

Somebody suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.

Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.

Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.

When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.

There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.

‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.

‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.

A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.

Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.

The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.

She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.

In seconds another came round and she toked on that as well. A few minutes later she was starting to feel quite spacey, but it was a nice, warm feeling. A short fat girl told a joke and it was the wittiest thing Chloe had ever heard. Clever, too. God, actually it was completely profound.

By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.

‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.

‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.

‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.

‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!

‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.

Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.

Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.

Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.

Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.

‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.

Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.

Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.

LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.

14

Los Angeles

Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.

‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.

‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’

Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.

‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.

Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself was grossly unfit–was partial to his steak, his women and his cigars–and had spent the last half-hour with the rowing machine on its lowest possible setting, still managing to wear himself out. And now the sparring. Jeez, it was enough to kill a man.

Cole strapped on his strike pads and took a couple of early punches. Each one practically winded Marty and he was relieved when, five minutes later, it was over. Cole moved on to a kick spinner, lifting his leg high into the air, karate-style, and pounded the shit out of the bags. Marty was grateful to sit out.

‘How was Chicago?’ he asked. How the hell did this guy manage it? His client was barely out of breath.

‘Good,’ said Cole.

‘And Lana?’

He kicked the bag especially hard. ‘Fine.’

‘Cute piece on you both in LA Star,’ observed Marty, taking a drink of water. ‘Very domestic. More in love than ever, or something?’

‘You got that right.’

Marty sat back. ‘And the movie?’ Cole was shooting a family drama about an alcoholic father trying to make contact with his estranged son. ‘Everything OK?’

Cole did an impressive rotating kick and the bag nearly flew off its spring. ‘Everything’s fine, Marty.’

Marty was quiet a moment, sensing trouble. The men had been working together for over twenty years and he could tell when something was on his client’s mind. But Cole Steel was, even after all this time, a closed book. If he didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him.