Hollywood Sinners

‘I heard Lana’s movie is premiering in Vegas,’ Cole said, unstrapping his pads.

Christ, thought Marty, he really did have eyes and ears all over this town. He doubted even Lana or the rest of the cast knew yet.

‘I heard that, too,’ said Marty carefully. ‘Frank Bernstein’s got money behind the production.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘Vegas is vulgar. Eastern Sky is a sophisticated piece of work, it deserves better. I’m not happy about it.’ His jaw clenched. ‘And I don’t like the look of that Robert St Louis or whatever his fancy name is–the guy’s got ideas, I can tell.’

‘Not a lot I can do,’ said Marty, holding out his arms.

Cole grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face. His hands were pink and hairless, like a little boy’s, or a mouse’s.

He took a seat next to his agent, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. Then, after a moment: ‘Lana’s not happy, Marty.’

Marty shrugged. ‘Not relevant. The point is what the public sees, end of story.’

‘Even so,’ mused Cole. ‘She’s evasive about her past, always has been—’

‘Who isn’t?’ interjected Marty. ‘I’ve sure as shit done things I’d sooner forget.’

‘But there’s something … something I can’t put my finger on.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ diagnosed Marty, starting to think about lunch. ‘Forget it, Lana’s a sweet kid. Remember what Clay told us? Her whole freakin’ family’s dead. How much d’you think she wants to talk about that?’

Cole stood. ‘Let’s eat.’

Upstairs they dined on Cole’s private terrace beneath the shade of a palm tree. Cole picked disinterestedly at his lobster spaghetti while Marty devoured his.

‘You don’t eat much,’ he observed, wondering if he could tuck into Cole’s plate once his was done. ‘What’s the matter, work-out didn’t get you an appetite?’ His client better not be worrying about his weight like some lollipop starlet–if anything, he could do with gaining a few pounds.

Cole made a face. ‘Just got things on my mind.’

‘Well, get over it.’ Marty chewed enthusiastically before washing down his mouthful with a slug of iced tea. ‘We got everything we wanted, right? You got yourself a beautiful wife and no one’s any the wiser. You’re clean, you’re makin’ good movies. Lana’s about to break through to the big time—’

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ said Cole, dabbing his mouth with a pristine white napkin.

‘What?’

Cole took a deep breath. ‘I gave Lana this opportunity, so her success, in effect, belongs to me. Now I’m hearing good things, excellent things, about her performance. She’ll almost certainly get an Award nomination, if not win the damn thing.’

‘Wasn’t that the point?’ asked Marty, shovelling in some more spaghetti. Tomato sauce clung to the corners of his mouth. ‘It was in the terms of the contract. There’s got to be something in it for her, too, Cole.’ At his client’s stormy expression, he clarified, ‘Apart from marriage to the most famous man in the world, of course.’

‘I accept that,’ Cole said generously. ‘But the feedback I’m getting exceeds even my initial expectations. Lana’s going to be big, Marty. And the point is that her career’s set to go stellar just as our marriage ends. How is that going to make me look?’

Marty waved away his concern. ‘We went through this right at the start. Irreconcilable differences, OK? You’ll stay friends, secretly she’ll still love you, blah-blah-blah. Then it’s on to the next.’

Cole locked his fingers together on the table. ‘I want to keep this one,’ he said.

Marty took some time to digest this. He finished his mouthful, drained his glass and put his cutlery together before saying easily, ‘So we’ll renew the contract with Lana. Whatever you want, Cole.’

‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’ Cole hissed. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Marty’s knuckle. ‘She’s unhappy. I know it. She can’t wait to get out.’

‘You treat her good, don’t you?’ asked Marty, surreptitiously wiping his hand under the table, knowing they were skirting the issue.

‘Of course I do,’ said Cole. ‘I’m kind to her, I look after her; I give her everything she wants. Except …’

Marty made a gruff sound in his throat. ‘Well, that’s another problem,’ he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a big mistake.

‘Problem?’ Cole leapt on it like a lion on its prey. ‘Is that what you call it? A problem?’ His agent could never know the true root of his impotence, why he was forever this way–to him it was an affliction, a sickness, a disease.

‘Of course not,’ said Marty calmly. ‘It’s just—’

‘Just what? You think it’s my fault I can’t get it up?’

‘Shh!’ Marty looked panicked. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

‘No one’s fucking listening. All ears here belong to me–that’s how powerful Cole Steel is. Tell me, Marty: who needs a hard cock when you’ve got that kind of respect?’

Marty tried not to look alarmed. Cole had gone completely red in the face.

After a moment Cole slumped back in his seat, suddenly defeated. ‘And if Lana leaves me, that’ll be two failed marriages.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s only a matter of time before some smartass reporter traces it back to the bedroom.’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Marty, as kindly as he could. ‘At most it’ll be idle rumour–no one’s gonna seriously believe that Cole Steel can’t–you know, won’t–you know—’

‘You’re right.’ Cole pointed a finger at his agent. ‘Nobody touches me, you got it?’

Marty nodded. He felt sorry for Cole. The very idea of impotence filled him with a cold dread, and seeing the cost of it paid in full by his client was the stuff of nightmares. They’d tried Viagra, the works, but nothing had made a difference–Cole’s prick was about as responsive as a fish out of water. Nothing turned Cole Steel on these days apart from his own glory.

‘As long as that Kate diLaurentis bitch keeps her big mouth shut,’ Cole growled.

Marty laughed hollowly. ‘We paid her enough goddamn money, she won’t say a word.’

Cole rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The kitchen staff came to clear their plates and he waited until they’d hurried off before continuing.

‘Apparently she’s losing it,’ he said, looping a finger up next to his head. ‘Loco.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ sighed Marty, ‘everyone likes to say that about Kate. Thing is they don’t realise she’s a sharp little cookie. She’d never reveal anything, wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s got her own failing reputation to think about.’

‘You think I’ve got a failing reputation?’

‘No,’ said Marty firmly, ‘I don’t. Because it’s my job to manage that and I don’t lose. I never lose.’

Cole nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I like that. But the fact still remains I want to hold on to my wife, and you’re going to make sure that I do.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. It screamed on the tiles.

Marty made a helpless gesture.

‘You never lose, right?’ Cole raised a cleanly plucked eyebrow. ‘Find a way to make it happen. Whatever it takes.’

15

‘She said what?’ Rita Clay put down her Americano and looked at Lana in disbelief.

‘Yup.’ Lana nodded. ‘Kate asked if Cole could get it up for me. Can you imagine? It was a miracle the other guests didn’t hear. She’s a liability.’

It was a beautiful day and Lana and her agent were having coffee at the Beverly Wilshire. Lana wore a baseball cap and sunglasses to deter paparazzi but had been photographed twice on the way in.

Rita emptied a sachet of sugar into the steaming liquid. She was arrestingly beautiful–tall, with dark, smooth skin and a cap of cropped, dyed blonde hair.

‘Kate’s afraid, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Her career’s in freefall, her husband’s a cheating goddamn sex addict and her children barely know who she is.’ She checked her reflection in a silver compact and applied a slick of plum lipstick.

‘So?’ Lana sipped her drink. ‘Doesn’t that give her more reason to spill?’

‘She’d never risk it, Lana. This is the last ten years of Kate’s career we’re talking about, her heyday. Do you think she’d want the world to know that was as much of a sham as her life is now?’ Rita shook her head. ‘No way. She’s a livewire but she’s certainly not stupid.’

Lana nodded while she digested this. Rita had a point.

‘How are things?’ her agent asked quietly, knowing how tough the arrangement was. It was a move they had discussed at length when Cole’s people had approached.

Lana’s first instinct had been to turn the offer down–she was adamant about making her own way forward and told Rita in no uncertain terms that she did not want marriage. But the counter-argument was strong: Lana, who’d been twenty-four at the time, would not see an opportunity like this again. It was a sensible, logical step for the advancement of her career. Knowing this, Cole had scouted a number of suitable young actresses and settled on one for whom the contract would be difficult to ignore: Lana could spend a lifetime chasing success like that and even then would only catch a sniff of it. Hadn’t she arrived in LA determined to forge a new identity; hadn’t she told Rita when they’d first met that she wanted to change her name, forget the past, become a new person? This was her one-way ticket.

‘It’s not the easiest,’ she admitted, ‘but I can hardly complain. The house is beautiful, I have a job I love … Cole doesn’t beat up on me, he doesn’t treat me badly. Countless women have it a hell of a lot worse.’

‘Are you happy?’ asked Rita.

Lana took a moment to consider this, before saying without a hint of bitterness, ‘I don’t know if that has anything to do with it.’

It was a five-year marriage contract–that was all. Before signing on the dotted line she’d remembered the hellish years she’d spent growing up in Ohio. Marrying a man she didn’t love was nothing compared with that. It had been goodbye, poor little Laura and hello, blockbusting movie star Lana Falcon. Cole was king of this town: as his queen she would be untouchable.

So what if she didn’t love him? Since when did that matter? She had given her heart only once before, given everything, and look where that had got her.

‘Lana?’ Rita looked concerned and reached out to touch her friend’s arm. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Sure.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t sleep great last night. I’m just tired.’

Rita winced. ‘Talking of the whole sleeping thing …’ Her expression was sympathetic.

The women’s eyes met and after a moment they both burst out laughing.

‘Don’t,’ cried Lana, ‘it’s not funny!’

‘Sorry,’ Rita managed, wiping her eyes, ‘I can’t help it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s not funny, I know it’s not.’

‘It’s a small price to pay,’ Lana nodded.

‘I expect it is,’ agreed Rita, and they fell about again.

Lana suspected some kind of impotence was at the root of the no-sex clause, but it was impossible to be sure. Cole expressed no sexual desire whatsoever, about anything–she guessed he was just programmed that way. When she had first moved into his mansion she had expected him to visit her rooms at night–she wasn’t stupid enough to think that a couple of lines in a contract would get in the way of a red-blooded male. But Cole had been steadfast to his word. Her first thought was that he must be getting it somewhere else–as long as he was discreet, she would turn a blind eye; after all they were nothing to each other–but that didn’t seem to be the case. For some time she had assumed he was gay, but men didn’t appear to do it for him either.

‘You must be so …’ Rita searched for the word, before whispering it. ‘Frustrated.’

Lana shifted in her seat. If only she could tell her friend about Parker Troy, but there was no way. It was an appalling breach of her contract and as her agent Rita would be outraged.

‘It’s worth it,’ she said, dodging the question. And it was: Lana’s abstinence was reflected handsomely in the financial terms of the contract.

Rita narrowed her eyes. ‘Hmm,’ she said, tapping a long red fingernail on the table.

‘I suppose it’s more that I sometimes feel … I don’t know, caged,’ said Lana quickly, trying to move the subject on.

‘Well,’ said her agent, sipping her drink, ‘that’s because you are. For another two years.’

‘But Cole keeps tabs on everything. I’m forever having to lie about filming running on.’

‘Lie?’

Lana met her gaze. ‘You know, if I need more time on set.’ She bristled. ‘We’re all entitled to a little freedom, aren’t we?’

Rita’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sure, sure.’ She pulled out her purse. ‘I’m just saying, Cole has eyes all over Hollywood. I just don’t think you can hide anything from him.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Lana evenly. ‘It’s precisely my point.’ Did Rita know something? No way–she couldn’t.

But Cole’s controlling ways were becoming more extreme with each day that passed. Just two weeks back she hadn’t been able to sleep and so had ventured out into the mansion’s grounds to have a walk and clear her head–and to think, to her shame, about Robert St Louis.

The night had been dark and quiet, with just the sparkle of the Hills glittering in the distance. Then, stepping beyond the perimeter, the security lamps had surged to life and flooded her in white light. The dogs had sprung up from their stations, barking furiously, their chains rattling. She had felt like a fugitive about to be arrested, especially when she had looked up to see Cole silhouetted against a window in his dressing gown, arms folded, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

‘How’s the movie?’ asked Rita briskly, signing off the check.

Lana forced herself back to the real world. ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘It’s great to have a role I can really sink my teeth into. It’s a fabulous part–so much depth.’ She knew she had been lucky securing the Eastern Sky gig, and that, too, was down to Cole and the arrangement. Within weeks of entering the contract she and Rita had been approached by Sam Lucas. At the time Cole had informed her in a meaningful way that the right performance could gain her an Award nomination.

‘That’s excellent,’ said Rita, meaning it. ‘Oh, that reminds me: they’re bringing in new blood for the part of Sophie, the English girl.’

Lana nodded.

‘They’ve already found someone they want.’ Rita pulled on her jacket. ‘She’s a model in London, apparently, wants to get into acting.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Lana wryly.

‘Well, Sam Lucas thinks she’s the soul of virtue. I heard he took one look at her shot and knew’–Rita raised her hands in a grand gesture–‘"It’s Sophie."’

‘Ah, the immortal accolade every actress wants to hear.’

‘She’ll be over in a few weeks. Bet she can’t wait to meet you.’

As Lana grabbed her things she remembered when she’d first started out herself. Ten years she’d been in LA. Ten years since she’d last seen Robbie Lewis. Ten years trying to forget.

She’d kept it brief when Rita had asked about Belleville: she was from a broken family; she didn’t wish to discuss it but she was happy to agree to the right story for press purposes. They had settled on a smart bio, a family tragedy not far from the truth, and Rita sent out clear messages to the industry that Lana Falcon did not like to talk about her upbringing as an orphan–who would? Even Cole hadn’t been so unkind as to ask her too many questions when the contract was finalised. If anything it made her more promotable–in an industry where reality TV exposed an individual’s every private sanctum, Lana Falcon was that rare thing: an enigma.

‘New York, right?’ asked Rita as the women made their way out to the car.

One of Cole’s drivers was waiting.

‘Hmm?’ Lana asked as he opened the door.

‘Whoa, you really are a million miles away today, huh?’ said Rita, exasperated. ‘You’re going with Cole to NYC?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, of course,’ said Lana, distracted, as she rummaged in her purse. She checked her cell and had a missed call from Parker. Shit. He’d have to wait till she got back. Cole was filming scenes on location and a press opportunity had been lined up.

‘I’ll call you in the week,’ said Rita, giving her a hug. ‘Be in touch if you need anything.’

Lana smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ She squeezed Rita’s hand before slipping into the back seat of the car. ‘And thanks for everything.’

Rita watched as her friend vanished behind the tinted glass. Something about Lana today hadn’t been right. Marriage to Cole Steel wasn’t for the faint-hearted, but instinct told her it was more than that.

Lana Falcon had always been a mystery. And she was determined to find out why.

16

Belleville, Ohio, 1992

The first few weeks were bearable.

Lester had a job in the local garage and at the start he made an effort to put food on the table, clean up after himself, make sure she was OK. But slowly, gradually, the mask slipped. Laura had known it would happen. At first, the drinking. Then, the violence. At night, the animal noises that kept Laura awake when he brought home a girl and did things to her.

Laura counted the days till she could start school. Until then she would be responsible for what Lester called ‘a sister’s special jobs’: washing the dishes; mopping the floors; and making sure his meal was prepared every night when he got home. If her brother wasn’t happy with what she had done, he would hit her across her cheek and leave her red skin stinging.

Before bed she undressed carefully in the bathroom, locking the door and stuffing the keyhole with toilet paper. She didn’t know why she did that, but it made her feel safer. Lester was a man, no longer a boy, and she was frightened of what that meant.

On Monday Laura got up early and made herself breakfast. Lester was still asleep, would be late for work: she hadn’t seen him the night before and when he’d staggered in at four in the morning he had fallen over the couch, sending a smash of beer bottles to the floor. She cleaned the mess, knowing what would happen if she didn’t. Then she surveyed the options. The only food in the trailer was stale bread with little buds of green mould flowering on their crusts, so she cut these off and made toast. She found a soft banana and stuffed it in her bag.

At school Laura registered quickly and was shown to her class. The other kids looked much smarter than her and had proper uniforms. Everyone looked at her funny.

‘Hi, I’m Marcie.’ The girl sitting with her in homeroom had fair hair and lots of freckles.

Laura liked her right away. ‘I’m Laura. ‘

Unfortunately the others weren’t so friendly. At recess a group of bigger boys came over and started calling them names. The boys were laughing at Marcie and the biggest one said something mean about her.

‘Get lost,’ Laura told him, hands on hips, scowling.

‘An attitude,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘not bad for a kid with no mommy or daddy.’ Then he grabbed her roughly and suddenly the other boys were pulling her hair and pushing her between them. Marcie started crying, begging them to stop.

‘Quit messing around, Greg,’ came a voice, and the crowd instantly dispersed.

The boy who had spoken stepped forward, squaring up to the biggest in the gang. Laura recognised him as the same boy she had seen when she first arrived in town, the one with the bike. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.

‘Pick on someone your own size,’ he said calmly, in a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone much older.

‘What’s it to you?’ snarled Greg, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

The other boy waited. ‘You heard what I said.’

‘Is that a threat, Lewis?’ said Greg, shoving the boy’s chest, hard.

The rest of the gang retreated, their confidence slipped.

Laura waited to see what the boy would do. He didn’t fight back. He just kept staring at Greg, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

‘Come on, shithead,’ crowed Greg, moving to shove him again. This time the boy caught Greg’s wrist and twisted him round, forcing him to his knees.

‘Ow! Let me go!’ yelled Greg, struggling to free his arm. He fought to right himself but the dark-haired boy had him pinned.

‘Say you’re sorry.’

‘You’re gonna pay for this, Lewis!’

The boy pushed against him harder.

‘OK, OK!’ Greg howled, his face contorted. ‘Sorry, OK? I’m fucking sorry.’

Released, he slumped on to the dusty ground and clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering. Laura wanted to do something, but she no longer knew who the good guy was.

At last Greg stumbled to his feet, dusted himself off and looked at his crowd. He was trying to appear defiant but you could tell where the power was. The rest of them respected this boy more than they respected Greg, and Greg, for all his stupidity, knew it.

‘Let’s split.’ He glowered, signalling the gang and sauntering off. ‘Stinks of crap around here anyway.’

When they were gone the stranger turned to Laura. Everything about him was so dark: his eyes and his hair were one shade off black. He wore a very serious expression. She felt a little bit afraid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘You new?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget those guys–they’re creeps.’

Marcie wiped her eyes and looked shyly at the boy. She nudged Laura with her elbow, prompting her to speak.

‘Thanks,’ she said eventually. ‘He won’t come after you, will he?’

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Nah.’

There was a short silence.

‘Cool.’ He kicked the ground with his feet before starting to walk away. ‘Guess I’ll see you around.’

Before Laura could stop herself she blurted out, ‘What’s your name?’ Then felt like an idiot.

He stopped and turned round.

‘Robbie,’ he said, and for the first time he smiled. It was in a surprised sort of way, like his name was a brilliant idea he’d just thought of. She noticed he had a dimple in his chin. ‘Robbie Lewis.’

Then just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, his sneakers kicking up dust as he ran back across the yard.

17

St Tropez

Robert St Louis’s luxury super-yacht cut through the sparkling Mediterranean, a white diamond on a sea of blue.

‘Which do you want?’ asked Jessica Bernstein, strolling out on to the sun deck with a cocktail in each hand. ‘Mojito or daiquiri?’

The women were relaxing on Robert’s private, fully staffed ninety-foot vessel. He kept it moored in Europe year-long for business trips and for weekend breaks in France, Greece and his favourite country of all, Italy. He and Bernstein were spending the day in talks with a slot-machine manufacturer in Monaco who was stumping up cash for an expansion they had in mind.

Elisabeth looked up from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘The green one.’

‘I’m having that.’ Jessica flopped down on to a towel and handed her sister the other glass. ‘God, I’m so bored,’ she moaned. ‘Daddy practically begged me to come and now he’s just left me rotting out here in the ocean.’