Hollywood Sinners

Elisabeth stayed quiet. It wasn’t Bernstein who had begged but the other way round. No wonder he had given in-there was only so much of Jessica’s bitching a person could tolerate. Most days she found it reasonably amusing but knew her father did not.

‘Hello?’ griped Jessica, fumbling with her iPod. ‘Are you even fucking listening to me?’

‘You’re ungrateful, Jessica–and your mouth’s awful. Quit cursing for five minutes.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Charming.’

After a moment Elisabeth got up and pulled her lounger into the shade of a parasol.

‘Yes, better,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s age, you know. Old skin can’t handle the sun.’

‘Oh, go flick your bitch switch.’ Elisabeth arranged her towel, watching as her sister extracted a bottle of fuchsia nail varnish from a Gucci beach tote and unscrewed it.

Elisabeth lay back and tried to distance herself from the petty bickering. She and Jessica were born sparring partners–despite their age gap it had defined their relationship since Jessica had hit her teens. Elisabeth supposed she ought to rise above it, but part of her enjoyed the familiar territory of the banter. Her sister was the only person in the world with whom she could violently fall out with one day, only for it all to be forgotten about the next.

‘There isn’t anything to do on this boat,’ Jessica lamented, yanking out one of her earphones.

‘There’s a pool, a bar, table tennis—’

‘And I’m supposed to play that with you, am I?’ Jessica threw a glance at Elisabeth’s nails. ‘Won’t you chip a claw?’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Stick it up your ass.’

‘Stick it up yours.’

‘No, thanks. And besides, I know very well what’s on this yacht.’ She played her trump card: Jessica couldn’t hold on to a man for more than five minutes. ‘It’s my fiancé’S, remember?’

‘Yeah, and he’s been looking real happy about that.’

There was a moment’s pause before Elisabeth stood up. Jessica had gone too far–she knew Robert was strictly out of bounds.

‘You haven’t a clue about how relationships like ours work.’

‘Relationships like yours?’ Jessica squawked gleefully as she stalked off. ‘What are you, the King and Queen of England?’

Elisabeth reached the bow and looked over. Glittering blue water sliced apart below her; above a matching sky and the rugged hills of the Azure coastline. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the wind whip through her Thomas Wylde silk kaftan.

But Jessica was right. Robert had been acting funny, and it was ever since that damn film premiere had been announced. Despite his assurances he still got defensive whenever she mentioned it, and even more so when she brought up Lana Falcon. What was going on?

And why hadn’t they settled on a date for the wedding?

They’d been engaged for months now. She hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet.

‘Get over it!’ shouted Jessica. ‘Desperation is so unattractive, you’re probably putting him off.’

Elisabeth turned, unable to bite back her catty response. ‘Put some more sun cream on, Jessica–you’re looking horribly pink.’ She reminded herself that Jessica was only bitter–she’d give anything for a man like Robert.

Resuming her seat under the parasol, she watched her sister apply yet more Sun Perfect to an already perfectly bronzed, and not at all burned, body.

‘He’s just got a lot on his mind at the moment,’ she said with a decisive nod.

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t be jealous,’ she mimicked, ‘it’s so unattractive.’

Jessica made a face. ‘Hardly.’ She rubbed the cream into her feet. ‘Well, if Robert doesn’t make sure he gets you down that aisle soon, Daddy will.’

Elisabeth closed her eyes, suddenly tired. ‘He can do all he wants, it’s Robert’s and my day and it’s our decision.’

‘Why is he so set on getting you two married?’

She opened her eyes a crack. The question sounded genuine.

‘Beats me.’

‘Robert thinks it’s to do with Chicago.’

‘Yeah, might be. Bernstein’s living in a dream world if he thinks either one of us wants in on that.’

‘I think it’s something else,’ Jessica said, adopting the tone she used when gossiping with her girlfriends. ‘Something Daddy’s not telling us.’

Elisabeth stretched out her toes. ‘Whatever.’

‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not really.’ She yawned. ‘As far as I’m concerned he’s an interfering old man. He just wants a grandson or some such crap. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.’

Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘Think what you like. My money’s on something way juicier.’

‘Like what?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

‘You’re just bored. It comes from sitting around all day doing nothing.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll try not to say “I told you so".’

‘Fine. Shut up about it now.’

‘Why should I?’ Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m your sister, it’s my job.’

‘I’m tuning out.’ Elisabeth slid on a huge pair of sunglasses and lay back. ‘Save your gossip for someone who actually cares.’

Hours later, laden with bags, the two sisters collapsed into a café on the lively market square. St Tropez was boutique heaven.

Jessica ordered two champagne cocktails to celebrate.

‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I don’t want to get bored.’ But they ordered two bottles of La Croix all the same.

‘Delicious!’ Jessica clapped her hands together like a seal as the drinks arrived. Taking a sip, she extracted a pair of pink Rondini sandals from a huge paper bag and held them out. It was amazing how seriously she took the pursuit of shopping–of spending money in any capacity, really. Elisabeth had spent, too–mostly on her weakness, jewellery, in Gas Bijoux–but nowhere in the same league as her sister. For Jessica retail therapy was a full-time occupation: clearly it filled a gap where something else was missing.

Elisabeth checked her cell. Still nothing from Robert. She suspected they’d be leaving Monaco on Bernstein’s boat by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She had to stop worrying–there was nothing wrong with her fiancé; everything would be just fine.

‘I love France,’ Jessica mused, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. She gazed round at the architecture. ‘There’s so much American influence here.’

Elisabeth snorted.

‘Maybe I’ll move to Europe one day,’ her sister went on. ‘Marry a count.’

‘As if.’

‘Oh, I’m very well practised in the European ways. And by “European ways", of course I mean “European men".’

Elisabeth couldn’t help but laugh. It had been ages since she and Jessica had enjoyed each other’s company–much as her sister got under her skin, Elisabeth had to admit she was fun. Plus Jessica’s bravado on the subject of men, she knew, only concealed her desire for a meaningful relationship. The more insecure Jessica was definitely easier to love.

‘You’ve never had a French guy, admit it.’

Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve had an English.’

‘Not the same thing.’

‘A sexy English.’

Elisabeth looked disgusted. ‘Not that hideous London one with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a rock band? Not that I’ve heard of them.’

‘Nate Reid,’ Jessica nodded, ‘is an incredibly hot guy. Seriously. I can get myself off just thinking about him.’

‘Jessica!’

Then she added, ‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll be big. I know that already, but musically speaking.’

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And anyway,’ Jessica fiddled with her earlobe, ‘he practically is a count. Or something. His family’s major-rich. I think we’re well-suited.’

‘Good for you.’ She stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cocktail.

‘It’s the Italians who really know what they’re doing …’

‘Not if Alberto Bellini’s anything to go by,’ muttered Elisabeth, wondering why the old man had sprung to mind. It must be the champagne.

‘What do you mean?’ Jessica leaned forward, keeping her voice hushed. ‘Has he tried it on with you?’

Champagne bubbles fizzed down Elisabeth’s throat. ‘He’s forever trying it on, you must know that.’ She added without a trace of arrogance, ‘It’s no secret he’s in love with me.’

‘But I mean, has he ever tried it on … physically?’

‘God, no!’ Elisabeth giggled. ‘He’s ancient.’

‘The old ones are the worst,’ Jessica said sagely.

‘Maybe.’

Elisabeth looked out at the bustling square. Against her will she felt a stir at the mention of Alberto; the memory of what he’d said about her dear mother; his unconcealed adoration such a far cry from Robert’s recent behaviour. It was the cocktails, that was all.

‘Let’s get another,’ she said on impulse. Jessica beamed. ‘I’m feeling reckless.’

18

London

‘Just hold steady, that’s it, eyes wide … Perfect!’

Chloe had been in hair and make-up for what seemed like for ever. The catwalk show was a star-studded fundraiser for a children’s hospital, a cause she felt passionate about–she was desperate to hit the runway, if for nothing else than to stretch her legs.

Jared, her make-up guy, was a paunchy artiste with a shiny black Mohawk and shockingly dark, sculpted eyebrows. He stood back.

‘Voila. My work here is done.’

In the spotlit mirror, Chloe absorbed her reflection–her hair, normally worn long and loose, was secured in an elaborate cascade of curls; her eyes a smoky grey. The other models, with many of whom she had worked but none she had become great friends, watched her from gaunt, pale faces, eaten up with envy. Chloe was naturally lovely–she didn’t have to try.

‘Thanks, Jared.’ She smiled. She could hardly wait for Nate, in the front row in the audience, to see her tonight.

The show went off brilliantly. Chloe was the main attraction and first out on the walk, donning a striking collection of silver high-necked, short-length dresses from a debut designer. The heels they put her in made her about six-five and she had visions of toppling over and landing with her face buried in Anna Wintour’s lap. A row of slim, neatly crossed legs lined the length of the runway, sharp suits and straight backs, as famed spectators knew they were as much on show as the models.

Afterwards Melissa Darling met her backstage. It was like a mannequin production line, with long, slender limbs in various states of undress.

‘Melissa!’ Chloe greeted her, giving her a kiss on both cheeks. She was half-naked and struggling into a pair of jeans–Melissa didn’t seem to notice.

‘You were fabulous,’ said Melissa. She was in her twenties, with light brown hair that was pulled into a thick, swinging ponytail. Always managing to strike a balance between glamour and ‘What, this old thing?’, she wore leggings with chunky boots and a cashmere wrap.

‘Thanks! Did you see Nate?’ Chloe let her hair down, tried to get a brush through it before it got well and truly stuck, and laughed.

Melissa shook her head. ‘No, but listen, if I could just grab a word—’

‘Somebody said my name?’ a cocky voice interrupted. A pair of hands covered Chloe’s eyes from behind.

‘Nate!’ Chloe broke free and turned to kiss him. He wore a white shirt, tight tweedy waistcoat and skinny jeans. His hair was styled to within an inch of its life and Chloe thought he must have spent longer getting ready than she had.

‘What did you think of the show?’ she asked.

‘Not bad, babe,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘You were the best thing in it.’ He leaned in to kiss her again.

Melissa cleared her throat. ‘Chloe?’

She pulled away. ‘God, sorry! You were saying?’

‘Can we have a chat?’ Her agent’s eyes flew to Nate.

‘Oh,’ said Chloe, waving her hand, ‘anything that concerns me concerns him, too.’

They took a seat. A blonde model with glittering blue eyes and an upturned nose flitted past, catching Nate’s attention and batting her lashes.

‘Do you know her?’ asked Chloe.

Nate shrugged. ‘Never seen her before in my life, babe.’

‘OK,’ said Melissa, ‘it’s about LA.’

Chloe’s hands flew to her face. Nate frowned.

‘The part’s yours, if you want it.’

‘Oh, Melissa!’ Chloe jumped up and embraced her agent, who was caught off guard and took in a mouthful of black hair. ‘I’m ecstatic, truly. Thank you thank you thank you.’

‘What?’ said Nate, looking from one to the other.

Ignoring him, Melissa went on. ‘You’ll need to meet with the director, but it’s just a formality. As soon as the producers saw your photo, they knew you were it. You’ve got the right image, the right reputation’–she threw a glance at Nate–’and the right profile. Congratulations.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘What’s all this about?’

Chloe was unable to contain her smile. ‘I wanted to wait till it was confirmed before I told you. The right part finally came along, Nate.’

‘It did?’

She nodded happily. ‘And I’m filming with Lana Falcon.’

Nate was taken aback. ‘Lana bloody Falcon?’

‘That’s right!’

Nate’s mouth fell open.

‘I know–unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Chloe took his hand. ‘But I don’t want you to worry about us, you know, the long distance thing. I’m totally committed to—’

Melissa stood up. ‘Chloe, I’ve got to dash. I’ll send the script over tomorrow and you can review your part.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve looked at it myself and it’s a gem of a role.’

‘I’m so made up, Melissa. A million thank-yous.’

‘Don’t thank me–it’s on your own merit.’ She winked, gave her client a final hug goodbye and was gone.

Chloe sat back down. Nate’s mouth was still hanging open.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

Nate found his tongue. ‘Just a bit of a shock, that’s all,’ he said, refusing to meet her eye.

There was a brief pause. ‘Aren’t you glad for me?’ she asked quietly.

‘Of course I am,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that Hollywood’s kind of a fucked-up place. Maybe you’d be better off staying here.’

Chloe reached for him. ‘You’re so sweet to always think about me first. But I promise you, it is the right thing for me.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s something I have to do, Nate.’

After a moment Nate seemed to find his feet. ‘As it goes, we might not be so long distance as you thought.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Seems I’ve got some news of my own.’ Nate shrugged, smoothly reclaiming the limelight. ‘We’ve been signed up to work with this shit-hot producer on the new album. In LA, as it goes. Everyone thinks with a bit of hard work we might break the US market.’

Chloe was thrilled. ‘No way!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s so awesome-we’ll be out there together!’

Nate gave a weak smile. ‘Hmm.’

‘I’m serious!’ She kissed him. ‘I can’t wait. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.’

Nate laughed and stroked her hair. ‘Or you’re coming with me.’

Chloe frowned. ‘Whichever.’

Jared dashed over, frantically waving his arms. ‘Car’s here, let’s go!’

They were hitting Movida, where the couple were scheduled to make an appearance. The paparazzi would be out in full force. Chloe and Nate were definitely the people to arrive with.

19

Los Angeles

‘I’ve got to fuck you. Now.’

Stark naked, Parker Troy lay back, already hard to bursting. He feasted his eyes on Lana’s magnificent figure. Those perfect breasts; that nipped-in waist and beautiful ass, her creamy skin that always smelled clean, like lemons. She was a hundred per cent real.

‘Shh,’ said Lana, taking his hands and straddling him, ‘don’t speak.’ Deftly she slid on protection. There was no time for foreplay, never had been. And this wasn’t about tenderness–it wasn’t about the other person at all. For both Lana and Parker it was a selfish act of make-believe: a high-risk, utterly irresistible ride right into the heart of the storm.

They raced to the climax quickly, urgency running thick in their blood. For Lana, who was starved of sex and craved it like air, it was a necessity. For Parker, as it was every time, the experience was one of ecstasy and just a pinch of disbelief, as he looked up at the woman he and his frat buddies had jerked off over at college.

‘That was incredible,’ he gasped, a rash of pink spreading across his chest. ‘I’m addicted to you.’

Lana dressed quickly. ‘Don’t say that. We’re not going there.’

They were at Parker’s Malibu penthouse overlooking the ocean. Lana had requested she run through a pivotal scene with Parker before shooting the following week–Cole’s driver had dropped her twenty minutes ago and was currently waiting outside. She’d greeted Parker cordially at the door for appearances’ sake, but once inside they hadn’t spoken. This was anything but a professional engagement.

Parker sat up. ‘Do you have to go?’ Behind him the beach stretched out, a spread of golden sand running down to sparkling water. He sat back on the pillows and gazed at it dreamily, like something out of a romance novel. ‘We could take a walk.’

Lana fastened her bra. ‘Not in this lifetime.’

‘In that case,’ he reached for her, ‘come back to bed.’

She resisted. ‘Forget it, Parker. Cole’s waiting.’

The colour drained from Parker’s boyish face at the mention of Lana’s husband. Cole’s name was taboo.

‘You freakin’ brought him here?’ he squealed.

Lana gave him a look. ‘Of course not. One of his goons.’

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Christ! Don’t do that to me again.’

‘I’m careful, Parker, we both are.’ She grabbed the script, tucked it under her arm. ‘Long as it stays that way, we’ve got nothing to worry about.’

A noise interrupted them. The sound of the door going.

They looked at each other.

‘Get the hell out!’ Parker hissed, throwing himself off the bed. The sheets got tangled in his legs and he tripped on to the floor. ‘Shit!’

Lana hauled open the window, clambering out on to the balcony. ‘Who is it?’

He shook his head, bundling her purse out after her. ‘It’s Ashlee, she’s home early. Holy freakin’ shit!’

‘I thought you’d broken up!’

‘We’re on and off.’ A clumsy kiss on the lips. ‘Make like we sat on the terrace, I don’t know. If Cole finds out, I’m a dead man.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ she said wryly. He slammed the window shut.

Staying low, Lana skirted round the side of the building. A murmur of voices could be heard from inside the apartment–she hoped Parker could handle himself: the last thing they needed was his girlfriend running to the papers.

Before she emerged she dusted off any dishevelment and pulled her cap down hard over her ears. The whole encounter had taken less than half an hour.

Cole’s car was waiting on the opposite side of the road. Its driver had his head buried in a paper.

This is getting dangerous, she told herself. You’re pushing it too hard.

But she couldn’t help it. These days it was the only thing that made her feel alive.

‘Poor baby, let me get you something to drink.’

Parker Troy made a pathetic face and lay back, half closing his eyes. He watched through the cracks as his girlfriend fussed around–he’d had to feign illness when she’d found him semi-naked amid a knot of bed sheets.

With Ashlee gone, he checked his cell. He could only assume Lana had got out OK. Parker was playing with fire and he knew it–this was Cole Steel’s freakin’ wife. Every man in Hollywood knew it was as good as putting a loaded gun to your balls, but that only made it more of a drug.

How in the hell he’d managed to bed Lana Falcon he simply did not know. Parker himself was a part-time celebrity, had been in several poorly produced teen films that had raised his status to that of the kind of minor heart-throb girls poster up on their walls but don’t exactly know the name of. His part in Eastern Sky as Lana’s brief fling–how life imitated art-was a major break. When she’d made her intentions clear in the first week of shooting, he couldn’t believe his luck. It was a risk, but Parker was a man who thrived on adrenalin. Life was for living in the moment–he’d think about the consequences later.

Ashlee came back in with a glass of water and some drugs. She sat down next to him, put a hand to his forehead.

‘You’re working too hard,’ she told him, kissing his fevered lips. ‘It’s exhaustion, that’s all.’ She held out the pills.

Obediently Parker swallowed them, the chalky powder sticking in his throat.

20

‘Go on, honey, go play with Su-Su.’ Kate diLaurentis gestured frantically to the Puerto Rican nanny, who came hurrying over to take her daughter.

‘Why don’t you play with her, Kate?’ asked Jimmy Hart, fixing himself a drink from the granite-topped bar.

‘Fuck off, Jimmy,’ Kate snarled. ‘It’s hardly like you’re father of the year.’

The nanny gathered up both children and ushered them out of the room, trying to cover their ears as best she could.

Kate sauntered out to the pool in their expansive Bel Air mansion. She needed some downtime–kids were so exhausting.

‘That’s right,’ muttered Jimmy, ‘another day, another sun-tan.’

Kate chose not to rise to it. Arranging herself on a lounger by their infinity pool, she closed her eyes and tried to block out her husband’s moaning. A moment later she heard him pad out on to the terrace.

If only he wasn’t such a goddamn bastard.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she told him, sitting up and sipping a Perrier, ‘I went for a casting this morning.’

‘What for?’ he asked in a bored way.

Already thinking about your next little conquest, are you? Kate thought angrily. ‘It’s Carl Rico’s new venture.’

‘Carl bloody Rico?’ Jimmy was outraged. ‘Make you get your tits out, did he?’ Carl Rico was a director with a reputation for targeting ageing actresses looking to get back into work. ‘Bit desperate, Kate.’

Kate whipped off her sunglasses. ‘You try being an actress in your forties and then tell me I should be picky!’ she blazed.

Jimmy shook his head in exasperation and wandered back into the house. He couldn’t talk to his wife when she was like this. Where had the old Kate diLaurentis gone, the woman he had fallen in love with? She’d been gorgeous, funny, smart, an actress with wisdom and ambition. He knew these days she felt like she was way past her best, but all the surgery coupled with a sharp whiff of panic wasn’t helping one bit.

With shame he admitted he was making it ten times worse by shagging around. But what was a man supposed to do? A diagnosed sex addict, at that? Over the past year his wife had barely allowed him under her nightgown–a nightgown? What were they living in, the nineteenth century?–and every time he tried to cop a feel she froze up like a rabbit in headlights. He wasn’t ready to join a monastery just yet.

Kate followed him in, her Louis Vuitton wedges pounding the floor.

‘Don’t you walk away from me,’ she fumed.

‘What are you going to do, Kate?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Batter me to death with one of your shoes?’

On cue she pulled off one of her wedges and threw it at his head. It narrowly missed and went crashing into a Ming-style vase.

‘Oh, nice,’ said Jimmy. ‘Real fucking nice.’

‘I hate you!’ she screamed, turning on one heel and storming lopsided back to the pool.

‘And just what is it that I’m supposed to have done?’ Jimmy was calling her bluff. He winced in anticipation of her response.

Kate refused to look at him. She swallowed back her tears. If only she knew how to deal with all this … frustration. She hadn’t been sleeping. She was depressed, anxious, jealous. She needed her pills–they were the only things that calmed her. But that would only give her husband something else to grumble on at her about.