Hollywood Husbands Page 2

  * * *

  ‘Faster!’ gasped Clarissa Browning fervently. ‘Come on. Faster!’

  The young actor on top of her obliged. Although in shock, he was managing to perform nevertheless. Well, he was twenty-three years old, and at twenty-three a hard-on is only a handshake away.

  Clarissa Browning had done more than shake his hand. Shortly after their first meeting on the set of the film they were appearing in together, she had requested his presence in her dressing room. He went willingly. Clarissa was a star, and this was only his second movie.

  She offered him a glass of white wine and a pep talk about his role. Even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning he accepted both gratefully. Then, in clipped tones, pushing strands of fine hair away from her delicate but interesting features, she said, ‘You do know that on film reality is the core of everything.’

  He nodded respectfully.

  ‘You play my lover,’ she said. Clarissa was twenty-nine years old with a long face, limpid eyes, a nose just saved from being too long, and a thin line of a mouth. In life she received no awards for beauty. However, she had proven more than once that her ordinary looks created incandescent magic in front of a camera.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ the young actor said enthusiastically.

  ‘So am I,’ she replied evenly. ‘Realize, though, that anticipation is not enough. When we interact on screen it has to be real. We have to generate excitement and passion and longing.’ She paused. He coughed. ‘So,’ she continued matter-of-factly, ‘I believe in working our roles through before we get in front of the camera. That way we are never caught with our pants down – metaphorically speaking, of course.’

  He tried for a laugh and wondered why he was beginning to perspire.

  ‘Let’s make love and get it out of the way,’ she said, her intense brown eyes challenging his.

  Who was he to argue? He forgot about his California blonde perfect girlfriend with thirty-six-inch boobs and the longest legs in town.

  Clarissa reached over, unzipped his Levis, and they went to work. Even though he was somewhat shell-shocked that he was sticking it to Clarissa Browning. The Clarissa Browning! Who would believe it?!

  When they were finished she said briskly, ‘Now we’ll both be able to concentrate and make an excellent film. Just know your lines backwards. Listen to our admirable director, and become the character you’re playing. Live the role. I’ll see you on the set.’

  Just like that, he was dismissed.

  As the young actor left her dressing room, Clarissa reached for a thermos of vegetable juice and poured herself a small glass of the nourishing liquid. She sipped it thoughtfully. Interaction with her fellow actors, that’s what real theatre was all about. Making love to the young man had put him at ease, given him the confidence he would need for the difficult role. He would no longer be in awe of her – Clarissa Browning – Oscar-winning actress. He would see her as a passionate woman – flesh and blood – and react accordingly! This was very important, although some people would think she was mad if she confided that she always made love to her on-screen lovers. It worked – and she had an Oscar to prove it.

  Jack Python would throw a fit if he ever found out. Macho chauvinist. All-male stud. Did he honestly believe she didn’t know about his little dalliances?

  She laughed quietly to herself. Jack Python – the man with the wandering cock…

  Ah well… as long as it didn’t wander too far. Right now it suited her to have Jack as her permanent lover. Who knew what the future held…

  * * *

  ‘I got a friggin’ heart palpitation yesterday,’ Howard Soloman announced with a grim expression.

  ‘What?’ Jack wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly.

  ‘My friggin’ heart,’ Howard continued in outraged tones, ‘started bouncin’ around like a ping-pong ball.’

  Jack had long ago decided Howard was a hypochondriac. He changed the subject. ‘Where’s Mannon?’ he asked. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘Mannon would come every day of his life if he could,’ Howard said slyly.

  ‘We all know that,’ Jack agreed.

  Mannon Cable – movie star, director, producer, hot property (in Hollywood when you’re hot you’re hot, when you’re not you may as well be dead) – made his entrance. As with Jack before him, every pair of eyes swivelled to get a better look. In fact Mannon actually stopped conversation. He was handsome. If you threw Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds and Paul Newman into a blender, you would come up with Mannon Cable. His eyes were cobalt blue; his skin sunkissed to a sexy leather brown; his hair a dark, dirty blond; his body powerful. Six feet four inches tall – ‘Every inch a winner,’ he would mock when he made frequent guest appearances on the Carson show.

  He was forty-two years old – fit, fast, and right up there box-office-wise with Stallone and Eastwood. Mannon Cable was hitting a peak.

  ‘Hey – I’m one hungry sonofabitch,’ he said, sliding into the booth. He grinned. He had the I am a big movie star grin down pat. He also had a great set of caps (lost the shine on his originals when he laboured as a stunt man for a couple of years) which enabled him to grin from here to eternity without any trouble at all. ‘What are y’all eating?’

  ‘Eggs,’ replied Jack, stating the obvious.

  ‘Looks like a couple of fried tits to me,’ laughed Mannon.

  ‘Everything looks like tits to you,’ Jack replied. ‘You should see a shrink, you’ve got big problems.’

  Mannon roared. ‘The only big problem I’ve got is my dick. You should have such problems.’ He signalled to the waiter and proceeded to order an enormous breakfast.

  Jack stared at Mannon and Howard. Sometimes he wondered why the three of them remained friends. They were all so different now. And yet, whenever he got to thinking about it, he knew why. The truth was that they were brothers under the skin, sharing their pasts. They had made it to the top together, and nobody could split them up – although many a wife and girlfriend had tried.

  Howard had gone through three wives, and was currently on his fourth, the curvaceous Poppy. He had children everywhere. Mannon was still carrying a torch for his first wife, Whitney, and the new one, Melanie-Shanna, had not yet killed the flame. Jack had Clarissa, although deep down he knew she wasn’t the right woman for him – a knowledge he refused to admit.

  ‘I’ve got a great idea,’ Mannon said suddenly. ‘Why don’t we fly down to Vegas next month? Just the three of us. We never get to see each other anymore. We could play the tables, raise hell, cause some trouble, just like old times. Whaddya say?’

  ‘Without the wives?’ Howard asked hopefully.

  ‘You bet your cojones without the wives,’ Mannon said quickly. ‘We’ll drop ’em off at Neiman’s – they’ll never even notice we’re gone.’

  Mugging excitedly, Howard said, ‘I like the idea,’ forgetting that Poppy would singe his balls if he tried to go away without her. This one was a clinger, as opposed to the other three before her, who were strictly takers.

  ‘How about it, Jack?’ Mannon looked at his friend expectantly.

  Jack had promised Clarissa a week in New York. Long walks through the Village. Off-Broadway theatre. Never-ending dinners with her strange, broke friends. Guess who would pick up the bill?

  He hated walking, only liked movies, and her so-called friends were a pain in the ass.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Set it up. Work permitting, you can definitely include me in.’

  Chapter Two

  Jade Johnson was totally addicted to Bruce Springsteen. She had no desire to meet him, just lust from afar like a mildly randy fourteen-year-old. She put Born in the U.S.A. on her stereo and danced around her new apartment.

  Jade Johnson was twenty-nine years old. She had shoulder-length shaggy copper hair, gold-flecked widely spaced brown eyes, a full and luscious mouth, and a strong square jaw which saved her from being merely beautiful, and made her face challenging and alert.

&nb
sp; She was five feet ten inches tall, one hundred and thirty pounds, with very long legs, a lithe, supple body, broad shoulders, and an incredible swan-like neck.

  Apart from being kind-hearted and a good friend when the need arose, she had an acerbic wit and a wild sense of humour. She was also smart, independent, and one of the highest-paid photographic and commercial models in the world.

  The doorbell rang and she rushed to answer it, clad in blue jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

  It was the foreman of the delivery crew who had just stacked fifteen large packing cases in her hallway. ‘That’s it, lady,’ he said, handing her a slip to sign. ‘All present an’ correct. I hope you’re satisfied.’

  Signing, she slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. ‘Buy a beer for you and the guys.’

  Pocketing the money appreciatively, the man thought about what a knockout broad this one was. Not only good-looking in her skin-tight jeans and sweatshirt, but generous too.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and added with a smirk, ‘that commercial you got runnin’ on TV sure is blistering!’

  She grinned, displaying very white, even teeth, and a warm, sexy smile. ‘Glad you like it,’ she said, subtly edging him towards the door. Once they started on about her famous coffee commercial she knew the time was ripe to move them out, having learned, very early on in her career, to be friendly yet unreachable to her many unknown admirers. Once, at eighteen, she had been attacked and nearly raped by a crazed fan who had fallen in obsession with a swimsuit poster she had posed for. Only the intervention of a concerned neighbour had saved her.

  The delivery man paused at the door. ‘Maybe ya gotta photo y’can sign for me,’ he said hopefully.

  Out she projected silently. She was looking forward to being alone and beginning the great unpack. ‘I’ll send you one,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Scrawl, I love ya Big Ben,’ he leered. ‘That’ll give the boys somethin’ t’ think about.’

  Big Ben! Was he kidding?

  She waited patiently while he laboriously printed his address on a slip of paper. ‘Thanks again, Ben,’ she said, finally closing the front door on him.

  Alone at last! In L.A. Who would have thought she would ever make the long trek west again? New York was her kind of town, always had been. California never beckoned. Well, once, when she was twenty and naively accepted the offer of a screen test. Stupido. She was no actress, and held no ambitions in that direction. But she was young and curious, and what the hell – a trip was a trip.

  She had arrived to be met by a block-long limo with a youngish agent lounging on the back seat. He wore multo gold chains with his open-to-the-limit silk shirt and carefully pressed designer jeans. He had a suntan, a mini-mogul cigar, a receding hairline, and an attitude. He offered her grass in the car and an invitation to dinner.

  She turned down both, which caused frown lines to appear in his perfect suntan.

  A suite at The Beverly Hills Hotel was reserved for her. Flowers and fruit abounded. She stayed five days, tested with a broody actor who tried to kill her close-ups, turned down several more invitations from the bronzed agent, returned to New York, and never heard another thing.

  Several years later when she was really hot, Hollywood beckoned again. ‘Forget it,’ she told her New York modelling agent. ‘I’m going to be the best model in the business, and the highest paid. Who needs to travel the starlet route? Not this girl, baby.’

  And she was right. Jade Johnson was the best. And she was – due to the deal she had recently signed – the highest paid.

  The deal was the reason she was once more in Los Angeles. Cloud Cosmetics made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and part of it was spending a year on the West Coast to make a series of million-dollar TV commercials. Normally she would never have considered leaving her beloved New York. However, she had just come out of a six-year relationship with a married man, and getting away seemed like an appealing prospect.

  She wandered around the apartment kicking off her tennis shoes and unzipping her jeans as Springsteen belted out ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ The sound of his raspy voice filled the room, and she was content. This was going to be a new beginning, the start of a whole different life. No more Jade Johnson – mistress. Oh no, sirree. That trip was over, finito. What a fool she had been. What a gullible idiot, falling for every cornball line he threw her way. She was hardly naive, and yet for six long years he had kept her captive with his tongue – in more ways than one.

  She thought of him briefly. Mark Rand. An English Lord. An English asshole. A wild-life photographer of world-wide repute. They had met on assignment in Africa. She was doing leopard swimwear for Vogue, and he was shooting the photographs. He had curly hair, amused blue eyes, and fascinating conversation. It wasn’t until a week of passion had passed that his fascinating conversation included mention of a wife, Lady Fiona Rand.

  Jade remembered her fury. She had fallen for the oldest lines in the world… My wife and I live together in name only… when the children are older…

  And Jade Johnson – smart, worldly, hardly a babe in the woods – listened to his corny bullshit and actually believed him! For six years she believed him. And she would have gone on doing so if Lady Fiona hadn’t given birth to yet another little Rand heir, and Jade found out about it by accident while leafing through an English magazine.

  The end had been acrimonious, her move to California swift.

  Gazing around her new apartment she decided it was a great find. Situated on Wilshire near Westwood, she had leased it furnished, although there was no way she could think about getting through a year without her things around her. Books, records, her collection of china dogs, tapes of favourite movies, clothes, family pictures, and other personal possessions. Hence the delivery from New York a timely day after her own arrival, courtesy of TWA.

  Contemplating the many cartons piled high in the hallway, she wondered if she could summon the energy to start on them now. With a sigh she realized she’d better. Grabbing a 7-Up from the kitchen she set to work.

  Chapter Three

  It was Silver Anderson’s forty-seventh birthday, and she awoke with the thought that she was one year older foremost in her mind. She lay in bed for a full ten minutes ruminating on this fact, and then reluctantly she arose, first buzzing her houseman and ordering bran muffins, fresh orange juice, and lemon tea to be on her table in exactly fifty minutes. That was how long it took Silver to be ready to face the world. Rather quick, considering the transformation that took place.

  The woman who left the luxurious king-size bed was quite ordinary looking.

  The woman who left the bedroom fifty minutes later was a television superstar.

  Silver Anderson was ready for a Vogue photo session – the cover, of course, Silver only did cover stories. She was fully made up. Heavy base, dramatic eyes (she still wore false lashes, giving her a commanding but rather old-fashioned look). Her lips glistened with scarlet gloss, and her cheeks were sunken with shading. She wore heavy gold earrings, a white silk turban, and a pale beige leather outfit liberally studded with diamante. It was only ten a.m. but Silver knew she owed it to her fans to always look like a star. She was five feet three inches tall, and had maintained her girlish figure. It took diet and exercise, and although it was a bitch keeping to the routine, the results made it worthwhile. From behind, with her tight ass and sassy strut, she could easily be mistaken for a twenty-year-old.

  Sweeping downstairs, she ignored her Russian houseman, Vladimir, who was gay and couldn’t care less how she treated him as long as she kept him in her employ. He dined out on his personal intimate Silver Anderson stories twice a week. To his friends he was the star, living vicariously through his mistress’s exploits. Silver was always making headlines. She segued from men problems (two ex-husbands, dozens of boyfriends) to drink problems (thank you, Betty Ford, for making it legitimate) to feuds with directors, writers, producers – whoever was around to vent her anger on. Silver was very proud of saying, �
�I am a professional. And I will not be screwed around by unknowledgeable amateurs trying to step in my limelight. Let them remember just exactly who they are dealing with.’

  * * *

  Silver Anderson first became a star at twelve. She was discovered singing and dancing in a school play by the talent agent father of one of her friends, who recommended her to the casting director of an important musical film. She auditioned, got the role, and went from there to mini-stardom singing like a bird in a series of hits. She certainly had a wonderful voice, full of power and extraordinary clarity. And so she should – her mother, Blanche (a failed singer herself), had made sure that her daughter had singing lessons from the age of five. Blanche often used to say to her, ‘I never made it. But you, my dear, will take the talent you inherited from me, and become the biggest star in the world.’ Blanche had also insisted on dancing lessons and acting classes. As a result, when she was growing up, Silver never knew childhood, just vigorous training for the stardom her mother was convinced would one day be hers. When she was sixteen, the bottom fell out of musical comedy movies in Hollywood, and her agent suggested New York and the theatre.

  ‘You’re not going to New York,’ objected her father, George, a college professor and sometimes inventor of what her mother referred to as ‘useless devices’. They lived in a large, rambling house in the Valley, bought with Silver’s earnings, and he had no intention of uprooting.

  ‘Daddy, I must!’ Silver protested tearfully, as her mother had told her she should. ‘My career is at stake!’ She overdramatized everything, even at sixteen.

  Blanche agreed with her daughter. ‘We can’t ruin her life, George. We must encourage her to soar!’

  George stared mournfully at his domineering wife with the carrot-coloured hair and unfulfilled dreams. He knew there was no stopping her, so it was arranged that she would accompany Silver to New York for six months while he stayed at home with their son, Jack – at nine, seven years younger than his famous sister.

  Both Silver and Blanche adored New York, and the feeling was mutual. Silver opened in a new show called Baby Gorgeous, which ran for a phenomenal five years. During this time she married her first husband (tall, dark and weak), divorced him (he asked her for alimony), helped her mother to divorce George, and attended Blanche’s remarriage to a twenty-six-year-old stage hand (her mother was thirty-eight at the time) and neither of them ever had any desire to go back to Los Angeles and the Valley. New York suited them just fine.