Hollywood Divorces / Hollywood Wives: The New Generation (2 page)

So Lissa was extremely busy, but not too busy to contemplate her fourth divorce. Currently she was married to Gregg Lynch, a ten-years-younger-than-her singer-songwriter. And thank God her lawyer had insisted that he sign an ironclad pre-nuptial agreement, because lately she’d begun to suspect that Gregg was composing his love songs elsewhere. And not only that, but over the last six months he’d started showering her with mental abuse.

His constant nagging about things she supposedly did wrong were beginning to get her down. There were times he would pick on the smallest detail and yell at her endlessly. Other times he would berate her for not recording
his
songs, accusing her manager and agent of forming a vendetta against him. He’d tried to persuade her to fire them both. ‘Can’t you see that they’re stealing from you,’ he’d yell, ‘and you’re too dumb and stupid to notice?’

He distrusted her business manager. Loathed her lawyer. Hated her yoga teacher. Criticized her friends. In fact, anyone who worked for her was on his shit list.

She ignored his insults, because she knew that deep down he didn’t mean it. And whenever he indulged in one of his temper tantrums, he always apologized later. She also
understood
why
he was so super-critical. He was furious that he’d never made it, and because of that he was forced to take his frustration and anger out on
someone
, and since she was the closest person to him, that someone was her.

The big problem was that she was never quite sure who she was going to wake up next to–the good or the bad Gregg. Unfortunately they now seemed to exist side by side.

She couldn’t stand him when he was in one of his bad moods. Loved him when he was mellow and caring and supportive–qualities that were fast vanishing.

Lissa was prepared to put up with a lot–she knew from past experience that there was no such animal as the perfect man–but the one thing she refused to stand for was infidelity. The moment she suspected that might be happening, it was time to move on. No Hillary Clinton was she, and lately she’d been recognizing the signs only too well. All-night meetings, a renewed interest in his personal appearance, taking one shower a day too many, and developing a paranoid attachment to his cellphone.

As soon as Gregg started exhibiting the symptoms, she’d called the Robbins-Scorsinni Private Investigation Agency and requested forty-eight-hour surveillance. She’d used the agency on other occasions and they’d never failed her.

It was so depressing that it had to come to this again. Why was it that she had yet to marry a man who could keep it in his pants?

Nelly Furtado crooned over the sound system. Lissa licked her already glossy lips while Fabio fussed with her hair.

‘Will we be finished soon?’ she asked Max, her publicist, who was hovering on the sidelines with a group of people from the magazine.

‘Any time you want,’ Max said, a short, cigar-smoking
man who wore flamboyant suits, and had a different bowtie for every day of the month.

‘One more roll,’ the photographer begged. He was young, in awe, and excellent at what he did.

Lissa was always open to young and excellent: it kept her career edgy and fresh.

Throwing her head back, she struck a pose, honouring the camera with a true-to-form provocative gaze. Parted lips, half-closed diamond blue eyes, an expression of sexual yearning.

Lissa Roman gave great sex. It always paid off.

Kickboxing class over–a virtual feast of kicking, punching and sparring–Nicci hurried into the dressing room, took a quick shower and changed into shorts and a stomach-baring T-shirt: all the better to show off her killer abs, glowing tan and recent navel piercing. Then she stared in the mirror for a moment, which reminded her that she’d certainly inherited Antonio’s looks. Rich, dark brown hair cropped like a gamin, with long bangs falling into her huge brown eyes, which were fringed with impossibly long, silky, midnight black lashes. Long legs and a lithe, lean body. Her over-full, sexy lips and high cheekbones were the only clue that she was Lissa Roman’s daughter.

Yes, she decided, she was definitely going to call Antonio. He
had
to come to her wedding. He was her father, after all, and she needed him beside her on the most important day of her life. It wasn’t like she had any other family–Lissa’s parents were forbidden territory, although she’d always harboured a secret desire to contact them, see if they were as strict and unloving as Lissa said.

Grabbing her bag, she headed for the car park, where she climbed behind the wheel of her gleaming silver sports BMW, an engagement present from her fiancé, Evan.

Ah…Evan, she thought fondly. A goer. A doer. A man
with a mission. Thirty years old and already a self-made millionaire from a string of off-beat comedy movies he’d co-written and co-produced with his brother, Brian.

So intently was Nicci thinking about Evan, that she did not notice the dusty brown van pull away from the kerb and fall in behind her car as she left the parking lot and hit Sunset.

Evan and Brian Richter. A younger, hipper version of the Farrelly brothers. Their rise to power had been meteoric–six movies in five years, all of them box-office smashes.

Nicci had met Evan at the dog park on the top of Mulholland. She’d been walking her then boyfriend’s Great Dane, and Evan had been trying to control a couple of crazed, large German shepherd puppies, who were intent on running riot and attacking as many other dogs as possible. Coolly assessing the situation, she’d gone up to him, grabbed the leashes out of his helpless hand, chased down both puppies and collared them firmly.

‘Here,’ she’d said brusquely, delivering the two German shepherds back to Evan. ‘I suggest you hire a trainer.’

‘How much?’ he’d asked, all spiky brown hair, lanky limbs and comic-book features.

‘How much what?’ she’d answered haughtily.

‘How much’ll
you
charge to do it?’

A disdainful look. ‘You can’t afford me.’

A crooked grin. ‘Wanna bet?’

What the hell? She had no job to speak of and he seemed vaguely legitimate. ‘A thousand a week. Cash,’ she’d said, challenging him.

No challenge was too big for Evan Richter. ‘When can you start?’ he’d said, admiring her spunky attitude.

And that’s how it all began. A casual meeting, with neither of them knowing anything about each other. He’d only kept the dogs a few weeks because they were messing up his impeccable house, but by that time Nicci and he were quite inseparable.

That had been five months ago and now they were due to be married in six weeks and she had a wedding to organize with no help from Lissa, whose only suggestion had been to hire a wedding planner.

Nicci sighed. Naturally she loved Evan. Sort of. Well, he made her laugh, didn’t treat her badly and gave great head. He could also handle the fact that she had a famous mom, which freaked most guys out. That should be enough to sustain a long and fruitful marriage…shouldn’t it?

Yes. Except there was one tiny little drawback. Very small. Extremely insignificant.

Nicci loved his brother too.

And sometimes she wasn’t sure which one of the Richter brothers she loved the most.

L
issa Roman had three best female friends, plus one token male. They called themselves the New Hollywood Wives, and tried to get together at least once a month, which wasn’t easy, because they were all exceptionally busy–except James, who played house-husband to his black male lover, Hollywood music mogul, Claude St Lucia.

‘Look at you ladies go,’ James was inclined to say, raising his well-groomed eyebrows. ‘Why not play it like me and do absolutely nothing? It’s so much
easier.
’

James was tall and English, with dark blond hair worn a tad too long, and fine aristocratic features. He was extremely lazy, and a loyal friend who could be relied upon to listen to all their problems, and between the four women that meant a lot of problems.

Lissa never felt the need to visit a shrink, she had James to depend on, although she didn’t tell him
everything
, and she certainly wasn’t about to reveal her suspicions about Gregg.

Today they were meeting at Mister Chow’s–a long time popular hang-out on Camden Drive.

Lissa got there first, safely delivered by her permanent driver, Chuck, a large, bald black man, who doubled as her bodyguard. She’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t be too careful. She’d had her share of stalkers, freaks and overzealous fans. Caution was second nature to her now.

Then James walked in, debonair as usual in a casual Armani sports jacket and perfectly pressed jeans. James loved clothes, Claude loved buying them for him.

Taylor Singer arrived next. Taylor was a tall, striking woman in her mid-thirties, with cat-like green eyes, long wavy hair, and well-defined features. She was married to Lawrence Singer, mega Oscar-winning writer-director-producer. Taylor was an actress who had plans to direct and star in her own project, a movie she’d been developing and talking about for two years. So far it hadn’t happened, but with steely determination, and a great deal of help from her powerful husband, she was sure it was about to.

She was followed by Stella Rossiter, a short, dynamic blonde, who produced movies with her husband, Seth, a man thirty years older than his pretty, smart-mouthed third wife. Together they were a well-respected, powerhouse couple who consistently made hit films.

Stella was pregnant. Well, actually
she
wasn’t-she was far too busy to put up with the inconvenience of pregnancy so a mix of
her
eggs and Seth’s sperm had been fertilized and implanted in a surrogate mother. Stella was delighted to inform anyone who would listen that they were about to give birth to twins. Seth’s three adult children from his two former marriages were not thrilled. Nor were his ex-wives.

And finally, in strolled Kyndra, sultry queen of the divas, making her usual late entrance.

Lissa glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘What is
this
? Black time?’ she demanded good-naturedly.

‘Oh, honey,’ Kyndra answered in her low-down smoky voice. ‘You all would
still
be sittin’ here come midnight if this was black time!’

Everyone laughed, while Kyndra settled into her seat. She was a voluptuous woman, with a huge bosom, long Tina Turner legs, and clouds of thick, dark curls surrounding a strong sexual face. She’d been married for twenty-four
years to Norio Domingo, one of the most successful record producers in the music business. ‘Come tomorrow, Norio and I are in the recording studio,’ Kyndra drawled, ‘an’ that’s the last you’ll see of us until our party. So get this mama a lychee martini an’ let’s
dish!’

It was Lissa’s lunch, so she signalled to the waiter, ordered drinks and all kinds of tempting starters from chopped seaweed to honey spare-ribs. The food would probably sit there, as everyone–including James–seemed to be on a permanent diet. But it was a good idea to have it on the table just in case anyone was in an eating mood.

‘You’re on, James,’ Lissa said, turning to her best male friend. ‘You
always
know everything first, so let’s hear the latest.’ Not that she was interested, gossip wasn’t her thing, but she needed
something
to take her mind off what she was doing later.

‘Well…’ James said, a knowledgeable glint in his slate grey eyes. ‘Did anyone
hear
about Ricky M and the two French models?’

‘Even better,’ Stella interrupted. ‘I went to one of those “how to give the perfect blow job” parties. Talk about bizarre.’

‘
I
went to one of those,’ Taylor said enthusiastically. ‘Rubber cocks straight out of the dishwasher! And some funny little ex-nurse who tried to instruct everyone how to do it. Can you imagine!’

‘Pu-lease,’ James said. ‘It’s far too early for this kind of crude nonsense.’

‘Ladies,’ Kyndra intoned, ‘if you don’t know how to give the perfect BJ by this time, then I suggest you pack on up and get your skinny white asses back to where you came from!’

And after that it was all systems go.

Driving fast, with one hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching her cellphone, Nicci reached Evan on location in Arizona, where he was shooting his latest movie. ‘Busy?’ she asked briskly.

‘Busy missing you,’ he replied.

‘How come you always know the right thing to say?’ she said, pleased to hear he was missing her.

‘Practice.’

‘I hate the thought of practice,’ she said, screeching to a halt at a red light.

‘Huh?’

‘Practice means there’s been other women. I
hate
the thought of other women.’

‘No other women,’ Evan said solemnly. ‘I was a virgin before you. All I did was jack off.’

‘Ugh! I’d sooner there were other women!’ She laughed, ignoring the man in the Toyota behind her who was busy giving her the finger on account of her abrupt stop.

‘No pleasing you today,’ Evan said lightly.

‘I’m planning on phoning my dad,’ she announced, groping for a cigarette in her purse.

‘What? To tell him I jack off?’

‘You’re weird,’ she said, laughing.

‘I am,’ he agreed. ‘But you knew that.’

‘Uh…how’s Brian?’ she asked casually, lighting up.

‘An asshole as usual.’

‘So things are normal.’

‘You could say that.’

The light changed to green and she shot away, driving too fast as usual. ‘E-mail me your undying devotion.’

‘I already have.’

‘Miss you,’ she said. ‘Call me later.’

‘Of course.’

She clicked off, a smile on her face. Evan always made
her smile, which is more than she could say for most of the men she’d been involved with. Carlos had possessed no sense of humour at all. Looking back, she had no clue what she’d seen in him–apart from his smooth looks and incredible prowess in bed. Hmm…two qualities that shouldn’t count, but definitely did. Sensational sex was hard to come by.

Evan was good in bed. Obliging and considerate. But no way was he wild.

Nicci had a strong suspicion that Brian was the wild one in the family. She also had a nagging itch to find out.

No!
she told herself sternly.
Stop thinking that way. It’s Evan you’re marrying. Not Brian, who comes on to every woman who breathes, and is certainly not faithful and trustworthy like his brother.

Cutting off a white Mercedes driven by a grey-haired lech, she pulled up in front of Starbucks and hurried inside.

Skipping to the front of the line, she winked at the lanky guy behind the counter–a wannabe actor with bright red hair and crooked teeth. Since he knew her, she didn’t have to tell him her order. ‘What’s happenin’, Freddy?’ she asked, reaching for a cookie on the glass-topped counter.

‘Courteney Cox was in,’ he confided.

‘Cool.’

‘She’s a babe.’

‘
And
taken.’

‘I can look, can’t I?’ Freddy said hopefully.

‘When you make it big, you can do more than look.’

‘Encouragement,’ Freddy said, grinning. ‘You spur me on.’

Freddy had no idea who she was, which was good, because Nicci had never traded on being Lissa Roman’s daughter. The less people knew, the better. After all, it wasn’t as if she had any desire to be an actress or a singer. Truth was, she hadn’t decided
what
she wanted to do. She’d
dabbled in a few jobs, just like she’d dabbled in a few drugs. Nicci was an adventurer, anxious to cover every experience.

Recently Evan had suggested that since she obviously had no intention of going to college, and was currently without a job, she might be interested in working with him.

‘What as? A gofer?’ she’d asked suspiciously.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he’d answered sarcastically. ‘I can see
you
running errands for people.’

‘Then
what?
’

‘Hang out on the set–see what gets your adrenaline going.’

‘
You
get my adrenaline going,’ she’d said warmly.

‘That’s why I love you.’

‘You love me ’cause we have great sex,’ she’d joked.

‘I love you ’cause you’re the only woman I can ever imagine spending more than five minutes with.’

And this was true, because Evan did not have a long, complicated romantic history like Brian. According to Evan, he’d had no serious attachments before her. And that made her feel very special.

I’m getting married
, she thought, as she left Starbucks, clutching her coffee.
Guess that means no more adventures.

Evan had requested a traditional wedding. She’d sort of entertained the idea of running off to Vegas and getting hitched by some kind of Elvis impersonator, but Evan was having none of it. ‘A runaway wedding would break my mom’s heart,’ he’d said.

He had a mom! How normal. A widowed mom who lived in New York. They’d flown to New York so that she could meet Nicci. Somehow Nicci had imagined a little old lady in Easy Spirit shoes who wore fluffy angora sweaters and kept cats. No such luck, Lynda Richter had turned out to be a tall, big-boned woman clad in Escada and diamonds–purchased for her by her sons–with teeth the size of baby tombstones and plenty of overbearing attitude.

Nicci felt quite intimidated by her–especially after she got back to L.A. and had to endure a daily phone call checking up on wedding preparations. ‘Have you ordered the cake? The band? Double-checked the place settings? Decided on the flowers? Hired the preacher? Booked a photographer? Chosen your dress? Chosen your
bridesmaids
’ dresses? What are you waiting for, dear?
YOUR WEDDING IS IN SIX WEEKS
.’

Nicci dreaded Lynda’s daily phone call. Usually she let her voice-mail pick up, but she soon grew annoyed that she was prevented from answering her own phone.

She’d tried to talk to Evan about it, but, typical male, Evan thought his darling mommy could do no wrong and refused to listen to any form of criticism concerning her.

The saviour was that Lynda Richter resided in New York. Nicci didn’t think she could have handled it if Lynda had lived around the corner. What a nightmare
that
would’ve been. Besides, she resented Lynda butting in as if she was a ditzy airhead. She was perfectly capable of planning her own wedding, and had everything under control.

Well…almost.

She’d booked the venue–a gorgeous bluff situated in Palos Verdes overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The ceremony and reception would take place outside at sunset. Not exactly as traditional as Evan expected, but it would be so romantic. And the woman who ran the place had assured her she could organize whatever Nicci required.

So…all she had to do was figure out what she required.

Lynda’s list ran through her head like an unrelenting mantra–dress, cake, band, bridesmaids…Bridesmaids! God! How traditional was
that
?

Evan was having a best man and six groomsmen, so he’d insisted she have bridesmaids.
Probably so the groomsmen can get laid
, she thought dourly.

The truth was that she was not a girly girl–most of her friends were male. After much thought she’d managed to come up with six suitable candidates. Now all she had to do was get them fitted for dresses. She was well aware that she’d left it horribly late, although her maid-of-honour, who was also her best friend, Saffron Domingo, had offered to help.

Hmm…Saffron was hardly the most reliable person in the world. Like Nicci, Saffron was a free spirit with not much idea about tradition. The daughter of Kyndra, a diva-style black singer, and Norio Domingo, an eccentric white record producer from Colombia, Saffron was a girl who lived by her own rules. Although she was only nineteen, she had a three-year-old daughter, Lulu, to whom Nicci was godmother. Lulu’s time was divided between living with Saffron in her modest Westwood house, and visiting her daddy, famous NBA player, Bronson Livingston, who resided in a huge mansion in a gated community with his second wife and three children–all from different women.

Nicci hated Bronson: in her eyes he was a big, stupid sports star with a giant ego who’d taken advantage of her best friend. And the kicker was he paid minimal child support, and Saffron refused to take him to court to get more.

Nicci hated him because he’d stolen Saffron’s youth, and the sad thing was that she’d never get it back.

‘I have to go,’ Lissa said, clicking her fingers for the check. ‘It’s been memorable, as usual.’

‘Honey, when I’m around it’s always memorable,’ drawled Kyndra, producing a solid gold compact and applying an over-abundance of purple lip gloss. ‘Now don’t forget, my anniversary party is coming up soon, and I expect to see you all there.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ everyone chorused.

‘I’m not certain Larry will make it,’ Taylor said, her green
eyes darting around the restaurant to ascertain if there was anyone important she should say hello to. ‘He’s in discussion on a big project with James Woods, Harrison Ford and Nick Angel. You know Larry when he immerses himself.’

‘I’d love to do a movie with Larry,’ Lissa said wistfully, reaching for her purse.

‘I believe there
is
a strong female role,’ Taylor said thoughtfully. ‘Once they’re set, they’ll be starting auditions.’