Sinners (2 page)

Abe addressed himself to her. ‘Look, honey, I know you got a gorgeous pair of boobs there, but just keep them pointed at Mr Milan, huh?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘When he throws me to the floor it is very difficult. Perhaps if you let me wear some sort of covering, as I wanted to . . .’

‘No, those things look worse than nothing.’ He was referring to ‘patsies’ which some female stars insisted on wearing in any kind of nude scenes. They were round flesh-coloured pads which stuck over the nipples. Sunday had asked to wear them, but her contract for the film stipulated she had to do what the film company wanted, and they wanted no patsies. So here she was, exposed, except for a brief pair of panties, to the entire unit, which seemed to have doubled itself on this day.

She dreaded having to remove the robe again.

As if reading her thoughts, Abe said, ‘Get on the bed, let me show you what I mean. Do you mind, Jack? Shall I get your stand-in?’

‘Do I mind? Just get me a Scotch and a cigarette, and I’ll shoot this scene all day!’

More laughter, and Sunday reluctantly took off her robe. She tried not to care, tried to blank out the grinning faces watching her.

She got on the bed, partly under the sheets, and half lying across Jack Milan.

‘Now let’s take it in slow motion,’ Abe said. ‘Show me how you throw her off you.’

Jack’s strong arms lifted her slowly and edged her sideways. Abe’s fat arms brushed across her until both men were holding her.

‘Try and keep her towards you like this,’ Abe said. ‘That’s it, marvellous. Now on the floor, dear, when you go to hit him, just make sure your back is to the camera. Like this.’

Once more he handled her body, and this time she was sure his fat hands didn’t slide across her breasts by accident.

‘We’ll break for lunch now.’ He turned to Jack Milan who climbed out of the bed, wearing orange jockey shorts and matching socks. ‘Everyone back by two p.m. sharp. Come on, Jack, I’ll buy you that Scotch.’

Sunday walked slowly to her dressing room. She was close to tears. It was so humiliating to be treated like this. She had thought a Jack Milan film would be a good thing to do, but it had turned out to be just another girl in a multi-girl spy film. She had been so anxious to leave Rome that she had hardly even looked at the script. And she had wanted to see Hollywood; the nearest she had been before was Rio, where she was born.

Sunday had had a happy childhood. Her father was South American and her mother French, and the two nationalities were very compatible.

By the time she was sixteen she had decided to be an actress, and she persuaded her parents to send her to a dramatic academy in London. It was the best, and arrangements were made for Sunday to stay in London with her mother’s elder sister, Aunt Jasmin. Of course, she was to return to Rio for all vacations, and immediately if she didn’t care for England.

It didn’t make any difference whether she cared or not. Her parents were killed in a car crash two days after she left.

Sunday was heartbroken. She blamed herself, reasoning that if she had been there it might not have happened.

Her father left hardly any money at all. Generous, he had lived big, spending and lending in every direction.

After the funeral, Sunday decided to stay in London and continue her studies. She had a few thousand pounds left to her by her mother.

It was a far different life for her to adjust to. A small apartment in Kensington, the cold weather, and Aunt Jasmin, who thought it a sin to show any affection.

Sunday found this strange and worrying. She needed love and affection, and it seemed there was no one she could turn to.

She threw herself into her work at the academy.

One day after she had been there a year and a half, she met Raf Souza.

Raf was a dynamic young man, currently the most in-demand fashion photographer and very aware of it. He turned up at the school with three thin model girls, a hairdresser, a battery of equipment, and three huge dogs. He had permission to use the interior of the academy for a
Vogue
lay out with students in the background.

At that time, Sunday wore her hair flattened down and scraped back. She dressed for the cold, wearing at least three sweaters and baggy trousers. She wore no make-up.

Raf picked her out immediately, made her loosen her hair, and had her kneeling with the dogs looking up at the three model girls.

She was secretly delighted, but to the other students she pretended it was an awful bore.

When Raf left he handed her his card and said, ‘If you want to see the pictures, drop around tomorrow about six.’

Raf’s studio was the wrong end of Fulham Road, and it took her ages to find it. He hardly gave her a glance when she arrived, just threw the contact sheets at her.

She studied them intently. How blank her face looked beside the models. How lumpy she appeared in her loads of sweaters.

‘How old are you?’ Raf asked casually.

‘Nearly seventeen. Why?’

‘Just wondered. I had an idea you might be good for. You want to try some test shots?’

‘Yes, I’d like to.’

‘If they’re any good it will mean a week abroad plus all expenses paid and a hundred quid.’

Raf was no fool. He was getting paid a thousand for the job, and if he took a really good professional model it would dig deeper than a hundred. Anyway, he saw great potential in this girl. That fabulous skin would photograph a million dollars in colour, and with the right make-up and hairstyle she would be a knock-out. He was fed up with the usual faces. They all looked the same. This girl could be quite a diversion.

Raf, in his short career, had been to bed with many of the top photographic models, lady editors of magazines, and generally any female who could do him some good. He was stocky, untidy, with a little-boy smile that turned women on.

He tried it now on Sunday. ‘What do you think? Could you make it with no family problems?’

She thought how nice he was. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could. Term ends tomorrow and I didn’t have any definite plans.’

‘Great! Let’s get started. You’d better get out of your clothes. I’ll give you a shirt to put on. Oh, and take your hair down, it looks terrible scruffed back like that.’

She had second thoughts. What sort of pictures did he want to take anyway? She hesitated when he threw her a shirt.

He noticed her hesitation. ‘They’re going to be fashion shots, darling, beach jazz and harem gear, I’ve got to see if you’ve got a body underneath all that. Get changed upstairs if you like.’ He busied himself with a camera.

She took the shirt, went upstairs, and put it on over her bra and pants. It looked quite decent. Then she loosened her hair and padded quietly downstairs.

Christ! Raf thought, he’d picked a winner this time. The girl was magnificent. She had the most incredible long legs, and he imagined the wild shots he could do with her. Her breasts jutted through the shirt, and she had a special kind of walk. Very, very sexy.

He spent an hour taking photographs. She fell into poses naturally. He couldn’t wait to get her out of that shirt. Apart from fancying her, she was going to make this assignment really good.

Arrangements were made, and they went to Morocco.

Raf, who used women purely as a convenience, found himself completely fascinated by Sunday.

Because of the situation with her aunt, Sunday found herself spending more and more time with him. On her seventeenth birthday he made love to her, and shortly afterwards she moved into his studio.

Aunt Jasmin accepted the move as she accepted everything else in life, tight-lipped and silent.

‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Sunday promised.

Aunt Jasmin just shrugged her disapproval.

Raf was the first person Sunday had been really close to since her parents died. They lived together for several months, Sunday finishing her last term at the academy, and Raf getting on with his work. Then the pictures of Sunday in Morocco appeared, and the magazine was inundated with calls wanting to know who she was. There were offers for her to do a hair commercial, a toothpaste commercial, and a film company wanted to test her.

Raf withdrew into a black mood. Sunday was thrilled.

The magazine wanted Raf to arrange another session with her immediately. He talked her out of doing the commercials, although the money was excellent. But she insisted that she wanted to do the film test.

Raf took her to Rome, and while they were taking the photographs she fell in love with the city. It reminded her of Rio.

When they got back she did the part in the film she had tested for.

Raf brooded, extremely jealous about having to share her. For the first time since she came to live with him he had other women, got drunk before she came home, and took to insulting and ridiculing her in front of their friends.

She couldn’t understand why Raf had become so bitter towards her. What had she done?

But he couldn’t explain how he felt about her success, that he was terrified of losing her.

She did a couple of other small parts, and then the first movie appeared and she received an offer to do a film in Rome.

‘Take it,’ Raf said bitterly, ‘we’re about through anyway.’ And to settle the matter he told her he had found someone else.

Sunday was quite successful in Rome, appearing in a string of movies that usually showed off her more physical charms.

All thoughts of becoming a ‘serious actress’ were pushed to the back of her mind. She enjoyed the excitement and attention she seemed to create wherever she went.

The Italian men chased after her in full force, but her thoughts remained with Raf. He had been her first man and she had loved him. She had
thought
he loved her.

Then Paulo appeared on the scene. Count Paulo Gennerra Rizzo. He was to bring nothing but trouble.

*    *    *

‘Miss Simmons.’ There was a knock on her dressing-room door. ‘Miss Simmons, you’re wanted on the set please.’

Automatically she checked herself in the mirror and vaguely realized she hadn’t had any lunch. Oh well, back to the charming Abe Stein and delightful Jack Milan, who hadn’t addressed one word to her. What a way to start one’s first day’s work in Hollywood.

On the set there was much activity. Word had spread about the nude scene, and little groups of men whom she hadn’t noticed before were dotted around the sidelines. She also noticed several men with cameras who hadn’t been there before. Neither Jack Milan nor Abe Stein was present.

A makeup man with whom she had argued that morning approached her. It had been a silly argument as far as Sunday was concerned. She had asked to do her own eye make-up, as she always did, and the man had refused. That annoyed her, as she knew her face a lot better than someone who had merely glanced at her for five minutes. She insisted, and the man stamped out of the room in a fury, muttering about ‘Dirty foreign starlets.’

Now he approached her with a cake of make-up and a sponge. He said, ‘Take your robe off. I’ve got to check your body make-up.’

She glared at the man who had gathered a bunch of mates to watch the fun. ‘Where is the woman who did it this morning?’ she asked.

‘On another set. Don’t be bashful, everybody’s seen your big tits already!’

She felt her face blaze, and turned to leave the set, bumping into Jack Milan and Abe.

‘Where are you rushing off to, honey?’ Abe asked, gripping her arm with his fleshy hand. ‘Let’s get this scene in the can, come on.’ He pulled her back to the set.

She had a sudden feeling that she wasn’t going to be able to take her robe off in front of this whole group. She said to Abe: ‘In Italy when we shoot such a scene, the set is cleared until only the essential technicians remain. I would like that done here, please.’

‘Oh, would you?’ Abe coughed and spat. ‘This isn’t Italy, honey, and all these guys are needed around here.’

Sunday, who rarely lost her temper, was burning now. ‘In that case you can shoot the scene without me. I am not an animal to be stared at. I am an actress.’

‘Ha!’ Abe snorted. ‘An actress, huh? One that can’t even keep her tits out of the camera. Don’t get high-hat with me, baby, you’ve got a contract, remember?’

‘Yes, I am well aware of that. However, I cannot work under these condition. I’m so sorry.’

And with that, she walked off the set.

It was the first time anyone had walked off a Jack Milan movie.

Charlie Brick and the girl sat side by side in the dimly lit restaurant overlooking Park Lane. Several waiters hovered nearby, ready to spring forward at the slightest sign from the man.

They sipped coffee, the girl eagerly, bright eyes darting all over the place. She was pretty and young. Charlie was much older, nearing forty. He had a long sad face, and wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

‘I wish my mum could see me now!’ the girl said suddenly.

‘What, my darling?’ Charlie leaned closer towards her, groping for her hand under the tablecloth.

‘My mum,’ the girl continued brightly. ‘She just wouldn’t believe it, me sitting here in a place like this with you.’

‘Why not?’ He gave her hand a tight squeeze.

‘Well, y’know.’ She giggled. ‘They could hardly believe it when I won that beauty competition and came to London; they’re a bit square where I come from. So you can imagine what they would think if they knew I was sitting in some posh old restaurant with a real live film star!’

‘You’re such a pretty little thing.’

She looked pleased. ‘Do you think so?’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘My mum always said I should be in the movies.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘What do you think?’

He let go of her hand and summoned one of the nearby waiters. ‘I think it’s time we were going. I have a very early call in the morning.’

‘Oh.’ She looked disappointed. ‘I thought you were going to show me your new stills back at the hotel.’

‘Some other time.’ His attitude had changed; it was distant, hurried.

The head waiter came rushing over. ‘Everything all right, Mr Brick?’

Charlie stood up. ‘Thank you, Luigi, it was fine.’