Sinners (28 page)

A few policemen were to be seen, travelling in pairs, looking grim and tough in their dark uniforms.

It was just beginning to get dark. Laurel and Floss with their whole group moved steadily through the crowds to find a good vantage point to spend the night.

Hot-dog, hamburger, and ice-cream stands were dotted around. Tents were being erected for the night. Some people just had blankets to lie on.

Phillipa walked silently beside Charlie, who carried her heavy sleeping bag. This wasn’t quite the way he had imagined it. Laurel had quite definitely mentioned tents, and he thought they had the whole matter arranged. He had imagined luxurious tents set up on a hill overlooking the crowd, certainly not sleeping bags down among the herd.

He was tired from the day’s work at the studio, the hot dusty bus ride, and now this long trek. He was also starving hungry, and anxious to take a leak.

A dreamy-looking girl was sitting on the grass, breastfeeding a rather large baby. Two teeny boppers recognized Floss and giggled around him. A group of leather-jacketed boys swaggered past, all greasy hair and sneery faces. Over everything there hung the acrid bitter-sweet aroma of marijuana.

Laurel and Floss finally found a place to settle, and Laurel went around asking all their friends sweetly, ‘Is this OK for you? Are you
sure
?’

Phillipa said to Charlie, ‘I have to go to the loo.’

At last, a common interest! They went off together to find the convenience tents that Floss assured them couldn’t be far away. In fact, they walked for ten minutes before they found them, by which time it was dark and Charlie wondered how they were going to find their way back.

‘Wait for me right outside,’ he commanded Phillipa.

She smiled a rare smile. ‘You know you’re not all bad. I can’t see my mother doing this.’

Great, he thought. I should have gone after the mother!

In the badly smelling men’s convenience a bearded boy was giving himself a shot, an old belt tied tightly around his arm, the vein bulging. Two characters sporting beards lounged around, watching. Charlie got out as fast as he could.

Phillipa took her time and then emerged ruffled. ‘You wouldn’t believe the scene in there,’ she remarked. ‘There’s a couple of lady fuzz searching everyone for acid or pot or something ridiculous. What a nerve!’

Charlie was glad they hadn’t been where he was. He could see the headline now: ‘Actor caught with marijuana at pop festival.’

‘We’re never going to find our way back,’ she complained.

He took her hand and led her through the crowds. He had always had a good sense of direction.

What would she say if he suggested they get the hell out of this and go home?

It started to spit, fine warm rain, that was hardly noticeable.

‘I’m hungry,’ she moaned.

How would a sleeping bag be in the rain, Charlie wondered. He stopped and bought two hot-dogs – ruinous for his diet – and they kept looking for their group.

‘There they are,’ Phillipa yelled at last. ‘There’s Janie and Rex. Hey, where’s everyone else?’

Out of the busload only a few were left.

Janie, a fat girl dressed like a gypsy, said, ‘Everyone’s chickened off. They didn’t like the scene. The cops are patrolling round with great big dogs and it’s just not cool. You can’t even get high in peace.’

‘Where have they gone?’ Charlie asked, furious at having been left behind.

‘Some party one of the groups is having. They’ll all be back tomorrow for the show. We’re supposed to keep the pitch. How about a bite of your hot-dog?’

‘Didn’t Laurel or Floss leave a message for us?’ Charlie demanded furiously.

Janie shook her head. ‘Guess not.’

‘Come on.’ He tossed the remains of his hot-dog at the fat girl, and gripped Phillipa’s arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Sunday’s press conference went smoothly. She countered questions about herself and Steve Magnum with charm and tact.

Carey had decided that the best way to present Sunday to the press was at a cocktail party where she could circulate freely among the reporters.

She was a hot property. On the strength of the Jack Milan movie alone, she was receiving a huge amount of fan mail.

Carey had several firm offers to discuss with her. It had been a good move to hold off signing anything while the word spread. Sunday could now pick and choose.

‘What about you and Claude Hussan?’ an alert girl columnist asked.

Sunday smiled. She wanted to say ‘We’re in love and I hope we will always be together’, but Carey had warned her to say nothing about him beyond the old worn-out quote that they were merely good friends.

‘We’re just friends,’ she said lamely.

‘But you were in South America with him and his son?’ the girl persisted.

‘Well, yes.’ She was surprised, no one was supposed to know about that.

‘Is it true he’s divorcing his wife?’

‘I don’t know. Is he?’

‘I thought if anyone would know it would be you.’ The girl’s voice was sarcastic. She didn’t like actresses. She had been one herself and had failed miserably.

‘Excuse me,’ Sunday said politely. ‘They need me for a photo.’

‘Just one more question before you go. Could you love a man like Claude Hussan? Isn’t he just another Steve Magnum with a French accent?’

Sunday blinked. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ and she edged away.

*    *    *

Later there was dinner at Marshall’s house, just the three of them, and they discussed the various offers.

‘I don’t want to make any decisions until I talk it over with Claude,’ Sunday stated.

Carey shrugged. ‘Fine. But my personal opinion is that we should accept the new Milan film. After all, it’s an equal part and a marvellous script. Then we could follow it up with the Constable movie, he’s such a great director.’

Sunday nodded. None of the propositions particularly excited her. They all called upon her to look fantastic, and the money was good, but was it too much to expect that her parts should require some acting ability?

‘You know the industry is in a crazy state,’ Marshall said. ‘Hardly anyone’s working, it’s tough all round. You seem to be the golden girl of the moment. Enjoy it, sweetheart – while you can.’

Sunday got up to leave.

‘Don’t forget fittings and make-up tests at ten tomorrow,’ Carey reminded her. ‘A car will collect you at nine. By the way, when is Claude arriving?’

‘The end of the week. He was supposed to call me but I guess he’s been too busy. He works so hard, sometimes he forgets to eat.’

Carey and Marshall exchanged glances.

*    *    *

The next day Alert Girl Reporter wrote in her widely syndicated gossip column: ‘
Sunday Simmons is the beautiful new Sex Goddess of our ever-searching tinsel city. I met her last night and she told me confidentially – batting foot-long false eyelashes and tossing her fall of auburn hair – that as far as she is concerned, rumoured new love of her life, notorious French film director Claude Hussan, is merely another Steve Magnum with a French accent. Our Steve, as you may recall, is a recent fiancé of the up-and-coming Miss Simmons. This lovely girl with the Raquel Welch-type body and Mickey Mouse quotes should go far
.’

Sunday was dismayed. What if Claude should see it? It made her look such an empty-headed little idiot.

She raged at Carey. ‘No more press parties. I don’t care if my name never appears in a gossip column again. I won’t talk to any more of these bitchy, frustrated women!’

‘Fine,’ Carey soothed. ‘But they’re not all like that. It’s not so terrible. People just remember they saw your name, not what it said about you.’

‘That’s what you think,’ Sunday replied shortly. ‘I always remember what I read, and anyway, how do you think Claude’s going to feel?’

‘Claude’s not even going to see it unless you show it to him.’

*    *    *

That evening Sunday had dinner with Branch. He took her to their favourite health restaurant. Over coffee Max Thorpe appeared, plump and red-faced with his streaky bleached-blond hair. He greeted Sunday warmly and joined them. ‘I told you we’d come by the house later,’ Branch said peevishly.

‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t wait to see the beautiful Sunday Simmons,’ Max enthused. His watery eyes darted all over the place and came to settle on Branch. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Surly-mouthed, Branch shook his head.

‘He’s doing so well,’ Max said, patting Sunday’s hand.

‘Yes, I know.’ She smiled. ‘I think the television series will be wonderful for him.’

‘Did he tell you he’s moving in with me? So stupid for him to pay all that money to a hotel when I have such a big house.’ Max shifted his hand from Sunday’s to Branch’s, where it lingered. ‘It gets quite lonely there at times; it will be nice to have some company.’

Branch looked miserably at Sunday. She felt the tension between the two men and feigned a yawn. ‘Sorry, everyone, but I think it’s time I was off. Early call tomorrow.’

‘I don’t like you driving back to the beach alone,’ Branch mumbled. ‘This town is full of nuts.’

‘Don’t be silly. I have a perfectly reliable rented Ford, full up with gas, and I’ll close all the windows and lock all the doors.’

Branch grunted and called for the check, which Max paid. They all strolled to the parking lot where Branch left with Max in his white Rolls Royce, and Sunday set off for the beach in her pale blue Ford.

She drove fast, keeping to the middle lane and not glancing around when she was held up at traffic lights. If you so much as peeked left or right, it was odds on that you would catch a man’s eye and he would take that as an immediate invitation. Los Angeles was the sort of city where women, especially women who looked like Sunday, rarely drove alone at night.

Claude hadn’t phoned, and she was worried about him. She didn’t even know for certain what day to expect his arrival.

She thought about Branch and Max. Carey and Marshall.

She did not notice the old grey Buick following her. Its licence plate obscured by mud. Its driver hidden behind heavy dark glasses.

She was too busy thinking, so she noticed nothing. Not even when she turned off along the lonely beach road and the old grey Buick was right behind her.

‘How long have you been here?’ Natalie asked, her polite phrasing hardly hiding the distaste she felt towards the skinny barefoot girl whom Charlie had brought to dinner.

Phillipa yawned openly, not concealing her gaping mouth with her hand, but treating all to a full view of her tonsils. ‘Long enough,’ she said in her flat, slightly northern voice. She had made Charlie promise that he wouldn’t tell them who she was until after dinner. She wanted to prove to him the change in people’s reactions when they found out she had a title.

Natalie choked down some prawn cocktail. Who did the little bitch think she was? Some pick-up from that awful hippy freak-out Charlie had gone to!

‘I like your outfit,’ Clay remarked. ‘Very lovely, very unusual.’

‘Thanks.’ Phillipa flashed a rare smile. ‘I picked it up off a junk stall in Portobello Road.’

She was wearing a rather tatty, nearly see-through, dress. It was embroidered with lace in places, and hung open to her waist. Her small bosom stayed hidden, only emerging when she stretched for her wine. Clay watched, fascinated.

‘How was the concert?’ Natalie asked. ‘I saw on the news that a girl had a baby there.’ She patted her own small bulge protectively. ‘It must have been terrible for her.’

‘Worse for the onlookers, I should think,’ Phillipa said, removing a prawn from her mouth and examining it before abandoning it on the side of her plate.

‘Something wrong?’ Natalie asked when the ratty girl did the same thing with a second prawn.

‘I think they’re off,’ Phillipa replied offhandedly.

Everyone stopped eating and Natalie glared. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand it was to see food wasted. ‘They can’t be off,’ she said quickly, ‘I got them from the market myself this morning.’

Clay pushed his plate away. ‘Let’s not risk it, darling.’

Natalie’s eyes filled with angry tears.

‘What’s next?’ Clay asked.

‘Roast lamb,’ Natalie replied tightly.

‘Ah, folks,’ Clay said, ‘the Allens will now treat you to some rancid roast lamb.’ He roared with laughter.

‘You’re not funny,’ Natalie said coldly, and banging the dishes together, she stamped out of the room.

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her,’ Clay said glumly, ‘she’s so bloody sensitive lately.’

‘She’s pregnant,’ Charlie said quietly. ‘Women are always touchy when they’re pregnant.’ For a brief moment he remembered Lorna when she was carrying his two children. It had been the happiest time of his life. She had been soft and warm and affectionate. Women were beautiful when they were pregnant. He followed Natalie out to the kitchen.

Phillipa picked on a hang nail and Clay filled her glass with wine.

‘Where did you and old Charlie meet up?’ he asked.

‘At an orgy,’ Phillipa replied, and concentrated on her nail.

After dinner they went out to the patio for coffee. Natalie was calm and happy. Charlie was being especially sweet to her. His unbelievable girlfriend had lapsed into an hour-long silence.

There seemed no point in telling the Allens that plain Phillipa was actually Lady Phillipa Longmead. Charlie was sure it would make no difference to them.

‘I hired a chauffeur today,’ Clay remarked. ‘A nice quiet chap. He can take Natalie around. The doctor said she’s got to give up driving – her back or something.’

‘I wish you had let
me
interview him,’ Natalie said. ‘After all, it will be I who is with him most of the time.’

‘You were asleep, darling. Anyway I was lucky to get him.
They
interview you. He’ll be here at ten in the morning, so you’ll see him soon enough. His name is Herbert Lincoln Jefferson. Are you ready for that name?’

*    *    *

They sat in the Lamborghini in front of Phillipa’s parents’ house.

‘Your friends, didn’t like me and I don’t care,’ she said.