Sinners (7 page)

George hissed at him. ‘You know you don’t like photos without your glasses on.’

‘Oh, yes, very very factual,’ Charlie replied in his best Indian imitation.

‘Bye, Charlie – good luck,’ one of the photographers called.

A pretty air hostess arrived to escort them to the V.I.P. lounge.

‘The flight will be boarding in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

He nodded. ‘A double scotch, my dear.’ He needed it.

Once airborne he fell into a deep sleep.

Jack Milan’s house stood in acres of grounds, surrounded by electrified fences. At the entrance there was a small guardhouse. Nobody had access to the main house unless the guard said so. This was due to the fact that Jack had five children, and in the past there had been several kidnapping threats. Although the kids were all grown up now, he was taking no chances.

Sunday sat nervously in her car while the chauffeur thrust her invitation at the guard. Then the car swept up a long drive to a big white colonial mansion.

Sunday felt nervous. First she had decided Carey was right, and she should have brought an escort. Second she was sure she wouldn’t know anyone. And third, since Paulo’s death, she hated to be among lots of people. In fact, she dreaded the whole evening.

She looked quite fantastic in a long black sequin outfit that she had had made for a film in Italy. She wore nothing underneath, and her body was shown off to great advantage.

A butler greeted her, and led her through the house and out onto the sloping floodlit terraces at the back.

‘Miss Sunday Simmons,’ he announced through a loudspeaker system, and left her standing there.

The many people drinking on the terraces all turned to stare. Her name was already known.

A plump fortyish woman came over extending her hand. ‘Hi, Sunday dear, I’m Jack’s wife, Ellie. It’s lovely to see you. Come along, and I’ll introduce you around.’

Sunday immediately liked the warm plump Ellie. She followed her to a group of people and soon found herself mingling easily into the small talk.

It wasn’t going to be too bad. After dinner she could slip quietly away. She would have done her duty.

She was chatting to a bleached-blond actor, a well-known queen and an elderly red-headed woman who kept one protective hand on the queen’s arm in case he should flit off, when a girl said, ‘Sunday. How great to see you. How
are
you?’

She looked at the girl. Very trampy with long blonde hair, and a busty figure crammed into a shiny red dress. Sunday knew she had seen her somewhere before, but she couldn’t for the life of her think where.

‘Hello,’ she said.

The girl laughed. ‘Don’t you remember me? Dindi Sydne – Prince Benno’s friend. We all used to go to the beach together in Rome. You and Paulo – gee, I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t mention him. It was so awful what happened. Benno was heartbroken. Anyway, you remember me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Vaguely she remembered her.

‘Well, here I am. Back in my home town,’ Dindi continued. ‘It just didn’t work out with Benno. Anyway, I was offered a movie, so here I am again. Would you believe I had to go all the way to Rome to get a job
here?
Ain’t life funny?
You
look great. Are you having a good time? Your publicity’s wonderful. Hey, did you see Steve Magnum yet? I’d love to meet him. Do you know him?’

Sunday shook her head. She knew who he was, of course. A film star, swinger, four-times married (all to famous ladies) millionaire. At least that’s what one read about him.

‘He’s a great friend of Jack Milan’s,’ Dindi said, ‘so I guess
you’ll
meet him. I haven’t even met Jack yet. My date is a real creep cameraman. Doesn’t know anyone. I don’t know how the hell he got invited in the first place. By the way, where are you staying? Let’s get together.’

‘The Château Marmont. But I really don’t go out much and—’

‘We’ll soon change that. I can fix you up with some live ones. Things can get a little dull around here if you just mix with the importants. Agreed, that’s a good scene, but a little action on the side doesn’t hurt. I’ll call you, must rush now, there’s a director over there I’ve had my eye on for weeks.’

Dindi wriggled off in her tight dress, and Sunday found herself standing alone. She looked around. The party was in full swing. Soon, she hoped, they would serve dinner and then her ordeal would be over.

She felt very much alone, but that had been a constant feeling ever since Paulo’s death. In the few months beforehand, she had watched him degrade himself. Would she ever forget the lengths he had gone to in hiding the drugs from her? Burrowing beneath the tiles in the bathroom like a dog, hiding little stores under the mattress, in the light fixtures, even on the narrow ledges outside the windows of their apartment. In the end she had been thinking about divorce, and the week before he died had threatened him with it. He had cried like a baby, making her fervent promises of how good he would be, how this time he was cured.

‘Sunday, dear,’ Ellie Milan bore down on her, ‘I’m putting you at a table with Jack. Table number two, you’ll see a place card for yourself. I’m trying to get everyone seated.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She followed the groups of people drifting towards the tables.

Dindi was sitting earnestly at a table, her hand laid casually on top of a fat man’s arm. His eyes were glued firmly down her neckline.

‘Hi there, Sunday.’ Jack Milan waved at her from table two.

She went over, returning his smile and shaking hands with the people already sitting there, to whom he introduced her. Abe Stein was among them, with a horse-faced wife who glared.

She was seated next to Jack on one side, with two vacant chairs on the other.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said. ‘And great in the dailies too. I understand Radiant are giving you a contract.’

‘Well, they have offered me one, but I’m not taking it. I don’t believe in long-term contracts, they’re too restricting.’

There was a short shocked silence from everyone.

Abe said, ‘I’d take it if I were you.’

‘
I
haven’t done too badly,’ Jack said mildly. ‘I’ve been with Radiant seventeen years.’

‘No, the kid’s right.’ Steve Magnum had appeared, accompanied by his latest steady, Angela Carter. He sat down next to Sunday. ‘Forget it. Long contracts are a thing of the past. Radiant’s about the only studio left who sign people, and they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Don’t let them talk you into anything, kid.’

‘I won’t,’ she replied, trying to stop herself from staring at him. His face was so familiar. Back in Rio, when she was still at school, he had been her favourite film star.

Steve Magnum had aged well. At fifty he wore his years with style. He barely made five foot eleven and he was very thin – his unkinder critics described him as scrawny – but his face still had the same bony, hungry quality that had made him a huge star some twenty-five years before. Steve Magnum was a legend in his own time. Women were mad about him. Even his four ex-wives never tired of saying they would always have him back. He had been single eight years now, and the newspapers and columns were always speculating about who would be the next Mrs Magnum. There were many candidates, but most people in the know bet there wouldn’t be another Mrs Magnum at all. Some said he might even go back to his first wife, by whom he had three children.

‘Hey now,’ he looked Sunday over with his famous pale blue eyes, ‘you’ve handled yourself pretty well so far. Came into town and caused quite a stir. Even told old Abe and Jack where to get off.’

Jack laughed, but Abe scowled and tried to ignore his wife who was nudging him to say something.

‘Carey St Martin is looking after me. She’s terrific. I’m sure I have her to thank for all the offers I’m getting. If it wasn’t for her I’d probably have been out of here on the next plane to Rome.’

Angela laughed prettily. ‘How sweet. All because of some itsy-bitsy nude scene. Darling, they’re all the rage now. If you want to get on in this business, you have to learn to take your clothes off.’ She snaked an arm around Steve and gazed at him adoringly.

‘Yeah, honey,’ Steve said, ‘and you
certainly
know how to do that. On
and
off the screen.’

During the meal Steve kept on talking to Sunday. She was well aware of Angela on his other side, listening to every word and trying to join in.

Angela had been his steady girlfriend for three months and she had high hopes of continuing the role, perhaps even making it permanent. She was infuriated by Steve’s interest in Sunday. What idiot had sat him next to her, and what the hell was all that slop she was coming out with about principles and good scripts?

She could hardly believe her ears when she heard Steve say to Sunday, ‘You know you’d be great as the rich sexy broad in my new movie. Want to test?’

Angela had hoped that Steve was going to let her do that part. It wasn’t a star role, but it was good. She had hinted that she would like to do it, but Steve had brushed her off. And now he was practically offering the part to this unknown bitch! And the unknown bitch was replying, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t test. There are quite a few Italian films I am in that you could run. I don’t believe in testing.’

Steve looked at Jack, and they both burst out laughing.

‘Sonofabitch!’ Steve said. ‘You were right. This broad is different.’

Marshall K. Marshall left his custom-built white Rolls Royce with the doorman at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and limped into the lobby.

Actors – lousy actors. They were becoming so damn demanding. They seemed to want to have a say in everything. He remembered the days when all they did was sign their contracts and get on with it.

Marshall had arrived at the hotel to be present at a meeting between Cy Hamilton, Jnr – producer of
Roundabout
– and Charlie Brick, star of said picture. The meeting was due to the fact that they could stall Charlie no longer. He certainly wasn’t a fool, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Michelle Lomas was not going to appear.

Already they were shooting around her, and the previous day Charlie had stalked off the set, leaving a message for Cy that unless Michelle was there he wasn’t doing another day’s work. So the time had come to tell him that Michelle Lomas was pregnant, a fact confirmed yesterday. She was confined to her house by Lake Lugano and wouldn’t be budging, on doctor’s orders, for nine months.

Marshall carried a small briefcase in which were photographs and brief biographies of his ideas for replacements.

The main thing was to convince Charlie that it was worthwhile to go ahead with the picture without Michelle. He had every contractual right to walk out if he wanted to. It was up to Marshall as his agent to persuade him not to.

*    *    *

In his tastefully decorated pale beige suite with two colour televisions going full blast, Charlie paced the floor wearing a white towelling bathrobe and brown Gucci slippers.

George hovered respectfully in a corner, one eye on the television and one on Charlie. A rented secretary sat at a table, day-dreaming about being discovered. And another table held a spread of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, all untouched.

‘You should eat something,’ George said mildly.

Charlie grunted, still pacing. His work was more important than anything else, and he was incensed that they should have done this to him. Without Michelle the film wouldn’t be the same. Where the hell was she? Why had she backed out?

He wasn’t going to do it. He would go back to London and screw ’em. They weren’t going to fob him off with some replacement.

Six boring days he had been waiting for Michelle, and apart from a press party, where he was asked a string of inane questions, he hadn’t been anywhere except to the studio.

Of course, he had had a stack of invitations. Hollywood was always delighted to see a new face in town. Any excuse to throw a party. Several well-known hostesses vied with each other to be the first to have a dinner party for him. This time they were out of luck. He said no to everything. He didn’t believe in a social life until the film was under way.

There was a knock at the door and Marshall K. Marshall limped in. In spite of the air conditioning he was sweating profusely. He rarely left his office during the day, only in emergencies.

‘You look great,’ Marshall said. ‘Even thinner than last week.’

‘Yes, I am managing to keep the old weight down.’ Charlie smiled. He knew it was only supreme willpower that kept him looking as good as he did. Four weeks of normal eating and he would be back to the fatty he once was.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ Marshall said. ‘Cy’s not exactly ecstatic about it. But Michelle is expecting a baby. She’s got us by the balls.’

Charlie slumped into a chair. That was the last thing he’d expected.

‘We got a doctor’s written confirmation yesterday – so that’s why there’s been all the shillyshallying. Who would imagine Michelle would get herself knocked up? Not only knocked up, but thrilled about it. Cy wanted her to go ahead and do the movie anyway – after all, it won’t notice for another four or five months – but no, she ain’t taking no risks. Sorry, Charlie, that’s it. Look Cy’s in a bind, if you walk out it will be bad, and I know you
can
walk out, and personally I wouldn’t blame you. But listen, baby, if we can find a replacement – someone you OK, and you stay, then I reckon it will be another ten per cent of the gross, and that ain’t chicken feed. What do you think?’

The rented secretary sat straight in her chair, trying to listen over the noise of the television. George still lingered in the corner.

Charlie closed his eyes and tried to think. Another ten per cent. Not bad. But who could replace Michelle?

As if reading his thoughts Marshall said, ‘We could have a re-write. Instead of the parts being equal, build yours up and cut hers down. It would be your movie, all the way. Can we turn that goddam television off ?’

‘George, turn it off,’ Charlie said, his mind racing. ‘And I don’t need you, dear’ – to the secretary – ‘come back tomorrow, same time.’