Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection», sayfa 17

47

London

Christmas in Hampstead had been bleak. England was grey and cold and Chloe couldn’t wait to get back to America. Brock had several castings lined up already-word had got out fast about her performance in Eastern Sky, helped along by Sam Lucas’s glowing approval.

The London house had been monopolised by Janet and her boys-it seemed the hole Chloe had left in her absence had rapidly been filled. Janet did Christmas in her own, different manner, and everybody knew you should only ever do Christmas one way: in the way you always had. She and her father had muddled through after the divorce, always digging out the same moth-eaten decorations, ripped streamers and balding tinsel, an angel with a smudged face she had chewed when she was four. Now everything was changed-it was all from Liberty and neat and good quality and none of it she recognised.

Chloe lay on her bed, black hair fanned out across the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Next week she’d be back in LA. It was a new year and she could start to get her head together-beginning with her finally finding the guts to dump Nate. She’d been wondering if maybe she could learn to live with her gruesome discovery, just get on and turn a blind eye-didn’t people do it all the time? But seeing her father again over Christmas, she knew she could not. The only person she was cheating was herself-and she’d been cheated on enough.

She rolled over, her stomach crunching at the thought. She’d been a coward these past few weeks, but she’d also learned a lot. It was time for a change.

Thursday was Nate’s album launch, a big fancy affair at some club in Soho. The event itself would be too public-she’d do it after, she could play the charade until then. The break-up would be painful, but she had to rip it off quickly, like a plaster. The scab would heal eventually.

‘Darling!’ Gordon French called up the stairs in a loud baritone. ‘Pamela and Freddie are here.’

Chloe sighed. Not even the militia of extended family was enough to distract her from her black mood. She swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs to greet her jovial uncle, and an aunt who always smelled of soup.

Two days later Chloe arrived at Shaik, a celebrity hang-out in Soho, to celebrate the launch of The Hides’ new album.

She spotted Nate hanging about outside as the car pulled up. He’d told her to meet him there-the perfect stage management for their first UK shot together in months, no doubt.

‘Babe!’ he called as she exited the car. She knew she looked good in a clinging jersey dress and biker boots. Paparazzi surged forward.

‘Hi, Nate,’ she said coolly, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. Cameras circled them like vultures. When Nate kissed her, she felt nothing.

Inside, the place was heaving. Designers and DJs, models and musicians, actors and artists chatted and drank in their cliques, most of whom had parents who were famous in the eighties. Long-legged beauties leaned, bored, against the bar, their feet crossed at the ankles; an up-and-coming male singer in skinny jeans and a blazer, his quiff arranged on his head like a croissant, held fort in a grey-leather booth; a chart-topping twenty-something with her forty-six-year-old boyfriend downed cocktails amid a swarm of admiring hangers-on. Everybody wore a slightly pained expression, as though it hurt to be this cool. Chloe felt distanced from it all.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Nate, guiding her through. As an afterthought, he added, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ Chloe scanned the room as she trailed after Nate. How many of the women here had he slept with? All this time she’d thought the London girls gave her bitchy looks because of her modelling, and it could just as well be down to them shagging her boyfriend. She felt a twist of humiliation.

He got them a couple of sambuca shots. Chloe tossed hers back in one, wincing as the aniseed torched her throat.

‘Thirsty?’ Nate teased, ordering two more. He rammed his tongue down her throat while they were waiting. It tasted grim.

Chloe heard her name being called and pulled away.

‘Chloe, hey!’ It was Melissa Darling. ‘Hello, Nate.’ She put her beer down on the bar.

‘Hey.’

Chloe hugged her agent hello. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She meant it.

‘Me, too,’ said Melissa. ‘They’re going mad for you two outside.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think they’ve been lonely without you!’

Nate smirked. ‘Amazing what a slice of the American pie can do for you, eh, babe?’ It wasn’t clear which woman he was talking to.

Melissa gave a polite smile. ‘Congratulations on the launch.’

‘Ta.’

‘You look gorgeous, Chloe.’ She turned back to her client. ‘LA suits you.’

‘Thanks. I can’t wait to go back.’

Nate cut in. ‘All right, Chlo, keep your knickers on.’ He winked at Melissa. ‘We don’t get to see much of each other in LA, busy schedules and all that,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite nice being back for a bit, don’t you think?’

Chloe couldn’t look at him. ‘Sure,’ she said.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Melissa, kissing her. ‘Let’s go for coffee before you fly back.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘All the best with the album, Nate.’

He nodded through a mouthful of beer as she moved off.

‘Right, I’m on,’ he said, gesturing over Chloe’s bare shoulder. He planted a wet one on her cheek and swaggered through a gaggle of fans.

Chloe turned. The rest of the band was grabbing their instruments on a dimly lit stage in one corner-she hadn’t even noticed it when she’d walked in. The mike, lit dramatically from behind, stood patiently as Nate parted the waves of the crowd. He high-fived a flurry of outstretched palms as he mounted the steps and took his position.

‘Hey,’ Nate grunted into the mike. ‘Thanks for coming.’ There was a tinny shriek.

Chloe ordered another shot. She downed the sticky liquid as soon as it arrived.

Fuck it. She ordered another as the guitars started up. Then another. She’d need a good dose of Dutch courage to get through the pretence.

Nate strutted across the stage in his skinny jeans, shaking his head and jerking the mike, flipping it round in his hands as he sang-or largely spoke-the words. The crowd was doing most of the work, taking over the lyrics dutifully whenever Nate plugged the mike in their direction. Normally Chloe would join in, but she didn’t even know how this new one went.

They only did a couple of numbers, and when it was over Chloe felt the room spinning. She wanted to go home, she couldn’t be arsed with any of it.

Fuzzily she walked over to one of the booths and slumped down. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, laughing at her, knowing what a stupid fool she’d been.

‘Hi there.’ A bloke came to sit next to her, someone she vaguely recognised from a party she’d been to with Nate a year before. Was he a playwright? She couldn’t remember.

‘Hey,’ she said back, disinterested. She didn’t care if she appeared rude-she was too tired and emotional and drunk to bother how she came across.

‘Want a drink?’ He moved closer. His hair was thinning and he was wearing little round glasses in the style of John Lennon, she guessed, though he just looked like a freak.

She rested her chin on her hands. ‘No, I’ve had enough.’

‘I’m Baz.’

‘Great.’ How could this guy just waltz in and start chatting her up, knowing she was officially with Nate? Clearly she was the only person in the whole world to whom relationships actually meant something.

‘Want to get out of here?’ the man asked.

Chloe’s attention was distracted. She could see Nate talking to a pretty brunette at the bar. The girl was giggling at everything he said and tossing her hair, her bright red lips wet with gloss. And then-no, he couldn’t be, not while his girlfriend was sitting right here-one of his hands reached down and patted the girl’s behind. Not only that but it stayed there, and now he was leaning in, whispering something in her ear.

That was it.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first,’ said Chloe, getting to her feet.

Feeling surprisingly calm, she walked over to where Nate and the girl were standing. Fuck him-she’d been Little Miss Nice for way too long. He deserved everything that was coming his way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, tapping Nate’s shoulder.

He looked up, an inane grin on his face. He didn’t even do her the good grace of appearing guilty. ‘Hey, babe,’ he said instead, eyes foggy.

‘I’m not your babe,’ Chloe spat.

He was confused. ‘What did you say?’ The girl next to him opened her doe eyes wide, relishing the drama.

‘Do you want me to spell it out?’ Chloe demanded, hands on hips.

‘Chill out, babe, you’re making a scene.’

‘No.’ She stuck her chin in the air. ‘I won’t chill out. Why should I?’

Now he looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re drunk. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ He put a hand behind her back, preparing to guide her out.

She shook him off. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever, ever again touch me. How dare you imagine you have any right to come within a mile of me? You lying, conniving—’

‘What did you call me?’ Nate took a step forward, anger twisting his features.

‘Go fuck yourself, Nate. You know what you’ve done.’

The group around them fanned out, people backing away to get a better view, until it was just Chloe and Nate in the circle.

‘Do I?’ Nate called her bluff, attempting to laugh it off now they had an audience.

‘Oh, you need me to say it louder, do you?’ Chloe’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Whatever you want, Nate, just like we’ve always done it.’ She whipped round, her dark hair lashing behind her like a whip, and stormed towards the stage. Nate bolted after her, grabbing at her top, but he missed and went flying face first on to the floor. There was a scuffle before he surfaced, straightening his leather jacket, a strident shade of red.

Chloe took the mike, turned it on and banged it a couple of times. She was drunk but for once she could see totally clearly. The music died.

‘Nate Reid,’ announced Chloe, ‘is a liar and a cheat.’ She waited while a thick silence descended on the crowd. Their outlines were black against the glare of the spotlight.

‘I don’t know how long he’s been going behind my back–probably since the beginning. He’s a filthy, dirty, philandering bastard, and more than that, he’s an actor.’ She clapped her hands slowly several times. ‘He’s played the part of my boyfriend very well.’

‘Shut your fucking mouth, Chloe.’ Nate lashed to the front, eyes blazing. ‘It’s all lies.’

‘I’ve had to go for an STI check,’ Chloe went on, her voice sounding loud and clear round the warehouse, ‘and I’d encourage any girl who’s been with him to do the same. If you think you’re the only one, chances are you’re wrong.’

A gasp rippled round the crowd.

‘What a load of bullshit!’ shrieked Nate. ‘You’re seriously going to listen to her? Give me a break. She’s just jealous, can’t handle my fame. Isn’t that right, babe?’

‘Do you know what?’ Chloe said calmly. ‘Fuck you, Nate Reid. Fuck you and your pretentious fucking music. I don’t need you to corroborate me and I never have–in fact, if you could operate your shit-sized brain for more than a second you’d realise it’s the other way round. Without me you’re nothing but a wannabe musician pretending to be poor.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes, surely everyone here knows about the Buckley-Reids, Nathaniel–if they don’t, maybe you should tell them?’ She saw Nate gulp. ‘You’re phoney and you’re arrogant and all you ever think about is yourself. Go find a pretty little airhead who’s interested in sucking you off, because I’m telling you, it’s not me.’

Gathering all the dignity she could muster, Chloe replaced the microphone, stepped off the stage, made her way through the crowd and left. A smattering of uncertain applause accompanied her exit but then just as quickly died.

Nate was shaking. Someone tried to touch his shoulder and he slapped them away. His whole body was trembling, shuddering with uncontrollable rage. Vaguely he heard the DJ start up again, the crowd dispersing, no one knowing what to say.

Nate stood alone. How dare she? Stupid stuck-up-her-own-arse bitch!

In a frenzy he stalked out of the club, shoving a paparazzo on his way past. Someone else tried to take his photo and he punched their camera, the lens smashing as it crashed to the ground. Pumped with adrenalin he hauled the unfortunate man up and slammed a fist into his face, sending him careening back into the flank of a black cab.

‘Steady on, mate,’ someone said.

He started walking. He didn’t care where he was going. Never before in his life had he felt so livid, so incensed, so … humiliated. Maybe if he walked fast enough he could catch that bitch up and wring her scrawny neck.

Eventually he stopped, lit a fag, slumped down on the pavement.

He’d get his revenge.

One thing was for sure: nobody humiliated Nate Reid and got away with it.

48

Los Angeles

‘A baby.’

The pool cue, carefully chalked at one end and about to break with deadly accuracy, paused mid-shot. Cole looked at his agent across the table like he was mad.

‘A baby,’ he repeated.

‘That’s right.’ Marty King raised a hand to pat his spongy hair. ‘It’s the only answer. Cole, we have to give Lana a baby.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Cole spluttered, not knowing whether to laugh. He took the shot. It broke cleanly, sending the balls darting across the green felt. Two of them potted with a satisfying plunk.

‘No. I’m clever.’ Marty rested on his cue. It was a cool January morning and the men were in the basement games room at Marty’s Bel Air pad.

‘Come on, Marty, listen to yourself. Give her a baby. You’ve got to be kidding.’

Marty watched as Cole took a second shot. ‘It’s a radical suggestion, I know. But hear me out. This wouldn’t just be about Lana–it would be about you.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Cole, you gotta admit, fatherhood would be a wise move.’

Cole opened and shut his mouth like a fish. ‘This is insane,’ he hissed, realising Marty was serious.

‘I’ve thought about it carefully,’ said Marty. ‘You should, too.’ He leaned his large frame over the table and lined up his aim. ‘Consider Kate diLaurentis–seven years married to you and no kids, then she shacks up with that funny-guy jackass and all of a sudden she’s getting knocked up all over the joint. You’re not getting any younger, Cole.’ In a clean move he pocketed one, careful not to overtake his client.

‘Forget it,’ snapped Cole, ‘it’s kamikaze.’

Marty stood back. ‘Like I said, I’ve thought everything through. We have options.’

Cole shook his head in disbelief. ‘Like hell we do, Marty. Is this all you’ve come up with? You’ve had since the fall to bring something to the table, and this is it?’ He reached for his glass of mineral water, a wedge of green lime bobbing on the surface. Marty stayed quiet, letting Cole turn things over.

After a moment he said, ‘Do you think people have noticed? I mean …’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think people wonder why I don’t have kids?’

Marty puffed out his chest. He thought about how to say it then settled on a truthful, ‘Probably, yes.’

Panic surged. Seeing Michael Benedict at the Romans’ wedding two months ago had freaked him the hell out. When would the old bastard kick the damn bucket? It couldn’t be long now. He’d take the secret with him and finally it would all be over–that day couldn’t come soon enough. In the meantime, it was imperative Cole keep Lana. She was his shield.

A vein became visible in Cole’s temple. Marty knew it was his time to strike.

‘There’s plenty of ways, Cole,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today, talk through the possibilities.’ He chalked his cue.

‘Which are?’

Marty took a deep breath. ‘You must present Lana with this. There’s no way we can do it under wraps, you’ve got to keep her on board.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

‘Lana bearing your child will be rewarded handsomely in the contract,’ Marty continued, ‘which, naturally, we would extend for a five-to ten-year period. Her career continues to flourish and she’s a working woman and a fine mother, an inspiration to women everywhere who want to have it all. When the contract terminates, the child remains with you. Lana has regular access but a hectic schedule means you’re the most stable party. You like that, huh? A real family man, Cole; a good father.’

His agent rambled on before Cole could object. ‘This must be a biological child–we’re wasting our time with adoption. Too messy, too passé, and, besides, the point is that everyone thinks the kid’s yours, fruit of your loins and all that.’

Cole grimaced. ‘And how do we go about that?’ he asked, tight-lipped.

A pause. ‘You ever heard of insemination?’

A cold draught passed across the back of Cole’s neck. He laughed in good humour. ‘OK, OK, very good, you got me.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I.’ He lined up the black. ‘It’s preposterous. Lana will never agree to it.’

‘Not at first, but give her time. Let me talk to her–after all, it’ll be my kid she’s carrying.’

Cole straightened, incredulity contorting his features. ‘What did you just say?’

Marty gulped. ‘Well, I–I guessed we’d have to use my—’

‘Explain to me why the hell I wouldn’t do it?’

Marty looked flustered. ‘I just assumed—’

‘You assumed what?’

‘That you couldn’t …’ Marty’s eyes shot to the floor. ‘I didn’t think guys like you could … Look, buddy, I don’t know much about—’

‘You don’t know shit, Marty,’ Cole spat.

Marty nodded dutifully. ‘I don’t know shit.’

Cole spluttered a disgusted laugh. ‘To hell with this insemination plan–I bet you thought you could jump straight into bed with her. This is my wife, Marty. Christ, I haven’t even—’

‘It’s not like that,’ Marty simpered. ‘I just wanted to help. You know I’m the only person who’d do this for you—’

‘Spare me the crap.’ Cole gave his agent a long look. He took the shot. The black dropped neatly into the far pocket.

‘I can do it,’ he said quietly, rolling the cue between his fingers.

Marty waited. He cursed his own stupidity–any other day there’d be a price to pay, but fortunately his client was too preoccupied.

‘I’ve got it covered,’ Marty said eventually. ‘Hear me out.’

Cole sat down. ‘Astonish me.’

‘It’s all about you, Cole, OK? A hundred per cent. We use your …’ Marty looked about him ‘ … your little guys. Lana agrees with the right financial and career incentives. In a year’s time you’re all set: it’s happy families, good-fuckin’-night-John-Boy. You both sign a new contract–I’m the only one with the information, I sign a confidentiality clause. It’s as good as done.’

Cole sat very still, going through the possibilities.

Michael Benedict can rot in hell.

‘Even if I did consider it,’ he said, ‘even if I did, it’s way too risky. Lana’s never going to agree, not in a million years. Soon as I mention anything she’ll go running to Rita Clay.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Marty sagely. ‘Lana knows she’s on to a good thing as Mrs Cole Steel. Security in Hollywood isn’t an easy thing to come by, and that’s not even taking into account what it’ll mean for her moving forward.’ He held his hands up. ‘Just think about it.’

‘I need to think about it,’ echoed Cole, like he hadn’t heard.

‘It’s security for you, too, buddy,’ warned Marty. ‘That’s why I know it’s the perfect plan.’ He waited. ‘But, hey, you think about it all you want, take your time. When you’re ready, you know I’ll be here.’

49

Sam Lucas celebrated his sixtieth birthday at L’Etoile, an exclusive celebrity hotspot in West Hollywood.

Lana was stunning in a high-necked Valentino dress that showed off her legs and Marc Jacobs heels. The paparazzi were out in frenzy and no sooner had Cole’s security dropped her off than a circus of flashbulbs swooped in like vultures, popping and sparking close to her face. She fought the instinct to shield herself and walked dutifully into the fray, smiling and turning, a routine so familiar that she didn’t have to think about it at all.

L’Etoile was resplendent. The ultimate playground for the Hollywood elite, it was a festival of colour: sleek recliners and straight-backed couches bordered the gleaming wood-stain deck, more for show than comfort, all sewn up in a variety of elaborate, brilliant fabrics; an extravaganza of glass bottles, every kind of liquor you could imagine, lined the walls behind an L-shaped bar, lit from beneath by fluorescent spot bulbs.

Three huge Moulin Rouge-style birdcages hung suspended from the ceiling like pendants.

The place was heaving with Hollywood’s biggest names.

‘Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours tonight?’ asked Lana’s publicist over the noise.

Lana smiled, more with relief that Cole wasn’t there than at Katharine’s flattery. Katharine Elliot was in her forties with a mass of dark hair cut blunt at the chin. She was straight-talking, fast-acting and fiercely good at her job. She was also among the closed set that knew the marriage was contractual, but that was as far as it went: unlike Rita, she knew nothing of what really went on behind closed doors. As far as she was concerned, this sort of thing happened all the time. Lana had got a lucky break getting hitched to one of the best-looking in the business–she could have done a lot worse.

‘He’s in Boston.’

Katharine plucked a micro-burger from a passing tray. ‘You must wish he was here. Plenty of press opportunity tonight.’ She took a bite out of the burger even though it was small enough to eat in one.

‘We couldn’t make the timings work,’ explained Lana. Briefly she glimpsed Parker Troy out the corner of her eye.

As if reading her mind–though thankfully only a propos the film–Katharine went on, ‘We’ve got fabulous advance reviews coming in; they’re queuing up to talk to you.’ She sipped her cosmopolitan with a neat, cherry-lipsticked mouth.

Lana raised her own drink. ‘That’s good news.’

‘Oh—!’ Katharine spotted a publicist friend and waved keenly, the bangles jangling on her arm. She hugged Lana before being swallowed by a cacophony of exclamations.

Lana weaved through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces as she passed, and made a beeline for a tray of champagne. Throwing back a slug of fizz, she wondered how much it would take to deaden her to Robert St Louis once and for all. Since Vegas she had battled to put him from her mind, back to the dark, lonely place she had kept him all these years. Like having just woken from a bad dream, the outline clung on, refusing to fade.

She tried not to be bitter. How could she be mad at him? She’d wasted no time in getting married herself, and while of course she knew the truth of her pact with Cole, she could only imagine how it must have looked. Her heart ached when she thought of how much pain she’d put Robert through–it wasn’t enough that she’d disappeared without a word, a letter, a call, nothing, but then only a few years later she’d wed the biggest star in Hollywood. Coverage had been splashed across newspapers and gossip rags, on every TV channel and magazine cover. At the time her lack of contact had seemed like a necessary sacrifice. Now it seemed selfish and unkind.

Karma worked in mysterious ways. Robert had moved on and was happily engaged to the woman he loved. It wasn’t her. There would be no more wonderings; no more what-ifs.

‘Lana, darling, thanks for coming.’ Sam Lucas descended on her, his face pink and damp with sweat. He kissed her moistly and she fought the urge to wipe a palm across her cheek.

‘Happy birthday, Sam.’

‘It is,’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘Woulda been nice if Chloe could’ve made it.’

Lana looked around. ‘Where is she?’

‘Not well. I spoke to Brock Wilde this morning.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Sure is.’ He grinned. ‘The critics are getting pretty excited about her, I gotta say. She’s gonna make a splash in Vegas.’

The word punched a hole in Lana. She smiled as a tough-guy actor who’d worked with the director in the nineties slapped Sam on the back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, moving away.

She needed something else to drink–and fast. A tray of champagne swept past and she plucked a flute from its surface, just in time to feel something large and hard bump into her back. She turned. It was Parker Troy.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking at his shoes. Handsome as ever, he was wearing a brown tux and open shirt, his muddy-blond hair falling over his forehead. If she concentrated very hard he could almost be someone else.

Instinctively she touched his arm. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Yeah.’

They looked at each other. Parker felt intimidated, as he always did when he had to engage her in anything other than sex.

‘How have you been?’ asked Lana.

‘Good.’

Wow, we really don’t have anything to talk about.

Parker asked a couple of courteous, couldn’t-give-a-crap-about-the-answer-to questions. When he drew a Camel from his top pocket and said he was going outside for a smoke, she knew she would go with him. She needed it. Her body needed release.

They snaked their way through the swarm of guests and outside on to the terrace. A high-walled, secluded space, it was hidden from the street and safe from the paparazzi’s prying eyes. It was empty. They were alone.

Parker took her hand and pulled her round the side of the club, into the neck of a narrow alley that was entirely hidden from sight.

They didn’t say a word. Lana’s head was buzzing with the champagne. All she could think about was how this was a new beginning. Soon, after Cole, she would be free. Whatever she had with Robert, she knew now it was gone. The past was over and it wasn’t coming back.

Parker unzipped his trousers with fumbling urgency, grabbed her ass and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him.

One last time. That’s all this is.

As he drove into her, his breath hot against her ear, somewhere in the distance a weak alarm sounded.

Don’t be stupid, Lana. Tell him to stop.

She felt him move inside her and the rest was history.