Kitabı oku: «The A-List Collection», sayfa 6

13

London

Chloe French stepped out of the car into the cold September evening, cursing her decision to wear such a flimsy dress. She wanted to look special for Nate, especially as she couldn’t wait to tell him her big news.

There was some commotion at the entrance to the club, a renowned hotspot in Mayfair and venue for tonight’s gig. She punched a number into her phone. It rang a few times before he picked up.

‘What?’ Nate said snappily. ‘We’re testing, I can’t talk.’

‘Can you come let me in?’

The line crackled. ‘Why?’

‘There’s more people out front than I thought.’ Silence. ‘It’s more discreet?’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ There was a pause while Nate mumbled something to the band. She heard them laughing in the background. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘Come round the side in three, I don’t want to get mobbed.’

He made her wait at least five. Just as she was contemplating calling him again, the door sprang open and Nate stuck his head through.

‘Come on,’ he said twitchily, scanning for groupies, ‘I’m on in ten.’ He briefly put his tongue in her mouth by way of hello and gave her tit a quick squeeze, which seemed distinctly unromantic. She decided to forget it.

Chloe trailed him through the dark corridor, the low thump of music bleeding in from the lounge. The club was famed for its unusual decor–glinting chandeliers dripped from the ceiling while tired old sofas crouched down below, their stuffing bursting free at the seams. It was a fusion of the sophisticated and the shabby that was perfect for young, rich clientele who couldn’t decide which camp to affiliate themselves with.

She knew Nate didn’t like to be distracted before a gig, but couldn’t wait to spill her LA news as soon as the time was right.

‘What’re you doing after?’ she asked his back. She noticed his jeans were hanging so low he had to wear two belts to keep them up. Maybe that was the point.

‘Dunno, babe.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, it’d be good if we could …’

When they got backstage Nate turned round in front of his band mates. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

Chloe was embarrassed. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

‘Hey, man,’ said Chris, the band’s drummer, ‘for luck.’ He produced a bag of white powder from his pocket and threw it at Nate, who caught it with his left hand. Then, turning to Chloe, ‘All right?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Chloe. ‘Break a leg.’ There was something about Chris that Chloe didn’t trust: the way he and Nate talked together about women, and how they sometimes shared private glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. He was a bad influence on her boyfriend. Plus he had greasy hair that went down way past his shoulders–yuck.

Twenty minutes later The Hides were on stage. Watching them in action was a kick, and when they broke into their top ten single ‘Red Rock Road’ the crowd went wild.

Chloe was up front in the swarming mass of devotees next to a pretty weekend TV presenter called Erica Lang and a balding socialite in tragic slacks, apparently a friend of Prince Harry. Her hair kept getting pulled and someone trod on her foot, which hurt. This is a million miles from Hollywood, she thought excitedly, just as a man in a sweaty black T-shirt with living legend across the front sloshed beer down her back.

Nate looked gorgeous and she got a thrill when she remembered he was hers. Every girl in the room wanted a piece of the sexiest frontman in London, but it was only her he wanted. She remembered the first time she’d seen him–a photo in one of the papers of him stumbling out of a Kensington hotel room with whippet-faced heiress Jessica Bernstein, daughter of Frank Bernstein, the Las Vegas hotel magnate and all-round powerhouse. She’d felt a stab of attraction, unable to forget his come-to-bed green eyes and wiry leather-clad body. When they’d turned up at the same party a couple of months later, Chloe couldn’t believe her luck. The rest was history.

The Hides moved into a slow song, one of Chloe’s favourites. Nate lit a cigarette in a minor act of rebellion. The song was about a girl who was just so beautiful that it was impossible to capture her in words, and Chloe liked to imagine that she was the inspiration, even though it had been written way before she and Nate had met–and actually not by him, but by his lead guitarist, Spencer. But Nate was crooning into the mike and every so often he looked over and she knew he was singing it for her.

Melissa, her agent, hadn’t been enamoured with the partnership at the time. Chloe was the sweetheart of the fashion world and could be jeopardising future contracts by associating herself with his lifestyle–but the press had gone crazy for the romance. And the irony was, of course, that in reality Nate Reid–full name Nathaniel Buckley-Reid–was a lot posher than either of them: in fact he was aristocracy. His own father, Lord Fergus Buckley-Reid, and mother Penelope lived in a great country pile in Wiltshire and were friends of the royals. Naturally this was all kept under very tight wraps and Nate was unremittingly sensitive about it: his whole working-class-boy-done-good persona was, as it turned out, fake.

The band was getting pumped up now as they launched into the single that had made them famous. Nate strutted across the stage like a prehistoric bird.

‘He’s amazing!’ squealed Erica Lang, so close to Chloe’s ear it was painful. ‘You’re so lucky!’

Chloe smiled to herself. She was. With Nate Reid in her life, she was a very lucky girl indeed.

Later a gang of them fell into two black cabs and there was a brief quarrel about where they should go to continue the party. The paps were having a field day.

Somebody suggested a flat in Kentish Town, which to Chloe, who just wanted to get Nate into bed, sounded quite squalid. But before she could object they were on their way. Nate liked to shun the extravagances he could well afford, and while he didn’t quite stretch to the night bus, a cab would do well before a private car.

Chloe placed a hand on Nate’s leg and gradually moved it higher until she heard his breath catch. In the darkness of the taxi, everybody squeezed in tight, she was able to attend to the rapidly expanding bulge in his jeans without anyone much noticing.

Erica Lang, opposite Nate, was staring. Chloe had caught her eyeing up her boyfriend several times and was shocked by her inability, or reluctance, to conceal it.

When they arrived everyone piled out into the cold. Nate put an arm round Chloe’s shoulders and she caught Erica giving her a bitchy look.

There was a problem getting into the building and it soon transpired that none of them actually lived there–it belonged to some mate of a mate. After several failed drunken phone calls they found a back way in and trailed through a dark, damp-smelling corridor. A couple of spongy mattresses and a telly in one corner suggested they had come to the living room.

‘What is this?’ Chloe whispered.

‘Just a place to crash,’ Nate said casually, sparking up a joint. This was part of his image, she thought, this whole mock-poverty thing. The hypocrisy of it bugged her–but everyone had their niggly things, didn’t they? When he saw her anxious expression he said, ‘Chill out, babe,’ and flopped down on to a misshapen couch.

A man wearing skinny white jeans and pointy cowboy boots the colour of English mustard put some music on. Bottles of beer and badly rolled joints were passed round but Chloe refused both: she didn’t drink much anyway because it was bad for her skin, and she wasn’t in the mood to get stoned. But as the atmosphere changed and everyone started laughing about things and she couldn’t understand why they were funny, she began to feel bored. Erica Lang had appeared on the other side of Nate and was listening with rapture to everything he said, which sounded like a deeply serious monologue about music transcending class boundaries.

Chloe sighed and sat back, disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to deliver her news in quite the style she’d imagined. Oh well, maybe it could wait–it might be safer for Melissa to confirm the part was hers anyway before she told anyone. In the meantime, she could hold the promise close to her chest and savour its possibility.

The guy in skinny jeans passed her a soggy joint and Chloe held it between her fingers a moment before thinking, What the hell. She drew the smoke into her lungs and coughed embarrassingly. Nate finally forgot about Erica and turned to his girlfriend, delighted.

She dragged on it a few more times before passing it on.

In seconds another came round and she toked on that as well. A few minutes later she was starting to feel quite spacey, but it was a nice, warm feeling. A short fat girl told a joke and it was the wittiest thing Chloe had ever heard. Clever, too. God, actually it was completely profound.

By the time another smoke was passed over she felt buzzy and completely happy to sit and listen to all the wonderful, intelligent things people were saying. She became aware that Nate was kissing her, and that other people on the floor were kissing each other as well. Nate’s hand roamed over her breast and it was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. She thought if he touched her nipple she would just come straight away.

‘Can we find a room?’ she found herself saying. Somehow Nate had managed to manoeuvre her legs around his waist and was reclining her on the sofa in front of everyone.

‘No one’s looking,’ he said throatily, kissing her neck. ‘They’re doing their own thing.’ He was fumbling with the buckle on his belt. Vaguely she recalled he was wearing two belts–how hilarious!–nd she burst out laughing.

‘Shh,’ he murmured, sticking a tongue in her ear. It felt huge and thick like a slug.

‘I don’t want to do it here,’ she protested with some effort. Turning her head, she saw that Mister Cowboy Boots and Short Fat Girl were having it off and one of Short Fat Girl’s boobs was hanging out. This was the craziest night ever!

‘Take me to bed, Nate,’ she purred, disentangling herself.

Desperate to get into his girlfriend’s pants, Nate stood up and extended his hand. Hitching down her dress, Chloe followed him into the room next door. It was completely empty apart from some piled-up cardboard boxes. There were no curtains on the window.

Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her on the floor, his hands unbuttoning her and sneaking underneath her bra. It felt so good she didn’t even care about the splintery wood beneath her back. She ran her fingers through his hair and said something about how amazing he was and how she wanted his big cock inside her right now, all the stuff men wanted to hear. With deft hands he unclipped her bra and peeled down her top half, exposing her breasts.

Chloe’s head was swimming. Everything felt amazing. The world was amazing. Nate Reid was amazing. She was completely, totally, madly in love.

Gradually Chloe was aware of the door opening. A pale shaft of moonlight illuminated the thin figure waiting there. It was Erica Lang.

‘Room for one more?’ she asked, pulling off her high-necked shirt to reveal virtually non-existent tits with alarmingly dark, extended nipples.

Nate made a guttural sound in his throat as she came closer. ‘Can we, babe?’ he asked Chloe, his hand finding its way past the elastic of her knickers.

Chloe was floating. She wanted the pleasure to go on and on and never end. As Erica knelt to join the party she closed her eyes and gave herself up.

LA, just you wait, she was able to think before ecstasy took over. You won’t know what hit you.

14

Los Angeles

Cole Steel stepped off his state-of-the-art treadmill and wiped his brow. Not that there was much perspiration there–Cole was a man who did not break sweat.

‘Are we done yet?’ his agent Marty King gasped in desperation, taking a breather at the rowing machine. He was a squat man in his fifties with jowls, ginger spray-on hair and a face like a fat Gene Wilder. His eyes were shifty and a touch watery with age, and when he exerted himself his skin broke out in a patchy pink rash. He was also the canniest agent in Hollywood, with a catalogue of A-list clients and major deals to his name.

‘Not yet,’ said Cole, polishing off a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘I didn’t get that martial arts equipment installed for nothing.’

Marty King sighed and wiped his own, copiously sweating, face. They were in the bespoke home gym at Cole’s Beverly Hills mansion, complete with its own indoor pool, hot tub, sauna and steam; and of course all this goddamn kit–Marty died a little bit every time, he swore it. But Cole was a man who liked to work out, and even more so when he was talking business.

‘Put this on,’ said Cole, slamming a body protector at his agent.

Marty grimaced but did as he was told. When Cole started pumping iron he was like a maniac and you just had to strap in for the ride. It was the same mind-space he adopted when acting: complete immersion and total focus. Marty himself was grossly unfit–was partial to his steak, his women and his cigars–and had spent the last half-hour with the rowing machine on its lowest possible setting, still managing to wear himself out. And now the sparring. Jeez, it was enough to kill a man.

Cole strapped on his strike pads and took a couple of early punches. Each one practically winded Marty and he was relieved when, five minutes later, it was over. Cole moved on to a kick spinner, lifting his leg high into the air, karate-style, and pounded the shit out of the bags. Marty was grateful to sit out.

‘How was Chicago?’ he asked. How the hell did this guy manage it? His client was barely out of breath.

‘Good,’ said Cole.

‘And Lana?’

He kicked the bag especially hard. ‘Fine.’

‘Cute piece on you both in LA Star,’ observed Marty, taking a drink of water. ‘Very domestic. More in love than ever, or something?’

‘You got that right.’

Marty sat back. ‘And the movie?’ Cole was shooting a family drama about an alcoholic father trying to make contact with his estranged son. ‘Everything OK?’

Cole did an impressive rotating kick and the bag nearly flew off its spring. ‘Everything’s fine, Marty.’

Marty was quiet a moment, sensing trouble. The men had been working together for over twenty years and he could tell when something was on his client’s mind. But Cole Steel was, even after all this time, a closed book. If he didn’t want to talk, nothing would make him.

‘I heard Lana’s movie is premiering in Vegas,’ Cole said, unstrapping his pads.

Christ, thought Marty, he really did have eyes and ears all over this town. He doubted even Lana or the rest of the cast knew yet.

‘I heard that, too,’ said Marty carefully. ‘Frank Bernstein’s got money behind the production.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. ‘Vegas is vulgar. Eastern Sky is a sophisticated piece of work, it deserves better. I’m not happy about it.’ His jaw clenched. ‘And I don’t like the look of that Robert St Louis or whatever his fancy name is–the guy’s got ideas, I can tell.’

‘Not a lot I can do,’ said Marty, holding out his arms.

Cole grabbed a towel and pressed it to his face. His hands were pink and hairless, like a little boy’s, or a mouse’s.

He took a seat next to his agent, opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. Then, after a moment: ‘Lana’s not happy, Marty.’

Marty shrugged. ‘Not relevant. The point is what the public sees, end of story.’

‘Even so,’ mused Cole. ‘She’s evasive about her past, always has been—’

‘Who isn’t?’ interjected Marty. ‘I’ve sure as shit done things I’d sooner forget.’

‘But there’s something … something I can’t put my finger on.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ diagnosed Marty, starting to think about lunch. ‘Forget it, Lana’s a sweet kid. Remember what Clay told us? Her whole freakin’ family’s dead. How much d’you think she wants to talk about that?’

Cole stood. ‘Let’s eat.’

Upstairs they dined on Cole’s private terrace beneath the shade of a palm tree. Cole picked disinterestedly at his lobster spaghetti while Marty devoured his.

‘You don’t eat much,’ he observed, wondering if he could tuck into Cole’s plate once his was done. ‘What’s the matter, work-out didn’t get you an appetite?’ His client better not be worrying about his weight like some lollipop starlet–if anything, he could do with gaining a few pounds.

Cole made a face. ‘Just got things on my mind.’

‘Well, get over it.’ Marty chewed enthusiastically before washing down his mouthful with a slug of iced tea. ‘We got everything we wanted, right? You got yourself a beautiful wife and no one’s any the wiser. You’re clean, you’re makin’ good movies. Lana’s about to break through to the big time—’

‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ said Cole, dabbing his mouth with a pristine white napkin.

‘What?’

Cole took a deep breath. ‘I gave Lana this opportunity, so her success, in effect, belongs to me. Now I’m hearing good things, excellent things, about her performance. She’ll almost certainly get an Award nomination, if not win the damn thing.’

‘Wasn’t that the point?’ asked Marty, shovelling in some more spaghetti. Tomato sauce clung to the corners of his mouth. ‘It was in the terms of the contract. There’s got to be something in it for her, too, Cole.’ At his client’s stormy expression, he clarified, ‘Apart from marriage to the most famous man in the world, of course.’

‘I accept that,’ Cole said generously. ‘But the feedback I’m getting exceeds even my initial expectations. Lana’s going to be big, Marty. And the point is that her career’s set to go stellar just as our marriage ends. How is that going to make me look?’

Marty waved away his concern. ‘We went through this right at the start. Irreconcilable differences, OK? You’ll stay friends, secretly she’ll still love you, blah-blah-blah. Then it’s on to the next.’

Cole locked his fingers together on the table. ‘I want to keep this one,’ he said.

Marty took some time to digest this. He finished his mouthful, drained his glass and put his cutlery together before saying easily, ‘So we’ll renew the contract with Lana. Whatever you want, Cole.’

‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’ Cole hissed. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth and landed on Marty’s knuckle. ‘She’s unhappy. I know it. She can’t wait to get out.’

‘You treat her good, don’t you?’ asked Marty, surreptitiously wiping his hand under the table, knowing they were skirting the issue.

‘Of course I do,’ said Cole. ‘I’m kind to her, I look after her; I give her everything she wants. Except …’

Marty made a gruff sound in his throat. ‘Well, that’s another problem,’ he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew they were a big mistake.

‘Problem?’ Cole leapt on it like a lion on its prey. ‘Is that what you call it? A problem?’ His agent could never know the true root of his impotence, why he was forever this way–to him it was an affliction, a sickness, a disease.

‘Of course not,’ said Marty calmly. ‘It’s just—’

‘Just what? You think it’s my fault I can’t get it up?’

‘Shh!’ Marty looked panicked. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

‘No one’s fucking listening. All ears here belong to me–that’s how powerful Cole Steel is. Tell me, Marty: who needs a hard cock when you’ve got that kind of respect?’

Marty tried not to look alarmed. Cole had gone completely red in the face.

After a moment Cole slumped back in his seat, suddenly defeated. ‘And if Lana leaves me, that’ll be two failed marriages.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s only a matter of time before some smartass reporter traces it back to the bedroom.’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Marty, as kindly as he could. ‘At most it’ll be idle rumour–no one’s gonna seriously believe that Cole Steel can’t–you know, won’t–you know—’

‘You’re right.’ Cole pointed a finger at his agent. ‘Nobody touches me, you got it?’

Marty nodded. He felt sorry for Cole. The very idea of impotence filled him with a cold dread, and seeing the cost of it paid in full by his client was the stuff of nightmares. They’d tried Viagra, the works, but nothing had made a difference–Cole’s prick was about as responsive as a fish out of water. Nothing turned Cole Steel on these days apart from his own glory.

‘As long as that Kate diLaurentis bitch keeps her big mouth shut,’ Cole growled.

Marty laughed hollowly. ‘We paid her enough goddamn money, she won’t say a word.’

Cole rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The kitchen staff came to clear their plates and he waited until they’d hurried off before continuing.

‘Apparently she’s losing it,’ he said, looping a finger up next to his head. ‘Loco.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ sighed Marty, ‘everyone likes to say that about Kate. Thing is they don’t realise she’s a sharp little cookie. She’d never reveal anything, wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s got her own failing reputation to think about.’

‘You think I’ve got a failing reputation?’

‘No,’ said Marty firmly, ‘I don’t. Because it’s my job to manage that and I don’t lose. I never lose.’

Cole nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I like that. But the fact still remains I want to hold on to my wife, and you’re going to make sure that I do.’ He pushed his chair back from the table. It screamed on the tiles.

Marty made a helpless gesture.

‘You never lose, right?’ Cole raised a cleanly plucked eyebrow. ‘Find a way to make it happen. Whatever it takes.’