L. A. Connections, page 4
‘That is exactly why I do not wish to star in my first film,’ Inga said, as if producers were lining up to hire her.
‘I could also set something up on a social level,’ Max said casually, baiting the trap. ‘Maybe a dinner at the Leons’.’
‘Your partner?’
‘Freddie’s dinners are legendary.’
‘Very well,’ Inga said. ‘Should I bring my fiancé?’
What was with this fiancé crap? It was the first he’d heard of it.
‘I didn’t know you were engaged,’ he said, slightly irritated.
‘My fiancé lives in Sweden,’ Inga said, her precise accent a definite detriment to a film career. ‘He is arriving tomorrow to spend two days with me at the Bel Air Hotel, then he will fly home.’
‘Really?’ Max said, even more irritated. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a very successful businessman,’ Inga replied. ‘We have known each other since school.’
Max was not interested in the details. ‘When are you returning to New York?’ he asked, wondering if she gave great head.
‘Perhaps next week,’ Inga said. ‘My agency is impatient. However, I told them how important it is that I stay here until I have made a decision about my movie commitments.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Max said, deciding that she probably didn’t. Beautiful girls were not as into it as their plainer sisters. ‘Only I should warn you,’ he added, ‘no fiancés at business meetings. Leave him at the hotel.’
‘This will not be a problem,’ Inga said coolly.
Max snapped his fingers for the check, which the waiter immediately brought to the table.
So, she has a fiancé, he thought. Am I wasting my time or what? No, she also has that hungry look. The look all these girls have when they want to be movie stars.
‘Time to get back to work,’ he said, signing the check and standing up.
Inga slid out of the booth. She had on white slacks and a pale pink angora sweater, which gently covered the swell of her small, perfect breasts. He knew they were perfect and not silicone-enhanced because he’d seen the nude spread she’d done for famed photographer Helmut Newton in Vogue. Eight pages of Inga. Black stockings, matching garter-belt, stiletto heels, and a Great Dane sitting passively at her feet. Very classy. Very naked. Not at all crude.
Max decided the time had come to nail this delectable Swedish morsel. He wanted to go down on her – his speciality – in the worst way.
And soon.
Fiancé or no fiancé, he had no doubt she was a sure thing.
Chapter Seven
Kristin did not possess white hose, which meant a trip to Neiman Marcus. Not such a hardship, as she enjoyed strolling around the luxurious store buying clothes she didn’t need and perusing the tempting makeup counters. Shopping was therapeutic, it took her mind off everything, suspending her in a land of soft, sensual lingerie, Judith Leiber purses and Manolo Blahnik shoes.
Recently they’d installed a huge curved martini bar in the men’s department. Kristin felt comfortable sitting at it, sipping a vodka martini, daydreaming that she was a perfect Hollywood wife with two darling little children and an important executive big-deal husband. A faithful big-deal husband – because all the ones she came across were lying whoremongers who cheated on their wives without giving their infidelities a second thought. And Kristin should know, she’d had most of them in the three years she’d been a call-girl in Hollywood.
Kristin and her younger sister, Cherie, had arrived in L.A. four years ago, with aspirations to become movie stars. Kristin had been nineteen, Cherie eighteen, and like hundreds and thousands of teenage hopefuls before them, they’d saved their money, left the small town they’d lived in all their young lives, and made the trek west in a beat-up Volkswagen.
Cherie was the true beauty of the family, or so everyone always said. Kristin was merely the sister who paled in comparison. But the two of them were the closest of friends, and did everything together.
As soon as they arrived in L.A. they rented a cheap apartment and both got jobs waitressing in a busy Italian restaurant on Melrose. Cherie lasted exactly one week before being discovered by one of the customers – Howie Powers – the bad-boy son of a rich business executive.
From the start Kristin knew that Howie was not good news. She found out that he was heavily into drugs, booze and gambling. She also discovered he was into taking his father’s money and blowing it on fast cars and as many women as he could handle. That is, until he spotted Cherie and fell in love.
Howie pursued Cherie relentlessly, taking her to the best restaurants and clubs, showering her with expensive presents, treating her like a queen. It wasn’t long before he persuaded her to give up her job and move in with him. Kristin warned her not to, but Cherie wouldn’t listen. ‘He wants to marry me,’ she said, all starry-eyed and in love. ‘We’re doing it after I meet his parents.’
‘And when will that be?’ Kristin asked.
‘Soon,’ Cherie replied. ‘He’s taking me to Palm Springs to see them.’
Kristin didn’t believe it for a moment. Howie wasn’t the marrying kind. He’d string Cherie along with promises until he grew tired of her, and then he’d dump her. Kristin knew the type – she’d experienced the rich-boy syndrome in high school when she’d given up her virginity to the captain of the football team and he’d boasted to everyone about his conquest. When she’d complained, he’d refused to speak to her again. A sobering lesson about men.
Kristin saw Howie as the sleazy playboy he was – especially when one day he came on to her while Cherie was out shopping. She loathed him, but at the same time she was forced to put up with him because of her sister. Until the night she discovered that Howie had gotten Cherie hooked on cocaine. Then she went crazy, fighting with both of them. Cherie told her to back off and mind her own business. So she did.
And two weeks later she’d gotten a midnight call informing her that on their way to Palm Springs to meet his parents, Howie had fallen asleep at the wheel of his Porsche, crossed the dividing line of the highway and smashed head-on into another car. The driver of the other car was killed, Howie was only slightly injured, and Cherie was in a coma.
Now it was four years later, and Cherie lay in a nursing home – a virtual vegetable – while Kristin was one of the most successful call-girls in town. She’d had no choice, somebody had to pay the hospital bills, and that somebody certainly wasn’t Howie Powers – who’d instantly vanished out of their lives.
‘Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?’
Kristin glanced up. A man had settled on the stool next to her in spite of the fact that there were many empty places. He was handsome in a rumpled way – not at all Beverly Hills or Bel Air. He had on a white T-shirt, brown leather flying jacket, khaki pants and well-worn sneakers.
‘Not at all,’ she replied carefully, wondering if he’d ever been a customer. Highly unlikely; he didn’t look like a man who had to pay for it.
‘I’m not coming out with a line,’ he said in a deep husky voice. ‘But can I ask you a big favour?’
No favours, honey. Cash up front. I have bills to pay.
‘What?’ she said shortly.
‘This’ll sound like a line,’ he said, grinning. ‘Only, believe me, it’s not. You see, I gotta go to my father’s wedding, and I haven’t worn a tie in years, not to mention the fact that when it comes to clothes I have no taste. So . . .’ He thrust two ties in front of her. ‘Whaddya think?’
‘What do I think?’ she said slowly.
‘Yes. I need an opinion other than my own. And you look like a woman with an eye for the best.’
‘Why don’t you ask a salesperson?’ she suggested.
‘ ’Cause they don’t have your class and style,’ he said, his grin widening. ‘You will make me into the son my dad always wanted.’
It was so long since she’d experienced a genuine pick-up that she couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’re not from L.A., are you?’ she said.
‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘Arizona. Drove here yesterday. The wedding’s on Sunday. What’s your pick?’
She stared at the two ties, both boringly conservative. ‘Come with me,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m sure we can do better.’ And with that she led him towards the tie department.
An hour later, with a purple Armani tie in his shopping bag, they were still talking. She’d found out his name was Jake and he was a professional photographer – much to his banker father’s disgust. He was thirty, unmarried and had moved to L.A. to pursue a new job with a magazine.
‘The money’s great,’ he said. ‘And it’ll be a challenge photographing real humans instead of animals and landscapes.’
‘Real humans? Here?’ Kristin drawled, sipping her third martini. ‘You do know you’re in L.A.’
‘Don’t sound so jaded,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t go with your looks.’
What the hell are you doing? she asked herself crossly. Sitting here flirting with a total stranger. And actually liking it.
‘I have to go,’ she said abruptly, standing up.
‘Why?’ he asked, standing too. ‘Is there a husband I should know about?’
No, honey. There’s a career you wouldn’t want to know about. I’m for sale. Lock, stock and fine ass.
‘A . . . fiancé,’ she lied, pushing the door firmly shut. ‘And he’s very jealous.’
‘Don’t blame him,’ Jake said, giving her a long lingering look.
She felt a jolt of unexpected excitement and wondered what it would be like to sleep with a man who wasn’t a paying client.
Don’t even think about it. You’re a whore – making money. And that’s all you’re interested in.
‘Uh . . . good luck with the wedding,’ she said.
‘It’s his fourth,’ Jake said. ‘He’s sixty-two. The bride’s twenty.’
‘I’m sure your tie’ll look great.’
‘Why wouldn’t it? You chose it.’
They exchanged another long look, before she forced herself to move off towards the escalator.
Just as she was stepping on, he came after her. ‘I’m staying at the Sunset Marquis,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d call me. I’d really love to take your picture sometime.’
She nodded. No chance of that.
‘Goodbye, Jake,’ she said.
It wouldn’t do to be late for Mr X.
Chapter Eight
Madison was on the phone. ‘So?’ she said, holding the receiver away from her ear because Victor always spoke in an overly loud booming voice, one capable of shattering eardrums. ‘When am I getting my interview with Freddie Leon?’
‘You just arrived, didn’t you?’
‘Stepped off the plane an hour ago.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Victor said loudly. ‘Can’t you settle down for a couple of days and relax like everyone else?’
‘I’m not in a relaxing frame of mind, Victor. I’m here to work.’
‘All work and no play . . .’
‘Don’t give me that cliché bullshit,’ she said crisply. ‘Besides, you should be thrilled I’m a total workaholic’ A short pause to let him think about that for a moment. ‘Now,’ she continued crisply, ‘when do I get to meet him?’
Victor sighed. ‘You’re an impossible woman.’
‘Never said I wasn’t.’
‘My contact’s out of town until tomorrow.’
‘Wonderful timing.’
‘Nobody’s perfect. Only you.’
‘Glad you realize it.’
‘Okay, okay, tomorrow I’ll get it set. That’s a promise.’
‘Good.’ She hesitated a moment before continuing. ‘Uh . . . by the way, Victor, this is a kind of off-the-wall suggestion . . .’
‘Let me hear it.’
‘Well, on the plane I was sitting next to Salli T. Turner.’
‘Lucky you!’ Victor boomed.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d know who I was talking about.’
‘My eleven-year-old son and I watch Teach! every Tuesday night. Kind of a male-bonding thing.’
‘How sweet.’
‘There’s nothing sweet about Salli T. Turner,’ Victor chuckled, sounding uncharacteristically lecherous. ‘As my son would say – “she’s the shit!” ’
‘Victor!’
‘Sorry,’ he boomed. ‘Did I just get carried away?’
‘You certainly did,’ Madison said, laughing. ‘Totally unlike you.’
‘What is it you wanted to tell me about her?’
‘Actually, I was thinking she might make a good interview.’
‘You’d be prepared to interview Salli T. Turner?’ Victor asked, barely able to conceal his surprise.
‘Why not? She’s refreshingly honest, and I’m sure she’d be prepared to reveal plenty about what goes on in Hollywood if you’re a young, gorgeous babe with . . . uh . . . quite remarkable assets. It would definitely be a feminist piece with a twist. What do you think?’
‘I think if you like the idea, we should give it a shot.’
‘Good. I can fit it in while I’m sitting around waiting for Mr Leon.’
‘For Chrissake, Madison, stop complaining. I’ll get back to you a.s.a.p.’
‘Do that,’ she said, replacing the receiver with a grin.
‘What’s up?’ Natalie asked, handing her a glass of cold apple juice.
‘Victor’s got a yen for Salli T. Can you imagine? Victor never looks at any woman other than Evelyn.’
‘And Evelyn is . . . ?’
‘His wife, of course. Rules him with an iron fist and a handy riding crop.’
Natalie giggled. ‘You mean he likes to get his powerful little butt whacked?’
‘Not so little,’ Madison answered, smiling back. ‘Victor’s like a big cuddly bear. Definitely not an L.A. bod.’
Natalie glanced at her watch. ‘Damn!’ she said, grabbing her jacket. ‘I gotta get to the studio. Anything you need?’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Madison said calmly. ‘I’m the perfect house guest. Put me next to a phone and I’m content.’
‘Cole’ll be home soon.’
‘I haven’t seen him in years.’
‘Then you’re in for a shock,’ Natalie said crisply. ‘You probably remember him as a skinny, strung-out hyper teen monster. Right?’
‘Right,’ Madison agreed, remembering how Natalie always used to despair because her younger brother was heavily into rap, gangs and getting high.
‘Now he’s Mr Focused. In fact, he’s one of the most in-demand fitness trainers in L.A. Oh yeah,’ Natalie added, as she reached the door, ‘and he came out of the closet. See you later.’
Cole was in the closet? Funky little Cole with his punk attitude and macho swagger? Madison shook her head. Who would’ve guessed? Certainly not she.
Reaching for the phone, she tried the number Salli had given her. No reply, so with nothing else to do she went into the tiny guest room and unpacked her one suitcase. She could have stayed at a hotel – Victor was quite generous with expenses – but Natalie would have been disappointed. Besides, she wanted to stay with her best friend, it was probably the only time they’d get to spend together all year. And they certainly had plenty to catch up on. Madison couldn’t wait to get down to some good old girl-talk.
At six she clicked on the TV to catch Natalie’s entertainment spot on the news. The male news anchor was impossibly handsome, with a dazzling smile. His co-anchor was a young blonde Diane Sawyer clone. The weather man was Hispanic. And then on came Natalie with her show-business news, sparkling with her own particular brand of personality and charm.
‘I hate doing all that gossip crap,’ Natalie had confided in the car on their way from the airport. ‘But at least it gets my face on TV and it’s good experience.’
Just as Natalie was finishing her spot, Cole walked in. Or at least Madison assumed it was Cole, although this tall, muscled Denzel Washington lookalike in workout shorts and a Lakers tank bore no resemblance to the lanky teen rebel she’d last seen when she and Natalie had graduated college seven years ago.
‘Cole?’ she questioned.
‘Madison?’ he answered.
And they grinned at each other, exchanging ‘You look great!’ and ‘It’s been so long!’
What a waste, Madison thought, checking him out. Why were all the truly gorgeous ones gay?
‘Got everything you need?’ Cole asked, swigging from a plastic bottle of Evian.
‘I told your sister – give me a phone and I’m happy.’
‘You here on business?’
‘I write for Manhattan Style. Profiles on Power.’
‘Who’re you nailing?’
‘Freddie Leon, the agent.’
‘Cool guy.’
‘You know him?’
‘Gave the dude a private session once when his regular guy was sick. Man, he was into it big time.’
‘A jock, huh?’
‘Competitive, that’s the vibe I got.’ Another swig of Evian. ‘Y’know, I train his partner, Max Steele.’
‘You do!’ Madison exclaimed, sensing a major break. ‘Cole! I think I love you!’
‘Huh?’
‘Max Steele’s number one on the list of people I need to talk to. When can you set it up?’
‘Hey,’ Cole said, laughing. ‘Hold on – I said I train him, I do not arrange his schedule.’
‘All I need is a fast half-hour,’ Madison said, eyes gleaming.
‘Max is a busy dude, always runnin’ somewhere.’
‘Of course, I could set it up through the magazine,’ Madison mused. ‘But if you arrange it for me, it’ll be so much quicker.’
‘We run the UCLA track every morning at seven a.m. Whyn’t you jog on by an’ I’ll intro you.’
‘That’s a great idea! I’ll be there.’
‘Yeah . . . an’ wear somethin’ hot, he’s into the femmes.’
Now it was Madison’s turn to laugh. ‘I want to talk to him, not fuck him!’
