Hollywood Sinners (36 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

Las Vegas

L
ana and Cole arrived at the Orient through the back entrance and under tight security.

They were met by their management and shown to the Pagoda Suite. Inside was a luxury hamper packed with champagne and caviar, smoked salmon, wines and cheeses, as well as a hot feast of filet beef and wilted spinach. A lavish bouquet of lilies welcomed them both to the hotel, as well as personalised gifts: a watch for Cole and a bracelet for Lana, a silver chain studded with emeralds. She could tell that Robert had chosen it.

The greetings were extravagant and she admired them as such. Cole didn’t bother.

He had been in a terrible mood since they’d landed. Downstairs it had been all smiles and charm, the conduct of a consummate pro, but now they were alone he went crashing through the rooms, pulling open closet doors and slamming things with unnecessary vigour.

‘It’s one night, Cole.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

A piece of hair had escaped from the immaculate grey sculpture atop his head. ‘We both know what the repercussions of one night can be,’ he said bitterly.

She nodded, aware she deserved it. ‘Let’s get some sleep. It’ll be non-stop tomorrow.’

He sat down and picked disinterestedly at some of the meat. ‘You’d better eat something,’ he advised, giving her a grudging look. But as soon as she joined him, he was up again.

‘I’m taking a shower,’ he announced, stepping out of his shoes and whipping off his tie.

Lana heaped a plate with food and poured herself some cordial. She felt so hungry that at first she didn’t notice that Cole was removing his clothes.

It was like watching a stranger undress. Awarding the food an excessive degree of concentration, she averted her gaze. Never before had she seen her husband naked and she had no desire to now. The suite was big enough for them to avoid each other entirely—the fact he was choosing to do this in front of her was deliberate, though she couldn’t figure out why.

No sooner were his trousers and shirt in a heap than he scooped them up, folded them into exact squares, stalked into the adjacent room and placed them neatly on the bed.

Thankfully he kept his shorts on. As he disappeared into the bathroom she caught a glimpse of her husband’s form: the tiny, compact upper body; the short, almost bowed legs; the little-boy flat shape of his backside. Everything was totally hairless.

When she was sure the water was running, Lana padded into her own room, lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. She felt unbelievably tired.

Just as she was drifting off, there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, she checked the time. She felt confused, unsure if she’d been asleep. But the shower continued to run so she figured she couldn’t have been out that long.

She sat up and looked at the door. The knock came again, startling her, louder this time. Reluctantly she got up to answer it.

Checking the peephole, she saw a suited man, his head bowed.

She opened the door. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’ Robert’s handsome face broke into a smile. ‘How are you?’

She lowered her voice. ‘Cole’s in the bathroom, I can’t talk.’

He gave a curt nod, remembering this was business and they were his guests. ‘I had to catch you before things kick off—I don’t think either of us will have a spare minute.’

Lana looked behind her nervously. The water was still on full force—Cole was ritualistic about washing his body. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Me too.’

They stood like shy kids.

‘Look,’ he offered eventually, ‘it’s good to see you—’

‘You too.’

‘And I just wanted to say that when all this is sorted…’ He nodded over her shoulder. ‘Just let me find you. OK? No more waiting.’

She smiled. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good, because it’s happening.’ He was serious now. ‘The wedding’s off. Elisabeth and I are over.’

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘How did she take it?’

Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Actually...’ he shrugged ‘...surprisingly well. Let’s just say there’s more to it than I thought.’

This time she forgot to check her voice. ‘I’m happy.’

‘So am I.’ He took her hand. ‘No more running.’

‘No more running.’

They heard the shower stop.

And then he was kissing her. It happened so quickly and in such a way that it fitted, like the final, perfect piece of a puzzle slipping into place; the place it had been made from and to which it had been waiting all its life to return. His hands were on her, his thumbs stroking the contours of her face like a forgotten landscape. She felt the breath knocked out of her, and by kissing him back she could fill up again on the thing that kept her alive. It was the same as it had ever been, the way he touched that tender spot beneath her ear, the smell of his skin so close to hers.

Only when the bathroom door was unlocked did he pull away.

‘I want to kiss you for ever,’ she told him in a whisper.

‘For ever starts here.’ His hand dropped hers and in a heartbeat he was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

T
he following day passed in a whirlwind of activity. Chloe forgot how many photos she’d posed for, how many people she had bossing her about, telling her to stand here and next to so-and-so, to get against the backdrop so she was squashed between a certain two letters and a certain Sam Lucas, who was sweating profusely under the bright lights. Her face had gone rigid with all the smiling. At the Q&A she’d blabbed about her character, apparently said something she shouldn’t, and had been cut short—and, she thought, quite rudely—by Brock.

But that seemed to be how people got on with it. What she couldn’t believe was how closely it resembled a military operation. It was how she imagined a day in the army, with everyone barking orders and shouting directions. She didn’t know how someone of Sam’s age managed it—he’d been in interviews all afternoon, answering the same questions over and over, and didn’t seem tired in the least. For Chloe, her part was downright exhausting.

Perhaps that was why, back at the Parthenon suite she shared with Nate, she had started to feel ill. It was early evening and she’d just received information that her stylists were on their way. So far it hadn’t been at all like she’d expected, not nearly so glamorous and an awful lot of work, but she knew tonight would make up for it. The red carpet awaited, and so did the performance that would make her career.

So why couldn’t she shake this bloody queasiness? She’d been fine all afternoon and through the conference, then she’d got back here, had a bath, and almost immediately started to get ill. It was nerves, Nate said, she’d get over it.

* * *

Three storeys up and eleven doors down, Kate and Jimmy were preparing for the most important public display of their marriage. Hours from now they would be on the red carpet, genuinely together for the first time in years. For Kate, it couldn’t come soon enough.

It was a pity her hair person was so useless. Didn’t these people learn the basics in beauty school? This girl was hovering maddeningly round the dressing table, trying to trap Kate’s beautiful golden mane in a hopelessly outdated style. The new Kate diLaurentis
always
wore her hair loose—it knocked five years off her, if not more. She was rapidly losing patience.

Kate grabbed the tray of brushes and serums and the stylist retreated, horrified. Taking matters into one’s own hands, as she well knew, was the only way of making sure a job was done properly.

As she blasted a cloud of hairspray, Kate watched her husband’s reflection in the mirror. Yes, she was definitely remembering how to find him attractive. They had spent all day in their suite making up for lost time, and every flicker of distraction she detected in him had been punched out by a strip tease or a blow job—she wasn’t having him think about his latest conquest for a single second. He could leave that up to his wife.

* * *

Over at the Orient, Cole Steel dressed and prepared himself in record time. The good thing about these affairs was that he was so practised he could do it all on autopilot, which was convenient if he was filled to the brim with dread and loathing.

Tonight would be the toughest performance of his acting career.

Earlier he had accompanied Lana on her press circuit. It was customary, but this time he had a reason other than supervision. He had a good lead to suspect that the father of Lana’s child was here, and one look at the cast line-up told him straight away who it was. The kid couldn’t take his eyes off Lana, but it wasn’t desire in his eyes—it was fear.

The kid was dumb but, then, that was no surprise. He’d thought he could fuck Cole Steel’s wife and get away with it—he was hardly going to be a genius. No, this afternoon, under the hot glare of scrutiny, Parker Troy had signed his own death warrant.

If it hadn’t been such an important night he’d have gone over there right now—set a few things straight the Cole Steel way.

But he was a professional. Troy would wait.

Cole straightened his bow-tie. He and Lana would be the last to arrive on the red carpet this evening—the night’s main attraction. Listening to the steady wash of the shower, the way the water changed pitch when she moved her body under it, he realised it would be the last time.

* * *

Under the hot needles of water, Lana washed away her exhaustion. It had been a long, tiring day but the worst part was over—now she just had to focus on getting down the carpet and making sure she kept Cole happy. Giving a great show for the cameras was the last thing she could do for him. And she was looking forward to seeing
Eastern Sky—
she was always deliberate about not seeing her movies before this stage, it meant she could share in the audience’s reaction. She experienced a flurry of butterflies.

Cole stayed in the adjacent room while she dressed, and when hair and make-up showed he took an uncharacteristic back seat. The girls kept things natural: Lana was already radiant in a dark blue Chanel gown that kissed the floor, she didn’t need much else. Diamonds glinted at her ears, her porcelain skin illuminated by their sparkle, and on her wrist she wore the thin band of emeralds that Robert had given her.

There was a lot of fussing until everyone was satisfied, then, briefly, for the first time since Lana had woken at six that morning, she was left alone with Cole. Well, almost. She looked down at her stomach.

It was about to begin.

CHAPTER NINETY

M
ickey Galetti had worked as a doorman for six years, two of them at the Orient. He was in his thirties, had yellowing teeth and suffered from acute self-consciousness in crowds, which was ironic since he was entirely unremarkable to look at.

Mickey pushed open the fire doors and stood out by trash, attempting to light a cigarette. It was a circus in there. Wait till he told Brenda about it—the place was packed out like one of the celebrity magazines she liked to take to bed. But if imagining George Clooney got her wanting the hot stuff then who was he to complain? Thinking about his wife and their little boy, a first child only six months old, made him smile. When he was done here he could go home to his family, spend some time in the real world. Much as he loved the Orient, tonight wasn’t it.

He wrestled with the light some more, trying to get it to catch.

‘Need some help, pal?’ Someone was in the shadows. He could tell it was a man, but the voice was sort of high, like a boy’s.

Mickey looked into the darkness but couldn’t see anything. ‘Who’s there?’

Silence. Then the voice again, more menacing this time, ‘I asked you a question, buddy. Didn’t your mama teach you manners?’

The alley was empty. Suddenly the cigarette didn’t seem like such a good idea.

‘I’m cool, man,’ Mickey said shakily. He turned to go back inside.

A hand descended on his shoulder. ‘Hey,’ the stranger said calmly, ‘I got a light. You want it or not?’

Mickey whirled round, his heart racing. Shit. Brenda was always telling him to quit the smokes—why didn’t he listen to her? A pale face loomed into view. It was chalky-white, curiously devoid of emotion; its small eyes mean and empty. A bad smell assaulted him.

‘Honest, man, I’m good.’ Mickey trembled. ‘I don’t need your help.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Lester Fallon. ‘Because I need yours. See, you’ve got one or two things I need.’

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

E
very station was buzzing with news of the premiere. Lester parked the Saab in the hotel’s underground lot and sat in the gloom, listening.

‘Once again we’re out among the stars and this time we’re coming at you from Las Vegas, where Lana Falcon’s new movie
Eastern Sky
is premiering. In less than an hour Lana and her gorgeous husband Cole Steel will take to this very carpet and we’re here to ask them a couple of questions…’

He cracked his bony knuckles at the sound of her name. Nobody knew what a murdering bitch she was. But they were about to find out. Oh, yes, she’d hidden her nasty little secret for way too long.

Lester punched the dash in a fury. After a brief crackle the station changed.

‘…coming to you live from Las Vegas, Nevada, at the
Eastern Sky
premiere. Plenty of excitement here as the celebrities start to arrive…’

‘Shut up!’ he shouted, clamping his hands to his ears. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Lester sat whimpering in a ball, his head against the window.

Stupid, crying little boy. What would your poor dead mommy and daddy think?

‘Shut up,’ he said again, but this time it was a wet splutter.

He sat like that for several minutes, intermittently releasing an involuntary, high-pitched howl, before gathering strength. Quickly and smoothly, like peeling off one mask and slipping on another, Lester parcelled his emotion and prepared himself for the task ahead.

He took his time getting changed, not that easy in a cramped back seat, and made sure every crease was smoothed out of the uniform. It was important to be smart for such a special occasion. That mommy’s boy had got seen to all right, wetting his pants all down his leg like a freaking mutt—thank Jesus he’d already taken the clothes.

It was the way the world worked: some people were made to beat up some people got beat. Unfortunately for that jackass, he belonged to the latter. Still, Lester had shown mercy that had not been shown to him: the guy would have some headache when he woke, but he’d live.

Shrouded in darkness, he ran a comb through his thin hair, revealing pale strings of scalp with each measured stroke. When the cameras arrived and they awarded him his badge of honour, he wanted to look his best.

When he was ready, Lester grabbed a small black canvas bag from the back seat and secured it in the waistband of his trousers. He fixed the red cap tight against his ears, opened the car door and slid on a pair of black patent shoes. They were a little tight and pinched his toes. But he wouldn’t be walking far.

Lester stepped out the car and locked the door behind him. His clean, precise footsteps echoed around the empty parking lot.