Hollywood Divorces / Hollywood Wives: The New Generation by Jackie Collins Page A

same old dance.
    Rita, his deceased wife, had ruined his trust in women. Rita had lied to him from day one, going so far as to pretend that the baby she was pregnant with when they got married was his. For five years he’d thought he had a daughter, until one day he’d found out the real truth. Bella was not his daughter, Bella was the child of his low-life brother, Sal. And when Rita moved to L.A. she’d decided to send Bella back to New York to live with Sal and his wife. Only nobody had told him. He’d found out by accident–well, more like he’d paid for the information from a stripper pal of Rita’s who’d been desperate for money. As soon as he’d found out, he’d flown straight to his brother’s house in New York where he’d beaten the crap out of Sal and hadthe story confirmed. It had been the worst day of his life.
    ‘I wish I didn’t have to work today,’ Carol said wistfully, as she stood in his small kitchen cooking bacon, eggs and sausage for breakfast. ‘Maybe on Saturday we can drive to Santa Barbara for lunch. Can we, Michael?’
    ‘I’ll be working this weekend,’ he answered, wishing she wasn’t so needy.
    ‘All weekend?’ she said, making a disappointed face.
    ‘Looks like it.’
    ‘How come?’
    ‘High-profile client. Needs plenty of attention.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘You know our policy, Carol. No names.’
    ‘Oh, come on , you can tell me.’
    ‘Fraid not.’
    She was about to say something, thought better of it, and went back to pouring him more coffee.
    Smart girl, Carol. Knew when not to push it.
     
    By the time Taylor arrived at Oliver’s it was past noon. She’d planned on a morning visit, but it was not to be, too much stuff going on that she had to deal with. She was on the board of several charities and–because of her position–they were always asking her to do something. ‘Can you get us Ricky Martin to perform at an upcoming event honouring Tom Hanks?’ ‘How about a signed script from Steven Spielberg for our auction?’ ‘Would Larry be willing to donate a walk-on role in his next movie?’ Stupid requests. But she was who she was, and occasionally she was able to oblige.
    Sometimes in the morning she joined Lissa and her private yoga instructor. Today she didn’t have time because a facial, manicure and pedicure were definitely more important. Not to mention a Brazilian bikini wax.
    When she finally arrived at Oliver’s, he was on hiscellphone pacing up and down in front of his beach-view window, speaking animatedly. He waved her away when she attempted to hug him, which kind of pissed her off. He should be kissing her ass, because not only did they have great sex, but she was paying him to work on her script.
    It looked like he’d been entertaining, there were empty bottles of beer everywhere, several overflowing ashtrays, and empty pizza boxes piled high.
    She watched him as he talked on the cellphone. He was clad in a torn USC T-shirt and dirty khaki shorts. His outfit didn’t matter, he still looked hot.
    Idly she wondered how risky it would be to check into Shutters At The Beach and spend some quality time together. Not to mention clean sheets and a working shower.
    Too risky. Much too risky.
    This morning, before leaving for the studio, Larry had asked what her plans were for the day.
    She’d answered him vaguely.
    ‘No more visiting writers in bad neighbourhoods,’ he’d admonished sternly. ‘In future have them come to the house. You can use my office.’
    ‘Thanks, sweetie,’ she’d said, imagining herself naked in her loving husband’s office, making crazed, passionate love to a horny, out-of-work screenwriter.
    Now here she was at Oliver’s, impatiently waiting for him to get off the phone.
    ‘It’s, uh…like friggin’ unreal,’ Oliver said into the phone. ‘I’ll be there pronto.’
    ‘Be where?’ Taylor asked, as soon as he clicked off.
    ‘You’re not gonna friggin’ believe this,’ he said excitedly.
    ‘What?’
    ‘My