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

agent sold my spec road-trip script for a million friggin’ bucks!’
     
    Concentration was everything. At least her parents had taught her one useful lesson. Work hard and don’t expect thanks. Well, yes, she worked hard all right, but she got plenty of thanks. Her fans loved her. They adored her. They never let her down. Unlike her parents, who had no idea of the success she’d achieved.
    Or maybe they did, and had no desire to contact her. It made her angry and sad when she thought about them, so she tried not to do so.
    Lissa easily outpaced her dancers at rehearsal: she had enough stamina to keep going all day without a break.
    ‘You’re the bomb, honey,’ her sleek black female choreographer informed her admiringly. ‘Dunno how you do it.’
    Hard work. That’s all it takes.
    She kept going until six, then lingered at the rehearsal studio going over stuff with her publicist. Max had all kinds of television and magazine interviews lined up for her. She said yes to some, nixed others.
    She knew she should inform Max about her impending break-up, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. Another divorce made her feel like such a loser, and yet she knew that wasn’t true. Gregg was the loser, not her.
    When she finally arrived home, there was a message from Gregg saying he’d be working late again. She was relieved. If only she’d known, she could have arranged to have him thrown out sooner.
    Tomorrow was the big day, and with any luck she’d never have to see him again.
     
    Taylor was in a dazed state of confusion. She was in her car, driving home, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Oliver, her writer, her lover, was about to get paid one million dollars for a spec script. While she, Taylor Singer, married to the Lawrence Singer, was still struggling after two years to get her lousy movie made.
    And she wasn’t too happy about Oliver’s attitude either. He’d hustled her out of his house as if she had the goddamn clap!
    ‘What about my script?’ she’d asked, as he’d shoved her towards the door. ‘Have you even looked at it?’
    ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he’d said. ‘I gotta get over to my agent’s.’
    Graciously she hadn’t pursued it. Not that he’d given her much choice.
    A fuck would’ve been nice. A celebratory fuck.
    Maybe tomorrow.
    She phoned Larry from the car.
    ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
    ‘Shopping,’ she replied.
    ‘I’m putting Edie on–give her the name and address of those people who helped you yesterday.’
    ‘What people?’ she asked, totally blanking on her lies.
    ‘The neighbours.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly. ‘The neighbours…I uh…didn’t get their exact address. And you know–I’m not sure of their name.’ A pause. ‘Why do you need to know anyway?’
    ‘Because I thought we should send them a gift basket, or champagne. Something to let them know we appreciate what they did.’
    ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I’ll find out and let Edie know.’
    ‘Speak to her now, give her the name of the writer you were on your way to see. She’ll get the information.’
    ‘I’ll deal with it myself,’ Taylor said quickly. ‘I’d like it to seem more personal.’
    ‘Don’t forget.’
    ‘I won’t.’
    She clicked off the phone. Larry was always so worried about other people. He had his precious personal assistant, Edie, who’d been with him forever, do everything. Sendflowers. Write notes. Buy gifts. God forbid someone didn’t get a proper thank-you.
    Taylor drove her car directly to Neiman’s and indulged herself with two hours of ferocious shopping to calm herself down. Everyone was getting what they wanted.
    When was it her turn?
     
    Deidra Baker was fed up with working for a living. She had a plan, and that plan was to snag herself a rich man. She didn’t care what he looked like or how old he was: as long as he had big bucks he would do.
    Deidra was twenty-five, not a beauty, but an attractive, if