on him before he could argue. She enjoyed playing games with Eddie. Especially now . Anyway, she couldn’t make up her mind whether she wanted to go to her mother’s dumb party or not. On the one hand it might be a real blast to spy on the Hollywood set first-hand. On the other – who would Silver have there? Certainly not Rob Lowe and Sean Penn. More like a bunch of doddering old farts.
As if to make up her mind, her grandfather, George, appeared at the door of her room. He was a tall, thin man, with a shock of thick white hair and a preoccupied expression always in place on his deeply lined face. He didn’t look like Silver, and no way resembled Uncle Jack. He had a sort of nutty professor air about him. Heaven liked him a lot. For a grandfather he was ace. And he left her alone. Most important.
‘Are you home for dinner, dear?’ he asked, fiddling with his glasses which hung from a blue cord around his neck.
‘I think I’m going out, pops.’
‘Good, good,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘Then I can let Mrs Gunter go.’
Anything to let Mrs Gunter go. She was their housekeeper/cook/busybody, and she drove Heaven nuts.
I’m not bothering with dinner myself,’ George added vaguely. ‘I shall be in my workroom all night.’ His eyes fixed on a half-naked poster of Sting tacked to her closet. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Out with Eddie,’ she replied, deciding the hell with it – she would go to her mother’s party. Why shouldn’t she? ‘We’re playing a gig.’
‘Twelve o’clock curfew,’ George reminded.
‘Sure, pops,’ she agreed. She could walk in at four in the morning and he wouldn’t know it. Once he was in his workroom nothing disturbed him. Usually he carried on through the night, losing all track of time.
She didn’t mention Silver’s party. It would only upset him, and he might try to dissuade her from going. George and his famous daughter did not speak. It had been that way for thirty years.
Oh well… Heaven didn’t blame him… Maybe she shouldn’t talk to her mother either. Silver treated her as if she hardly existed. Never called. Never asked anything about her life when they did get together. Usually it was a twice-yearly dinner at La Scala with Nora in attendance. The woman was a bitch.
Big fucking deal. Who cared?
She did.
Chapter Fifteen
Clarissa Browning rented a secluded house on Benedict Canyon. She leased it from a young director who had gone to work in Europe for a year. The house was dark and old, surrounded by tall trees and untended grounds. Clarissa liked the coldness of the house, the bathrooms that were over fifty years old, the dark wood panelling everywhere, and the general gloom.
Even the swimming pool was not of the usual California variety. There was no jacuzzi. No floating pool furniture. It was always filled with leaves, as the filter rarely worked. And it was always ice cold, as the heater never worked. At night coyotes howled, and other small, wild animals scurried across the old tile roof. Sometimes snakes slithered into the pool and drowned.
Clarissa enjoyed lighting a log fire in the bedroom and reading from her extensive collection of classics. She liked to bundle up in a long flannel nightie with a hot mug of cocoa for company, and pretend she was back east.
Arriving home from the studio early Saturday evening she was pleased to see Jack Python’s dark green Ferrari parked out front. He had his own key to come and go whenever he pleased. It suited her. Clarissa never brought her homework to the house.
He was in the bedroom watching television. Or was he watching? On closer inspection she discovered he was asleep.
Silently she observed him for a moment – so still… so quiet. Usually Jack was always on the move. The green eyes probing, finding out things. The hard body ready, poised. The sharp mind, clickety clickety click.
He excited her. He always excited her.
The first time they met she had thought – Handsome son of a
As if to make up her mind, her grandfather, George, appeared at the door of her room. He was a tall, thin man, with a shock of thick white hair and a preoccupied expression always in place on his deeply lined face. He didn’t look like Silver, and no way resembled Uncle Jack. He had a sort of nutty professor air about him. Heaven liked him a lot. For a grandfather he was ace. And he left her alone. Most important.
‘Are you home for dinner, dear?’ he asked, fiddling with his glasses which hung from a blue cord around his neck.
‘I think I’m going out, pops.’
‘Good, good,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘Then I can let Mrs Gunter go.’
Anything to let Mrs Gunter go. She was their housekeeper/cook/busybody, and she drove Heaven nuts.
I’m not bothering with dinner myself,’ George added vaguely. ‘I shall be in my workroom all night.’ His eyes fixed on a half-naked poster of Sting tacked to her closet. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Out with Eddie,’ she replied, deciding the hell with it – she would go to her mother’s party. Why shouldn’t she? ‘We’re playing a gig.’
‘Twelve o’clock curfew,’ George reminded.
‘Sure, pops,’ she agreed. She could walk in at four in the morning and he wouldn’t know it. Once he was in his workroom nothing disturbed him. Usually he carried on through the night, losing all track of time.
She didn’t mention Silver’s party. It would only upset him, and he might try to dissuade her from going. George and his famous daughter did not speak. It had been that way for thirty years.
Oh well… Heaven didn’t blame him… Maybe she shouldn’t talk to her mother either. Silver treated her as if she hardly existed. Never called. Never asked anything about her life when they did get together. Usually it was a twice-yearly dinner at La Scala with Nora in attendance. The woman was a bitch.
Big fucking deal. Who cared?
She did.
Chapter Fifteen
Clarissa Browning rented a secluded house on Benedict Canyon. She leased it from a young director who had gone to work in Europe for a year. The house was dark and old, surrounded by tall trees and untended grounds. Clarissa liked the coldness of the house, the bathrooms that were over fifty years old, the dark wood panelling everywhere, and the general gloom.
Even the swimming pool was not of the usual California variety. There was no jacuzzi. No floating pool furniture. It was always filled with leaves, as the filter rarely worked. And it was always ice cold, as the heater never worked. At night coyotes howled, and other small, wild animals scurried across the old tile roof. Sometimes snakes slithered into the pool and drowned.
Clarissa enjoyed lighting a log fire in the bedroom and reading from her extensive collection of classics. She liked to bundle up in a long flannel nightie with a hot mug of cocoa for company, and pretend she was back east.
Arriving home from the studio early Saturday evening she was pleased to see Jack Python’s dark green Ferrari parked out front. He had his own key to come and go whenever he pleased. It suited her. Clarissa never brought her homework to the house.
He was in the bedroom watching television. Or was he watching? On closer inspection she discovered he was asleep.
Silently she observed him for a moment – so still… so quiet. Usually Jack was always on the move. The green eyes probing, finding out things. The hard body ready, poised. The sharp mind, clickety clickety click.
He excited her. He always excited her.
The first time they met she had thought – Handsome son of a
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