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. Send flowers. 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 somewhat
short, brunette, with long hair and a compact body. Her best asset,
unfortunately for her, had to be kept under wraps. Deidra had quite
phenomenal nipples. They were huge and dark brown, and when aroused,
startlingly erect. Men flipped over her nipples, but she had yet to
find the man who'd flip out enough to pay her rent so she could give up
her job and start enjoying herself like the affluent women she waited
on at Barneys, where she was a salesgirl. It was better than her
previous job, which was working at a children's clothing store in the
valley.
Crossing over the hill had been the best move she'd ever made. At
least she got to meet people now. Rich people. Rich
men
.
At night she hung out at the latest clubs, always on the look-out
for a man who could take her places. Sitting at the bar she made
connections, although never the right ones, merely guys who were
looking to get laid and nothing else.
Then one day along came Gregg Lynch. Deidra recognized him
immediately when he wandered into the store to check out cashmere
sweaters. Mr Lissa Roman. Husband of the superstar.
Deidra was smart, she didn't let on she knew who he was. After some
banter back and forth, he came on to her. She responded. Why not?
He took her out for coffee a couple of times, and before long they
were sleeping together.
Gregg discovered her nipples with a vengeance, toying with them for
hours on end. He truly got off on them - most men did.
Deidra didn't mind, for she was under the impression that
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. Send flowers. 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 somewhat
short, brunette, with long hair and a compact body. Her best asset,
unfortunately for her, had to be kept under wraps. Deidra had quite
phenomenal nipples. They were huge and dark brown, and when aroused,
startlingly erect. Men flipped over her nipples, but she had yet to
find the man who'd flip out enough to pay her rent so she could give up
her job and start enjoying herself like the affluent women she waited
on at Barneys, where she was a salesgirl. It was better than her
previous job, which was working at a children's clothing store in the
valley.
Crossing over the hill had been the best move she'd ever made. At
least she got to meet people now. Rich people. Rich
men
.
At night she hung out at the latest clubs, always on the look-out
for a man who could take her places. Sitting at the bar she made
connections, although never the right ones, merely guys who were
looking to get laid and nothing else.
Then one day along came Gregg Lynch. Deidra recognized him
immediately when he wandered into the store to check out cashmere
sweaters. Mr Lissa Roman. Husband of the superstar.
Deidra was smart, she didn't let on she knew who he was. After some
banter back and forth, he came on to her. She responded. Why not?
He took her out for coffee a couple of times, and before long they
were sleeping together.
Gregg discovered her nipples with a vengeance, toying with them for
hours on end. He truly got off on them - most men did.
Deidra didn't mind, for she was under the impression that
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