The A-List Collection. Victoria Fox
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would pay a higher price than her.
At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.
It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.
‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’
Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’
‘Come to lunch.’
‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’
‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’
Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.
It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.
‘You’ve got talent and you’re beautiful,’ Rita had said after their meeting, grinding out a cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Believe me, it’s rare. We’re going straight to the top, sweetheart.’ Her agent had gone on to secure a string of small but carefully selected TV deals, and a little over a year later Lana had landed her first break: a starring role in one of America’s most beloved sitcoms. Since then she’d gained precious credibility in a couple of cleverly positioned independent films, and in the months that followed LA’s casting agents were over her like a rash.
‘And don’t forget Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party next week,’ said Rita, dragging her back to the present. ‘I know it’s not easy with the Cole situation.’
‘Hmm.’ Lana felt a crunch of dread. Kate diLaurentis was a ruthless actress in her forties with balls of iron and a face full of Botox. She was also Cole Steel’s ex-wife.
‘My advice? Conserve your energies,’ Rita said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s invited press so you and Cole are gonna have to look the part.’
Lana closed her eyes, giving in to the alternate notes of exhaustion and fear that his name evoked.
‘You still there?’
‘I’m here.’ She checked the time and started to get her bag together. Cole’s driver would be turning up in minutes and she couldn’t be late for the car–anything extraordinary would arouse her husband’s attention.
‘I know it’s difficult,’ said Rita, blowing out smoke. ‘We never thought it would be easy. But you’re doing it, girl, and that’s what matters.’
The women said their goodbyes and Lana hung up. She’d do anything to be able to confide in Rita about the affair with Parker Troy, but she knew she couldn’t–there was too much at stake. No, if anyone knew the importance of keeping a secret, it was her.
When her pager beeped Lana scooped her bag on to her shoulder, pulled on a baseball cap and headed out of the trailer. Keeping her head down and ignoring one especially persistent paparazzo who had been trailing her for days, she made her way through to the car. Cole’s driver was waiting, a big Hispanic guy with arms folded across his broad chest.
Nodding an acknowledgement, she slipped into the Mercedes’ black leather interior.
When the door closed and darkness enveloped her, she knew she was going home.
Cole Steel stepped out on to his glass-bottomed terrace and squinted against the afternoon sun. Drawing a pair of shades from the top pocket of his crisp, white shirt, he ran a manicured thumb around each lens until it gleamed.
With the sheer expanse of his gated Beverly Hills mansion spread out below, his beautiful wife due home any moment and his role in a sure-fire action adventure tied up just this afternoon, Cole was a happy man. In the acting game since the eighties, he had realised pretty quickly that you had to work your balls off for this kind of life. And you had to know who to trust.
On cue a security camera to his left–one of thirty-six on the property–turned on its pivot, sensing motion. These cameras were like highly trained dogs: anything Cole needed to know about and they’d be hot on it. The bottom line was that these pieces of kit were loyal–they told him everything. People, on the other hand, did not.
He checked the time on his Tag watch and frowned a little, careful not to let the lines run too deep. Just last month he had been for his first Botox session and had decided never again. For days after his expression had been totally blank–thank God it had been rectified before Venice. He recalled spending an hour in front of the mirror, eyes staring wild from a frozen mask like something out of a horror movie. Not to mention the panic at one side of his mouth going slack as though he’d had a stroke. No, never again. All that filler shit, none of it was for him–he was a serious actor, for crissakes: his trophy room was testament to that.
He buzzed the intercom. The house was so big he needed a network of them to oil things efficiently. ‘Consuela, get me a fresh lemonade.’
The Spanish maid was with him in seconds. He took the drink without thanking her.
Where the hell was Lana? She was due back by now. Leaning on the balustrade, he narrowed his eyes at the view. In recent weeks he had been prey to a niggling feeling that his wife was hiding something. She was staying in her rooms a lot more these days and, he was sure, avoided looking at him directly. Whatever it was, he’d get to the bottom of it.
In the meantime, Lana needed to sort out her attitude and fast. It wouldn’t do for Cole Steel’s wife to be touring LA looking miserable–she was married to royalty!
Taking a slug of the cool drink, Cole felt something small and hard catch at the back of his throat. He gagged, gasping for air, the force of it dislodging his sunglasses.
Consuela came rushing out, nervously knotting her hands in her apron. ‘Mr Steel? Is everything all right?’
He spat on to the terrace and out flew a lemon pip. ‘No, it isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ he hissed, eyeing her fiercely over the shades that hung drunkenly off his immaculate face. ‘Can’t you squeeze a piece of fruit, you freaking idiot?’
The Spanish woman felt her cheeks flush. She nodded furiously.
‘Forgive me, sir. It was my mistake.’ She nodded to where the pip had landed on the terrace, embarrassed in its solitude. It was about half the size of a fingernail. ‘I will clean.’
Cole turned to go inside. He felt nauseated. ‘Make a thorough job of it,’ he said grimly. And then, for effect, ‘I want to see my face in this before the sun goes down.’ Yeah, that sounded great: maybe he should write it into one of his movies.
With a mild sense of panic Cole headed to the west bathroom to clean his teeth, realising this would throw off his five o’clock session. He brushed eight times a day at two-hourly intervals–they didn’t say he had the best smile in Hollywood for nothing. Now that dumb maid had compromised his routine, something he didn’t like. He’d fire her tomorrow.
Downstairs, he checked his schedule. Tomorrow’s go-green fundraiser, that launch in Chicago he’d promised his agent he’d attend at the weekend, Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party on Wednesday. He grimaced. The thought of spending an evening with his monstrous ex-wife and her can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants comedian husband left a sour taste in his mouth. If only it didn’t pay to keep her sweet.