Читать книгу The A-List Collection - Victoria Fox - Страница 39

Santa Barbara

The happy couple were married on a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Press swarmed across the coastline like ants, not just to catch Danielle and George Roman but the host of stars they had invited to celebrate their day.

‘I’m delighted you could both come,’ said Danielle after the ceremony, kissing Lana and Cole on both cheeks. The fashion designer was resplendent in her ivory fishtail wedding gown, a great satin meringue studded with rhinestone and crystal.

Lana smiled. ‘It was really beautiful,’ she said. The bluff gave on to the wide azure water that glittered in the late-November sunshine. It was the perfect spot.

‘It reminds me of our wedding day,’ observed Cole, slickly hooking an arm round his wife’s waist.

Lana didn’t see why: their wedding three years before had been an extravagant affair held at a sixteenth-century castle in Europe. This had a much simpler charm about it.

However, the observation pleased Danielle, who clasped her hands together with glee.

Lana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘I think it’s quite different,’ she said. Cole shot her a look.

‘It’s where George proposed,’ trilled Danielle, ‘a year ago today.’ On cue her much older husband joined her. He had a caddish forties look about him, a handsome, clean-cut movie producer with the Midas touch. George had been married when they’d met and he’d left his first wife, one of the most esteemed actresses of her generation, in a hive of controversy.

‘Darling,’ he crooned, ‘we’re needed for photographs.’

You could say that, thought Lana, looking across at the gathered press. It was bizarre to invite so many strangers to such a private day–but then she’d done it, hadn’t she? And why not? Her wedding to Cole had been a work engagement, there had been no intimacy to compromise.

A photographer swooped in and snapped the four of them together.

‘Please excuse us,’ said Danielle graciously, taking her husband’s hand. ‘Oh, look, there’s Kate!’

‘Darling …’ George gave Cole a ‘What are women like?’ look and trailed after her. Cole gave a weird sort of salute to indicate he knew exactly what women were like and laughed too loudly.

‘Kate looks well,’ observed Lana, watching Danielle drift over to greet Kate diLaurentis and her husband. The women were working together on a new fashion collection.

Cole stiffened next to her. ‘Why must you disagree with me in public?’ he hissed.

Lana turned to him in surprise. ‘What?’

‘We won’t talk about this now,’ said Cole, a pulse going in his neck. ‘You must never disagree with me in public again.’ He wasn’t looking at her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Lana, feeling her fists clench by her sides.

‘Especially where it concerns our wedding.’

‘Am I not permitted to have an opinion?’

Cole’s face broke into a professional smile as he spotted an actor friend and his wife. A lot of back-slapping ensued as they greeted each other, before Cole brought Lana forward.

Thank God this marriage will soon be over, thought Lana. It was all she could think as she engaged in a conversation with the woman she barely knew. Thank God it will soon be over.

The reception took place in a five-star luxury resort on the coast. Hundreds of guests arrived for the celebrations in limos and private helicopters.

Chloe and Nate entered the hotel accompanied by Brock Wilde. ‘This is a number-one photo opportunity,’ he’d advised her days before. ‘Get photographed here, honey, and you’re on your way.’

‘I can’t believe this place,’ whispered Chloe, squeezing Nate’s hand. The lobby was huge, a glass ceiling gleaming hundreds of feet above and pillars soaring high into the vaults. It was like Daddy Warbucks’s house in Annie.

‘Keep it cool, babe,’ said Nate, grabbing a glass of champagne and downing it. He didn’t want to appear all simpering and tragic, even if he was a bit nervous. Just a bit. Chloe getting them invited to this gig was a major coup–he certainly hadn’t secured this kind of company yet.

The ballroom was packed with celebrity guests. Everywhere Chloe turned she saw faces she recognised, faces from magazines and films, faces she couldn’t remember the names of but had seen countless times–faces that were as much a part of her history as her own family.

‘This is freaking me out,’ she confessed. Brock thrust a cocktail into her hand and told her to drink it.

‘Not too fast, babe,’ chipped in Nate, swigging his own drink. ‘Don’t want you getting drunk and embarrassing us.’

Brock frowned.

‘There’s Lana!’ said Chloe happily, waving across the room. They had been introduced on-set a week before and had got on well.

Nate straightened his tie, depositing his glass on a passing tray.

‘And look!’ She turned to him, eyes wide. ‘There’s Cole Steel.’

Cole spotted Marty King across the room just as a lofty, very striking dark-haired girl walked over, apparently to talk to his wife.

‘Marty,’ Cole said, interrupting his conversation with another client, ‘I need a word.’

Marty’s expression was strained. ‘One moment, Cole,’ he said.

Cole had never seen the client before in his life, a young, pasty actor with pointed ears. ‘Now, Marty.’

‘Excuse me,’ Marty told the man, knowing where to hedge his bets.

‘What is it?’ he hissed as Cole steered him smoothly out to the terrace. The sun was kissing the horizon, a hot red circle on the lilac sky.

‘I want to know where we are with the plans, Marty.’

‘Cole, please, I’ve had things to—’

‘I repeat: where are we?’

Marty mopped his brow. ‘I’m yet to come up with a solution,’ he said. When Cole opened his mouth to speak, Marty barrelled on. ‘But I will. The contract’s a tricky thing, you know that. Give me time.’

‘We don’t have much time.’

Marty shook his head in confusion.

‘Lana wants out. I know it.’ He put his hands on the veranda, breathing deep the clean air. ‘Find a way, OK? You’ve got two weeks.’

‘Two weeks isn’t—’

‘You’ve got two weeks,’ Cole said again, his voice flat.

Marty closed his eyes. When he opened them again he placed a hand on his client’s shoulder. ‘Two weeks it is, buddy. I’m your man.’

Kate diLaurentis hadn’t let Jimmy Hart out of her sight all afternoon. There were too many starlets here and with a party of them staying overnight at the hotel, she didn’t want her husband doing one of his vanishing acts.

‘I’m going for a smoke,’ Jimmy told her, fumbling in his suit pocket.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Kate, smile in place as she greeted Danielle’s sister Freya, a stout screenwriter with bad hair and jowls. Kate noticed she hadn’t bothered losing weight to squeeze into her bridesmaid’s dress.

‘You look radiant,’ she lied.

When she’d gone Jimmy muttered, ‘Bullshit.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He was still digging around in his jacket. She yanked him round as a photographer ushered them into the frame.

‘Smile, Jimmy-and mean it,’ Kate commanded out the side of her mouth.

Finally he found the cigarettes. In good time, as Kate had just spotted Lana Falcon talking to a very beautiful young woman with poker-straight coal-black hair that ran down the length of her back. She’d better find out who that was, and certainly not with her husband in tow.

Jimmy followed her gaze and she felt, rather than saw, his mouth drop open.

Oh, no, you don’t.

‘Go on, then,’ she said archly, shooing him away, cigarette in hand. Abandoning her husband and heading in Lana’s direction, she muttered, ‘If they don’t kill you, one day I will.’

Chloe French’s accent was what Lana liked best. It was quite proper and upper-class, even if Lana suspected she tried to play it down. She was impossibly pretty–it was easy to see why Sam had wanted her for the part.

‘I still have to pinch myself,’ Chloe said, sipping her margarita. Next to her Nate rolled his eyes, hoping to catch one of Lana’s.

‘It’s as if none of it is really happening,’ she went on, ‘and I’ll wake up in a minute and it’ll all have been a dream.’ She shook her head. ‘LA doesn’t seem real. I bet you felt like this when you started out … or do I sound totally crazy?’

Nate butted in. ‘You sound totally crazy,’ he agreed, wishing his girlfriend could act a little cooler.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ smiled Lana. ‘Actually, I still feel like that.’

Chloe beamed. She had promised herself back in London that she wouldn’t act like an idiot around Lana Falcon but all that had gone rapidly out the window.

‘I don’t want to go on,’ she said, knowing she was going on, ‘but it’s all true. And you’re married to Cole! I used to fancy him so much at school.’ She was babbling. Nate’s pinch brought her back into line. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘that was a stupid thing to say.’

Lana laughed, a genuine laugh that came from her tummy. ‘Not at all.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s something else, all right.’

‘Did you always want to get into the industry?’ asked Nate, hoping to make up for Chloe’s embarrassing behaviour.

Lana twirled the stem of her champagne flute. ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘I decided it was for me when I was,’ she pretended she had to remember, ‘seventeen. Which I guess is quite late for some people.’

‘And what attracted you to it?’ Nate was pleased. It was a buzz talking to such a gorgeous piece as Lana Falcon, even if she was so out of bounds it wasn’t even funny.

Lana shrugged, a little warm from the drink. ‘Honestly? I suppose I wanted to play at being someone else.’ She wondered if she’d spoken out of turn, but neither of them seemed to pick up on it.

‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ said Chloe. She thought about it some more and then smiled widely. ‘Exactly.’

Lana caught sight of Parker Troy across the room. She quickly looked away.

‘You’re a musician, right, Nate?’ Lana didn’t much like what she’d seen of the guy so far-Chloe was sweet, a bit naive; he had a look in his eye that said he couldn’t be trusted.

Nate fell into his comfort zone: talking about himself. ‘Sure am,’ he said. ‘We’re quite a big deal over the pond, now we’re set to break out here. It’ll happen, you’ll see.’

Chloe smiled at him, brimming with pride. ‘It will.’

Lana saw Kate weaving her way through the crowd. ‘Kate,’ she smiled cordially as the older woman joined them, ‘how wonderful to see you.’ They kissed on both cheeks and Kate made a ‘mwah’ sound.

Before Lana had a chance to introduce them, Kate regarded Chloe with barefaced disdain. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is Chloe French,’ said Lana, appalled at Kate’s bad manners. ‘We’re filming together. Chloe, meet Kate diLaurentis.’

Chloe gave her best smile. ‘I’m thrilled to meet you,’ she said, holding out her hand. Something told her she was unlikely to get a mwah.

‘I’m Nate Reid,’ said Nate, stepping forward.

Kate raised an eyebrow. Nobody said anything. Chloe withdrew her hand awkwardly.

‘Is Jimmy with you?’ asked Lana, cross with Kate for being so rude.

‘He’s outside.’ She flashed a look at Chloe. ‘That’s my husband,’ she clarified.

Chloe nodded. Her palms felt sweaty and her cocktail had gone warm. ‘I hope I can meet him,’ she said politely.

I bet you do, thought Kate. Oh, she could smell these ones out so easily: wannabe actresses who thought they could get their hands on any role, any man. Pretty little things with nothing but stuffing in their heads–except when they indulged in married men’s cocks.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said smoothly, confident she’d made an impression. That should make the girl think twice before treading on her territory. She cringed inwardly. Why did she have to assume every starlet she met was about to go to bed with her husband?

Because they probably are, Kate. Because you won’t give it to him.

She stalked off in the direction of the bar. Somebody needed to keep an eye on that piece of English crumpet.

And it had better not be my sonofabitch husband.

In the bathroom, Cole splashed his face with water. He checked his watch. With any luck he and Lana could retire to their suite before long–he craved silence, relief from the hungry pack, all of them baying for a piece of Cole Steel. If only he could rely on Lana to keep the side up.

Emerging into the main hall, Cole scanned the gathering. He saw his wife talking to the dark-haired girl he’d walked past earlier and a cretinous-looking man with long hair. Straightening his suit jacket, he stepped forward.

‘Cole.’ A voice from behind stopped him in his tracks. He would know it anywhere.

Cole turned, his heart thumping behind his ribs. The man was elderly, with a thin grey comb-over and a nose made bulbous by too much drink. He was leaning on a stick.

Him.

The man who had ruined him. The man he hated. The man he hoped would rot in hell.

‘Michael,’ said Cole tightly, already thinking about how to make his escape.

The famous director grinned, revealing a wall of false teeth. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It would be nice to see more of you,’ he said. He licked his lips with a thin wet tongue. ‘We used to know each other so well.’

Cole concentrated hard. His face remained impassive. ‘I have a busy schedule,’ he said.

‘Not like the old days, then.’ Michael kept smiling, hunched over his stick, as if they could share in the nostalgia of the past.

‘No.’ Cole lowered his eyes to the floor. This was the only man in the world who could make him feel afraid. Michael was ancient now, at least ninety.

When will you die? Cole thought. When the hell will you die?

‘I can’t talk, Michael,’ he said coolly. ‘I must get back to my wife.’

‘The beautiful Lana,’ said the director, his eyes watery. ‘How I wish I could have worked with her.’

Cole gritted his teeth. Lana was his prize, no one else’s. And certainly not Michael Benedict’s. ‘I’ll pass on your regards.’

And, without meeting the director’s eye, Cole was gone.