Hollywood Sinners

‘You know I’m just teasing,’ he said in an artificially playful way that made her feel queasy. ‘I wanted to catch you while I could, I’m aware we haven’t spent much time together recently.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got a mutual appearance next week—’

‘Kate diLaurentis’s party.’ Lana nodded, keeping her eyes down. ‘It’s under control.’ She stopped herself saying ‘I know the drill’ and drained the last of her vodka.

Cole extended a white, moisturised hand and settled it self-consciously on his wife’s leg. She tried not to look at him–on camera he was a handsome man but in real life he was plastic on a good day and on a bad one plain bizarre. Lana knew he’d had a filler done recently and regretted it–as a result his skin had taken on an unnerving sort of sheen, like rubber. He looked sticky, like someone had taken him out of a box and polished him.

Trying to ignore the contact, which seemed uncalled-for given the circumstances, Lana ran a finger across the solid oak bar.

‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

His eyes were blank, unreadable. ‘What?’

Lana shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Cole Steel was as closed to her now as he’d been when she was growing up, watching his movies.

He placed his glass on the bar, using both hands to position it squarely. When he was satisfied, he turned and pinned his wife with a stare.

‘It’s our job,’ he said hollowly. ‘You’ll wear the green dress at Kate’s, the off-the-shoulder Gucci. Open-toe sandals and that diamond necklace I bought you. Make sure we show them your left side if that blemish hasn’t cleared up.’

Lana touched the soft skin under her eye, feeling the tiny scratch that had appeared there. She nodded. The conversation was over and, as always, Cole had ended it.

Armed with her instructions, she headed up the back staircase to her private quarters. The quiet was deafening. It was married life.

6

Las Vegas

‘What a voice!’ exclaimed Elisabeth’s stage manager, his jauntily positioned trilby almost slipping off with the excitement of it.

Elisabeth Sabell smiled as she swept into the wings, rapturous applause filling the Desert Jewel auditorium. Her heart was racing.

‘It was good?’ she breathed, fully aware it had been.

‘It was magnificent,’ he told her, kissing both cheeks. ‘We had a full house tonight.’

The crew rushed over, showering Elisabeth with compliments. Somebody trod on the skirt of her scarlet gown but she was too euphoric to care.

‘Thank you!’ she cried, graciously accepting armfuls of gifts: bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers; notes from well-wishers; and on top of that an assortment of soft toys, a couple of bug-eyed ones clutching felt hearts that she could have done without.

Her PA rushed forward. ‘Mr Bellini would like to see you, ma’am.’

Elisabeth bit her lip. I’ll bet he wants to see me. Alberto Bellini was General Manager at the Desert Jewel, the second of Robert St Louis’s epic hotels, and worked under her fiancé’S supervision. He was an Italian in his sixties, a born Lothario, drinker and gambler, and one of her father’s cronies.

‘Thank you,’ she said, offloading the gifts into her assistant’s arms. One of the toys squeaked in protest. ‘I’ll be there.’

As Elisabeth made her way to her dressing room, charming admirers along the way, she hoped Alberto Bellini wasn’t about to give her a lecture. Some crap about how she should quit singing–that it had been her mother’s thing, not hers–and get to grips with Bernstein’s hotel legacy. Over and over everyone tried to fit her into her father’s pocket. What about her own ambitions?

She’d earned her right to sing tonight. All through her twenties Elisabeth had worked long and hard to make a name for herself, and now she had she sure as hell wasn’t getting swallowed up by her father’s empire. Bernstein considered her whimsical, that music was just a phase born out of longing for her dead mother. But she’d proved him wrong. For years she’d performed in smoky bars on the Strip, hauling her way to the top, and now she’d made it she sure as hell wasn’t letting anyone bring her down.

Smiling to herself, she pulled open the door to her dressing room. As soon as she saw Alberto Bellini, she knew he hadn’t come to lecture her. On the contrary, in fact.

‘Bellissima,’ he crooned in a thick accent, standing to greet her. ‘You were sensational tonight.’ He presented her with the hugest bouquet of roses she had ever seen–whites, yellows, reds, pinks, all bound up with a violet ribbon.

‘Thank you,’ said Elisabeth, taking a seat at her dressing table. In the mirrors she could see the old Italian, now reclining in a red velvet chair with his legs crossed. He was tall and sinewy, with thick pure-white hair and a hook nose. The room stretched out behind him, fragments caught in diamond shapes like a kaleidoscope. He was watching her intently.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, reaching for a black velvet box with a little card from Robert tucked inside.

‘Never mind that,’ Alberto said, coming to her. He placed his dry hands on her bare shoulders and leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘A star is born tonight.’

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. It was no great secret that Alberto harboured a schoolboy crush–it’d been that way for ages. She and Robert laughed about it.

‘Oh, give it up,’ she told him, applying a flush of rouge. ‘I don’t need to sleep with you to keep this gig. You work for my fiancé, remember?’

Alberto chuckled. ‘You are right, bellissima. When you do sleep with me, it will be of your own free will.’

Elisabeth turned round. ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she told him. ‘You’re an old horse, Bellini, it’d probably kill you.’

‘You kill me a little every time.’ He held his arms up and made a face like a sad clown.

‘I’m sure,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. She’d known Alberto since she was a little girl–he’d always been around when she’d been growing up–but she could never tell if he was being serious or not.

‘When is the wedding?’ he asked now, turning away, his hands linked behind his back. His distinguished frame was at ease in the opulent den of her dressing room. Modelled on the Egyptian pyramids, its gold fabrics swept grandly from a sphinx gargoyle in the middle of the ceiling. Baskets of fruit, olives and nuts were clustered in one corner, and a small fountain of mineral water stood proud at its centre.

‘Robert and I are yet to set a date.’ Elisabeth picked up the velvet box, extracted the note from her fiancé and smiled. Inside was a diamond necklace, an exquisite chain of gems, each one in the shape of a heart.

Alberto did not turn to face her. ‘But you do want to marry him.’

Elisabeth frowned. ‘Of course I want to marry him.’

‘It is what your father wants.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ Her voice tightened. She fastened the necklace and sat back to admire it.

‘It is what the city wants.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘It is not what I want.’

Abruptly Elisabeth stood up. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Bellini. Is there anything else?’

He came to her, his expression wistful. ‘I fear I should not tell you this,’ Alberto licked his lips, ‘but I cannot help myself.’ He took her hands. ‘You are so like your mother, Elisabeth. So headstrong, so forthright, so … beautiful.’

Elisabeth was taken aback. Linda Sabell, one of the greatest singers of the seventies, had been killed in a plane crash when Elisabeth was only three. Her father never spoke her name; Bellini was the only one who seemed to recognise she’d gone.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tears threatening. She cleared her throat, cross with herself for showing weakness.

‘When I look at you.’ Alberto searched her eyes, looking for what she couldn’t tell. ‘My darling, your mother lives again.’

Elisabeth was transfixed a moment, before blinking and dropping his hands.