Hollywood Wives the New Genepa - Couverture souple

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 1849836701 ISBN 13 : 9781849836708

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Chapter One:

Elaine Conti awoke in her luxurious bed in her luxurious Beverly Hills
mansion, pressed a button to open the electrically controlled drapes, and was
confronted by the sight of a young man clad in a white T-shirt and dirty jeans
pissing a perfect arc into her mosaic-tiled swimming pool.

She struggled to situp, buzzing for Lina, her Mexican maid, and at the same
time flinging on a marahou-trimmed silk robe and pressing her feet into dusty
pink mules.

The young man completed his task, zipped up his jeans, and strolled casually
out of view.

"Lina!" Elaine screamed. "Where are you?"

The maid appeared, inscrutable, calm, oblivious to her mistress's screams.

"There's an intruder out by the pool," Elaine snapped excitedly. "Get Miguel.
Call the police. And make sure all the doors are locked."

Unperturbed, Lina began to collect the debris of clutter frorn Elaine's bedside
table. Dirty Kleenex, a half-finished glass of wine, a rifled box of
chocolates.

"Lina!" Elaine yelled.

"No get excited, senora," the maid said stoically. "No intruder. Just boy
Miguel sent to do pool. Miguel sick. No come this week."

Elaine flushed angrily. "Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" She flung
herself into her bathroom, slamming the door so hard that a framed print sprang
off the wall and crashed to the floor, the glass shattering. Stupid maid.
Dumb-ass woman. It was impossible to get good help anymore. They came. They
went. They did not give a damn if you were raped and ravaged in your own
home.

And this would have to happen while Ross was away on location. Miguel
would never have dared to pretend to be sick if Ross was in town.

Elaine flung off her robe, slipped out of her nightgown, and stepped under the
invigorating sharpness of an ice-cold shower. She gritted her teeth. Cold water
was best for the skin, tightened everything up. And, God knew, even with the
gym and the yoga and the modern-dance class it still all needed tightening.

Not that she was fat. No way. Not a surplus ounce of flesh on her entire body.
Pretty good for thirty-nine years of age.

When I was thirteen I was the fattest girl in school. Etta the Elephant they
called me. And I deserved the nickname. Only how could a kid of thirteen know
about nutrition and diet and exercise and all that stuff? How could a kid of
thirteen help it when Grandma Steinberg stuffed her with cakes and latkes, lox
and bagels, strudel and chicken dumplings?

Elaine smiled grimly. Etta the Elephant, late of the Bronx, had shown them all.
Etta the Elephant, former secretary in New York City, was now slim and svelte.
She was called Elaine Conti, and lived in a six-bedroomed, seven-bathroomed,
goddam Beverly Hills palace. On the flats, too. Not stuck up in the hills or
all the way over in Brentwood. On the flats. Prime real estate.

Etta the Elephant no longer had a sharp nose, mousy hair, gapped teeth,
wire-rimmed glasses, and flat tits.

Over the years she had changed. The nose was now retrousse, cute. A perfect
Brooke Shields, in fact. The mousy hair was a rich brown, cut short and tipped
with golden streaks. Her skin was alabaster white and smooth, thanks to regular
facials. Her teeth were capped. White and even. A credit to Charlie's
Angels. The unbecoming glasses had long been replaced with soft blue
contact lenses, without them her eyes were slate-gray and she had to squint to
read. Not that she did a lot of reading. Magazines, of course. Vogue,
People, Us.

She skimmed the trades, Variety and The Hollywood Reporter,
concentrating on Army Archerd and Hank Grant. She devoured Women's Wear
Daily and Beverly Hills People, but was not really into what she
termed hard news. The day Ronald Reagan was elected President was the only day
she gave a passing thought to politics. If Ronald Reagan could do it, how about
Ross?

The tits, while nowhere near the Raquel Welch class, were a perfect 36B, thanks
to the ministrations of her first husband, Dr. John Saltwood. They stuck
defiantly forward; no pull of gravity would ever harm them. And if it
did, well, back to good old Johnny. She had found him in New York, wasting
himself doing plastic surgery for a city hospital. They met at a party and she
recognized a plain lonely man not unlike herself. They married a month later,
and she had her nose and tits fixed within the year. Then she talked him into
going to Beverly Hills and setting up in private practice.

Three years later he was the tit man, and she had divorced him and
become Mrs. Ross Conti. Funny how things worked out.

Ross Conti. Husband. Movie star. First-class shit.

And she should know. After all, they had been married ten long years and it
hadn't all been easy and it wasn't getting any easier and she knew things about
Ross Conti that would curl the toes of the little old ladies who still loved
him because after all he was hitting fifty and his fans were not exactly
teenagers and as each year crept by it was getting more and more difficult and,
God knew, financially things were not as good as they had been and each film
could be his last and . . .

"Senora." Lina hammered on the bathroom door. "The boy, he go now. He want
pay."

Elaine stepped out of the shower. She was outraged. He wanted paying -- for what?
Pissing in her pool?

She wrapped herself in a fluffy terry-cloth robe and opened the bathroom door.
"Tell him," she said grandly, "to piss off. "

Lina stared blankly. "Twenny dollar, Meesus Conti. He do it again in three
day."

Ross Conti swore silently to himself. Jesus H. Christ. What was happening to
him? He couldn't remember his frigging lines. Eight takes and still he was
screwing up.

"Just take it easy, Ross," said the director calmly, placing a condescending
hand on his shoulder.

Some frigging director. Twenty-three if he's a day. Hair hanging down
his back like a witch at Halloween. Levi's so tight the outline of his schlong
is like a frigging beacon.

Ross shook the offending hand off. "T'm taking it easy. It's the crowd -- they
keep distracting me.

"Sure," soothed Chip, signaling to the first assistant. "Calm them down for
chrissakes, they're background -- not auditioning for Chorus Line."

The first assistant nodded, then made an announcement through his
loudspeaker.

"Ready to go again?" asked Chip. Ross nodded, The director tunned to a
suntanned blonde. "Again, Sharon. Sorry, babe."

Ross burned. Sorry, babe. What the little prick really means is sorry, babe,
but we gotta humor this old fart because he used to be the biggest thing in
Hollywood.

Sharon smiled. "Right on, Chip."

Sure. Right on Chip. We'll humor the old schmuck. My mother used to love
him. She saw all his movies. Creamed her panties every time.

"Makeup," Ross demanded, then added, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "That's if
nobody minds."

"Of course not. Anything you want."

Yeah. Anything I want. Because this so-called hotshot needs Ross Conti in
his film. Ross Conti means plenty at the box office. Who would line up to see
Sharon Richman? Who has even heard of her except a couple million television
freaks who tune in to see some schlock program about girl water-ski
instructors? Glossy crap. Sharon Richman -- a hank of hair and a mouthful of
teeth. I wouldn't even screw her if she crawled to my trailer on her hands and
knees and begged for it. Well, maybe if she begged.

The makeup girl attended to his needs. Now, she was all right. She
knew who the star was on this picture. Busily she fussed around him,
blotting out the shine of sweat around his nose with an outsize powder puff,
touching up his eyebrows with a small comb.

He gave her a perfunctory pinch on the ass. She smiled appreciatively. Come
to my trailer later, baby, and I'll show you how to give a star head.

"Right," said Chip the creep. "Are we ready, Ross?"

We are ready, asshole. He nodded.

"Okay. Let's go, then."

The scene began all right. It was a simple bit of business which involved Ross
saying three lines to Sharon's six, then strolling nonchalantly out of shot.
The trouble was Sharon. She stared blankly, making him blow his second line
every time. Bitch. She's doing it purposely. Trying to make me look
bad.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Chip finally exploded. "It's not the fucking soliloquy from
Hamlet."

Right. That's it. Talking to me like some nothing bit player. Ross
turned and stalked from the location without a backward glance.

Chip grimaced at Sharon. "That's what happens when you're dealing with no
talent."

"My mommy used to love him," she simpered.

"Then your mommy is an even bigger moron than her daughter."

She giggled. Chip's insults did not bother her. In bed she had him under
control, and that was where it really mattered.

Elaine Conti drove her pale-blue Mercedes slowly down La Cienega Boulevard. She
drove slowly so as not to spoil her nails, which she had just had done at a
sensational new nail clinic called the Nail Kiss of Life. Wonderful place, they
had wrapped her broken thumbnail so well that even she couldn't tell.
Elaine loved discovering new places; it gave her a tiny shot of power. She
pushed in a Streisand tape and wondered, as she bad wondered countless times
before, why dear Barbra had never had her nose fixed. In a town so dedicated to
the perfect face . . . and God knew she had the money. Still, it certainly had
not harmed her career -- nor her love life, for that matter.

Elaine frowned and thought about her own love life. Ross hadn't ventured near
her in months. Bastard. Just because he didn't feel in the mood.

Elaine had indulged in two affairs during the course of her marriage. Both of
them unsatisfactory. She hated affairs, they were so time-consuming . The highs
and the lows . The ups and the downs. Was it all worth it? She had decided no,
but now she was beginning to wonder.

The last one had laken place over two years ago. She blushed when she thought
about it. What absurd risks she had taken. And with a man who could do her
absolutely no good at all except fix her teeth, and they were already perfect.
Milton Langley, her dentist -- and probably everyone else's with money in
Beverly Hills. How indiscreet of her to have picked him. But really he had
picked her. He had sent his nurse scurrying off on an errand one day, climbed
aboard the chair, and made fast and furious love to her. She remembered the day
well, because he had climaxed all over her new Sonia Rykiel skirt.

Elaine giggled aloud at the thought, although she hadn't giggled at the time.
Milton had poured mouthwash over the damaged garment, and, when his nurse
returned, sent her over to Saks to purchase a replacement. After that they had
met twice a week in some dreadful motel on Santa Monica for two hot months. One
day Elaine had just decided not to go. End of that little episode.

The other one wasn't even worth thinking about. An actor on one of Ross's
films. She had slept with him twice and regretted both times.

Whenever she mentioned their lack of a sex life to Ross he flew into a rage.
"What the frig do you think I am? A machine? I'll get it up when I want to-not
just because you've read some crap sex magazine that says you should have ten
orgasms a day."

Ha! She was lucky if she got ten a year. If it hadn't been for her trusty
vibrator she would have been climbing walls.

Maybe his erection would return if the movie he was doing turned out to be a
hit.

Yes. That was what Ross needed -- a massive shot of success would be good for
both of them. There was nothing like success for putting the hard-on back in a
man's life.

Carefully she made a left on Melrose. Lunch at Ma Maison was a must on Fridays.
Anybody who was anybody and in town invariably showed up. Elaine had a
permanent booking.

Patrick Terrail, the owner of Ma Maison, greeted her at the entrance to the
small outdoor restaurant. She accepted a kiss on each cheek and followed a
waiter to her table, keeping an eagle eye out for anyone she should
acknowledge.

Maralee Gray, one of her closest friends, was already waiting. She nursed a
spritzer and a sour expression. At thirty-seven Maralee maintained more than a shadow of her past prettiness. In her time
she had been voted the most popular girl in high school and Miss Hot Rod
1960. That was before she had met, married, and divorced Neil Gray, the film
director. Her father, now retired, owned Sanderson Studios. Money had never
been Maralee's problem. Only men.

"Darling. I'm not late, am I?" Elaine asked anxiously, brushing cheeks with her
friend.

"Not at all. I think I was early." They exchanged you-look-wonderfuls,
admired each other's outfit, and cast their eyes around the restaurant.

"And how's Ross making out on location?" Maralee asked, extracting a long black
cigarillo from a wafer-thin gold case.

"You know Ross-he makes out wherever he is."

They both laughed. Ross's reputation as a cocksman was an old Hollywood
joke.

"Actually he hates everything," she confided. "The script, the director, the
crew, the food, the climate -- the whole bug-ridden setup, as he so charmingly
puts it. But Maralee, believe me" -- she leaned confidentially toward her
friend -- "he's going to be dynamite in this movie. The old Ross
Conti-full-force."

"I can believe it;" Maralee murmured. "I've never counted him out, you know
that."

Elaine nodded. Maralee was a true friend, and there weren't many of them
around. In Hollywood you were only as hot as your last hit -- and it had been a
long time between hits.

"I'm going to have my eyes done," Maralee announced dramatically. "I'm only
telling you, and you mustn't mention it to a soul."

"As if I would!" Elaine replied, quite affronted. "Who's doing it?"

"The Palm Springs connection. I'll spend a couple of weeks there -- after all,
I have the house. Then I'll come back and nobody will know the difference.
They'll just think I was vacationing."

"Wonderful idea," Elaine said. Was Maralee stupid or what? Nobody took a
vacation in Palm Springs, even if they did have a house there. They either
weekended or retired. "When?" she asked, her eyes flicking restlessly round the
restaurant.

"As soon as possible. Next week if he can fit me in."

They both stopped talking to observe the entrance of Sylvester Stallone. Elaine
threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her. "Probably
needs glasses," she sniffed.

"I met him at a party only last week."

Maralee produced a small gold compact and inspected her face. "He won't last,"
ardshe remarked dismissively, removing a smudge of lipstick from her teeth. "Let's
face it, Clark Gable he's not."

"Oh yeah, that's it... don't stop... don't ever stop. Oh yeah, yeah
. . . just keep on going, sweetheart, keep right on going."

Ross Conti listened to the words pouring from his mouth and wondered how many
times he...

Biographie de l'auteur :

There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers -- Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.
Jackie Collins has been called a "raunchy moralist" by the late director Louis Malle and "Hollywood's own Marcel Proust" by Vanity Fair magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, and with some twenty-seven New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world's top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivaled insiders knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! "I write about real people in disguise," she says. "If anything, my characters are toned down -- the truth is much more bizarre."
Jackie Collins started writing as a teenager, making up steamy stories her schoolmates paid to devour. Her first book, The World is Full of Married Men, became a sensational bestseller because of its open sexuality and the way it dealt honestly with the double standard. After that came The Stud, Sinners, The Love Killers, The World is Full of Divorced Women, The Bitch, Lovers And Gamblers, Chances, and then the international sensation, Hollywood Wives -- a #1 New York Times bestseller, which was made into one of ABC's highest-rated miniseries starring Anthony Hopkins and Candice Bergen.
The Stud, The World is Full of Married Men, and The Bitch were also filmed -- this time for the big screen. And Jackie wrote an original movie, Yesterday's Hero, starring Ian McShane and Suzanne Somers.
Readers couldn't wait to race through Lucky, her next book -- a sequel to Chances -- and the story of an incredibly beautiful, strong woman, another New York Times number one.
Then came the bad boys of Hollywood in the steamy Hollywood Husbands -- a novel which kept everyone guessing the identities of the true-to-life Hollywood characters.
Jackie then wrote Rock Star -- the story of three rock superstars and their rise to the top, followed by the long-waited sequel to Chances and Lucky -- Lady Boss -- tracking the further adventures of the wild and powerful Lucky Santangelo as she takes control of a Hollywood studio.
Both Lucky and Chances were written and adapted for NBC television by Jackie, who also executive produced the highly successful six-hour miniseries Lucky/Chances, starring Nicollete Sheridan and Sandra Bullock.
In 1992, she produced and wrote the four hour miniseries, Lady Boss, which became another huge ratings success for NBC. Lady Boss starred Kim Delaney. Next came American Star, a love story, which the Los Angeles Times described as "classic Collins."
And then the dangerously close to the truth Hollywood Kids -- a story of power, sex, danger and ambition among the grown offspring of major celebrities.
In 1996 Vendetta - Lucky's Revenge was published -- and became an immediate New York Times bestseller.
And then in 1998, Jackie hosted her own daily television show, Jackie Collins Hollywood. A combination of fun, style and interviews, Jackie talked to everyone from George Clooney to Jennifer Lopez.
After that she wrote L.A. Connections -- a four-part serial novel published one per month -- Power, Obsession, Murder and Revenge.
In 1999 came Dangerous Kiss -- the return of Lucky Santangelo in a bestselling novel about relationships, addiction, fear and lust.
In the year 2000, Lethal Seduction became the first bestseller for Jackie Collins in the new millennium. This tale of erotic suspense and glamorous intrigue featured Madison Castelli, a character first introduced in the L.A. Connections series.
Hollywood Wives - The New Generation became a blockbuster bestseller in 2001, following in the footsteps of the original Hollywood Wives. Hollywood Wives - The New Generation featured a brand new cast of characters and a totally fresh perspective on how women pursue power, love, sex, and success in Tinsletown today.
In 2003 Jackie produced the TV movie of Hollywood Wives - The New Generation for CBS. Wives starred Farrah Fawcett, Robin Givens, Jack Scalia and Melissa Gilbert.
In June 2002, New York flash, L.A. trash and a Mafia don meet head-on in Deadly Embrace. This sexy tale of dangerous passion and suspense features heroine Madison Castelli and is both a prequel and a sequel to her adventures in the bestselling Lethal Seduction.
In 2003 came the bestselling Hollywood Divorces, the story of three very different women. Followed in 2005 by Lovers and Players -- a story of family conflicts, three brothers and their billionaire father, a beautiful heiress, a hip-hop mogul, Russian call girls, illegitimate children and two murders. This all takes place over seven days in New York, and is another New York Times bestseller.
Drop Dead Beautiful -- The Continuing Adventures of Lucky Santangelo was published in 2007. Lucky came back with a vengeance -- bolder and more beautiful than ever! In Drop Dead Beautiful Lucky meets old friends and enemies, and deals with her wild sixteen-year-old daughter, Max, who is as stubborn and strong as her mom. Lucky plans to return to Las Vegas and build an amazing billion dollar hotel complex. But when she does... the trouble really begins...
Next came Married Lovers, a powerful look at the ins and outs of marriage in L.A. It's also the story of an under-age Russian girl who becomes involved in the sex trade, and eventually arrives in Hollywood and causes major trouble.
Poor Little Bitch Girl is Jackie's latest book to be published February 9, 2010. The story of three very different women who all went to high school together. Denver Jones - a twenty-five year old kick ass associate lawyer in L.A. Carolyn Henderson - assistant to a powerful married Senator in Washington. And Annabelle Maestro - daughter of movie star parents, who has carved out a niche for herself as a much in demand New York madame running call girls.
And then there is Bobby Santangelo - Lucky's hot sexy son, with mucho style, looks and money.
Everyone wants Bobby... Throw into the mix a raunchy agent, a sixteen year old gangbanger's girlfriend, an older superstar on the prowl, and a lethal murder...
Poor Little Bitch Girl. A guilty pleasure.
Ms. Collins lives in Los Angeles, California. Her hobbies are soul music, taking photographs and driving to exotic locations so that she can write about them later.
Jackie Colllins is currently working on a new novel, Goddess of Vengeance, the return of Lucky Santangelo. And she is also writing a play, Jackie Collins Hollywood Lies.

À propos de cette édition

• ISBN 10: 1849836701
• ISBN 13: 9781849836708
• Reliure: Poche