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.
Before taking Lana as his wife, Cole had been married to Kate diLaurentis for seven long years. These days she was barely recognisable as the fresh-faced actress he had once known: pumped to bursting with every filler going and practically comatose on prescription tranquillisers, she had wound up a sad, fading actress watching her career spin rapidly down the shitter. Prone to barking pithy digs after one bottle too many, Cole thanked Christ she had never found out about him, the reason why he couldn’t …
Fiercely he shook his head. No, that was something he had never told anyone. He’d take it to his grave.
Turning off the solid silver faucets, Cole appraised himself in the gilt-framed mirror and liked what he saw. Yes, he’d be set for the week. There was no one in Hollywood who came close to Cole Steel and, smirking knowingly at his reflection, he conceded it was hardly a surprise. Perfection was a difficult thing to achieve, but it was even harder to maintain. Cole had it nailed. Since his boyhood he had imagined being the man he now saw in front of him. Some days he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed himself up.
As the Mercedes slid through the black cast-iron gates and snaked up the winding driveway, Lana was stunned, as she was every time, by the magnitude of Cole’s mansion.
She tapped on the partition glass and the top of the driver’s head came into view. His black hair was plastered to a slightly perspiring forehead and his lips were fleshy and pink.
‘I’ll get out here,’ Lana said, testing him. They were only a hundred yards from the house, but to her it was a matter of principle.
‘Boss says different,’ the driver grunted, his flinty eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘I ain’t pissin’ him off.’ The partition slid back up as her husband’s black-bottomed infinity pool came into view. It winked in the sunlight.
Lana slumped in her seat. She thought briefly of Parker Troy and craved the heat of his body, remembering how good it had felt when he’d touched her; the thrill of it in front of the crew. Rebellion was what kept her going.
They rounded Cole’s stone water feature, a giant, staggered structure modelled on the Trevi Fountain, and pulled up next to his silver Bugatti. The car was the jewel in Cole’s crown. He’d spent a million dollars on it–to Lana, who had grown up in extreme circumstances and was still, even now, acclimatising to the extravagance of her lifestyle, it was a shocking amount of money. She could tell he was torn between housing it in the garage with his assortment of Bentleys and his much-loved tangerine Lotus Elise, or leaving it here for everyone to admire. In the end, as usual, vanity had triumphed.
Two sleek black Dobermans, still and silent as her husband, crouched like sentries on either side of the mansion door. The dogs panted when they saw her, recognising her scent, their tongues pale pink in the heat. One of them came too close and emitted a low growl, perhaps smelling another man on her skin. She hurried inside.
Silence. Lana dropped her bag and walked across the empty hall, her footsteps echoing round the vaulted ceiling. Paintings of Cole adorned the walls–his most cherished, an abstract piece entitled The Moment I Met Myself, was suspended above the main stairs.
‘Hello?’ she called out. Her own voice winged back at her.
It was the quiet she couldn’t stand–it made the loneliness that much more acute. She craved a visit to the staff quarters, where she could have a proper conversation with somebody, and it galled her to think that they must consider her a grade-A bitch. And why wouldn’t they? She was married to the most powerful man in Hollywood. She’d fallen for the fame and she’d chased the money, just like they all did.
Or at least that was how it looked.
Lana fixed herself a drink at the bar. She listened to the ice tinkle against the glass.
‘You’re home.’
Cole was at the foot of the stairs, watching her carefully. How did he approach her so quietly? It gave her the creeps.
‘Drinking in the afternoon?’ he demanded, unable to help himself. Cole didn’t like his wife enjoying alcohol, even in such small quantities.
Lana took a breath. Just because he drove his ex-wife to drink doesn’t mean he’ll do the same to you.
‘I’ll do what I like, when I like, Cole,’ she told him evenly.
Abruptly his handsome face broke into a winning smile. He
