Sinners, Page 2

  He spent an hour taking photographs. She fell into poses naturally. He couldn’t wait to get her out of that shirt. Apart from fancying her, she was going to make this assignment really good.

  Arrangements were made, and they went to Morocco.

  Raf, who used women purely as a convenience, found himself completely fascinated by Sunday.

  Because of the situation with her aunt, Sunday found herself spending more and more time with him. On her seventeenth birthday he made love to her, and shortly afterwards she moved into his studio.

  Aunt Jasmin accepted the move as she accepted everything else in life, tight-lipped and silent.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Sunday promised.

  Aunt Jasmin just shrugged her disapproval.

  Raf was the first person Sunday had been really close to since her parents died. They lived together for several months, Sunday finishing her last term at the academy, and Raf getting on with his work. Then the pictures of Sunday in Morocco appeared, and the magazine was inundated with calls wanting to know who she was. There were offers for her to do a hair commercial, a toothpaste commercial, and a film company wanted to test her.

  Raf withdrew into a black mood. Sunday was thrilled.

  The magazine wanted Raf to arrange another session with her immediately. He talked her out of doing the commercials, although the money was excellent. But she insisted that she wanted to do the film test.

  Raf took her to Rome, and while they were taking the photographs she fell in love with the city. It reminded her of Rio.

  When they got back she did the part in the film she had tested for.

  Raf brooded, extremely jealous about having to share her. For the first time since she came to live with him he had other women, got drunk before she came home, and took to insulting and ridiculing her in front of their friends.

  She couldn’t understand why Raf had become so bitter towards her. What had she done?

  But he couldn’t explain how he felt about her success, that he was terrified of losing her.

  She did a couple of other small parts, and then the first movie appeared and she received an offer to do a film in Rome.

  ‘Take it,’ Raf said bitterly, ‘we’re about through anyway.’ And to settle the matter he told her he had found someone else.

  Sunday was quite successful in Rome, appearing in a string of movies that usually showed off her more physical charms.

  All thoughts of becoming a ‘serious actress’ were pushed to the back of her mind. She enjoyed the excitement and attention she seemed to create wherever she went.

  The Italian men chased after her in full force, but her thoughts remained with Raf. He had been her first man and she had loved him. She had thought he loved her.

  Then Paulo appeared on the scene. Count Paulo Gennerra Rizzo. He was to bring nothing but trouble.

  * * *

  ‘Miss Simmons.’ There was a knock on her dressing-room door. ‘Miss Simmons, you’re wanted on the set please.’

  Automatically she checked herself in the mirror and vaguely realized she hadn’t had any lunch. Oh well, back to the charming Abe Stein and delightful Jack Milan, who hadn’t addressed one word to her. What a way to start one’s first day’s work in Hollywood.

  On the set there was much activity. Word had spread about the nude scene, and little groups of men whom she hadn’t noticed before were dotted around the sidelines. She also noticed several men with cameras who hadn’t been there before. Neither Jack Milan nor Abe Stein was present.

  A makeup man with whom she had argued that morning approached her. It had been a silly argument as far as Sunday was concerned. She had asked to do her own eye make-up, as she always did, and the man had refused. That annoyed her, as she knew her face a lot better than someone who had merely glanced at her for five minutes. She insisted, and the man stamped out of the room in a fury, muttering about ‘Dirty foreign starlets.’

  Now he approached her with a cake of make-up and a sponge. He said, ‘Take your robe off. I’ve got to check your body make-up.’

  She glared at the man who had gathered a bunch of mates to watch the fun. ‘Where is the woman who did it this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘On another set. Don’t be bashful, everybody’s seen your big tits already!’

  She felt her face blaze, and turned to leave the set, bumping into Jack Milan and Abe.

  ‘Where are you rushing off to, honey?’ Abe asked, gripping her arm with his fleshy hand. ‘Let’s get this scene in the can, come on.’ He pulled her back to the set.

  She had a sudden feeling that she wasn’t going to be able to take her robe off in front of this whole group. She said to Abe: ‘In Italy when we shoot such a scene, the set is cleared until only the essential technicians remain. I would like that done here, please.’

  ‘Oh, would you?’ Abe coughed and spat. ‘This isn’t Italy, honey, and all these guys are needed around here.’

  Sunday, who rarely lost her temper, was burning now. ‘In that case you can shoot the scene without me. I am not an animal to be stared at. I am an actress.’

  ‘Ha!’ Abe snorted. ‘An actress, huh? One that can’t even keep her tits out of the camera. Don’t get high-hat with me, baby, you’ve got a contract, remember?’

  ‘Yes, I am well aware of that. However, I cannot work under these condition. I’m so sorry.’

  And with that, she walked off the set.

  It was the first time anyone had walked off a Jack Milan movie.

  Chapter Three

  Charlie Brick and the girl sat side by side in the dimly lit restaurant overlooking Park Lane. Several waiters hovered nearby, ready to spring forward at the slightest sign from the man.

  They sipped coffee, the girl eagerly, bright eyes darting all over the place. She was pretty and young. Charlie was much older, nearing forty. He had a long sad face, and wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I wish my mum could see me now!’ the girl said suddenly.

  ‘What, my darling?’ Charlie leaned closer towards her, groping for her hand under the tablecloth.

  ‘My mum,’ the girl continued brightly. ‘She just wouldn’t believe it, me sitting here in a place like this with you.’

  ‘Why not?’ He gave her hand a tight squeeze.

  ‘Well, y’know.’ She giggled. ‘They could hardly believe it when I won that beauty competition and came to London; they’re a bit square where I come from. So you can imagine what they would think if they knew I was sitting in some posh old restaurant with a real live film star!’

  ‘You’re such a pretty little thing.’

  She looked pleased. ‘Do you think so?’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘My mum always said I should be in the movies.’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘What do you think?’

  He let go of her hand and summoned one of the nearby waiters. ‘I think it’s time we were going. I have a very early call in the morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked disappointed. ‘I thought you were going to show me your new stills back at the hotel.’

  ‘Some other time.’ His attitude had changed; it was distant, hurried.

  The head waiter came rushing over. ‘Everything all right, Mr Brick?’

  Charlie stood up. ‘Thank you, Luigi, it was fine.’

  ‘I saw your latest film last week, Mr Brick, sir. It was funny, very funny indeed. It’s a pleasure to have you here tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Luigi.’

  They moved out into the cold London night; it was spitting with rain. The doorman sprang to attention. ‘Evening, Mr Brick, sir, your car’s just coming.’

  A long black Bentley rolled into sight. They climbed in.

  ‘Thank you, sir, thank you very much,’ the doorman said as he was handed a large tip.

  The car slid silently off.

  ‘Where to?’ the chauffeur asked,’

  ‘Drop me back at the hotel, George, and then take Miss Marymont home.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ George allowed him
self a fleeting smile. Another choked bird to deliver home!

  They drove to the hotel in silence. The girl too nonplussed by his sudden change of mood to know what to say.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come up?’ she asked upon arrival.

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, love, but you know, it’s the old five a.m. up bit. I’ll call you some time next week.’ He got quickly out of the car. ‘Bye.’

  He stood and watched the car thread its way slowly back among the traffic. Foolish little girl, he thought. Was that really the only reason they went out with him? Did they honestly believe that he could be used to get them into the movies?

  How many times had he heard it now? How many different ways? The direct approach: ‘Do you think you could get me a screen test? The oblique hint: ‘I’ve always wanted to act.’ The actress’s approach: ‘My agent says I’m perfect for the girl’s part in your next film.’

  Lorna had warned him, laughed at him. ‘Oh yes, sure,’ she had said, ‘you’ll have tons of little girls just lining up to jump into bed with you. But ask yourself, my darling, is it you they want? Or is it Charlie Brick?’

  The divorce had been final just one month now. Twelve years of marriage shattered. Lorna with another man. The children shuttled back and forth between them. And a terrible loneliness that couldn’t be filled, however many people he was with.

  He walked into the hotel. The desk clerk immediately sent a bellboy rushing over to him. ‘There is a call coming through from Hollywood for you, Mr Brick, sir.’

  ‘I’ll take it in my suite,’ he said.

  The liftman was pleased to see him. ‘My little girl was thrilled to bits with the photo, Mr Brick. She’s seen your last film four times now.’

  Charlie smiled, always pleased to hear praise.

  The phone was ringing as he entered his suite. It was his agent, Marshall K. Marshall, calling from Hollywood to check certain details about his arrival the following week. He was due to start work on his next film.

  They had a short chat about things, and Marshall concluded by saying, ‘Charlie, we’ll be looking forward to seeing you on the twenty-eighth. Everyone will be at the reception.’ There was a slight pause, then: ‘Do you want me to line up any broads for you?’ He named a couple of well-known bit players. ‘No? All right then, I’m sure you can manage on your own.’

  They said their goodbyes and Charlie hung up.

  He paced around the room restlessly. There seemed to be a conspiracy on everyone’s part to annoy him with sly little digs. He could hardly imagine Robert Redford or Michael Caine being asked if they needed to be fixed up with a date. Why him? Oh yes, he knew he wasn’t exactly a matinee idol, but he had his own teeth and hair, and a pleasant enough face, rather distinguished-looking really. And since he had lost all that weight for his last picture he was in rather good shape. After all, he was still quite young, and he never had any trouble getting girls to go to bed with him. As a matter of fact it was a job to get rid of them later. A quick look at the watch. ‘My God! Is that really the time? I had no idea!’ – and eventually they would take the hint and go.

  The penthouse suite was cold and impersonal in spite of the wealth of possessions strewn around. Cameras, books, scripts, an elaborate stereo set and stacks of records.

  He wouldn’t be sorry to leave it: a hotel room never gave one any feeling of permanence.

  The phone rang again. He picked it up.

  ‘I dropped the lady home,’ said his chauffeur. ‘She didn’t seem too pleased. Do you need anything else tonight?’

  ‘No.’ He yawned. ‘Think I’ll get into bed. Make it about eight in the morning. Night, George.’ He hung up. Almost immediately the phone rang again.

  The voice on the other end was female and heavily accented. It said reproachfully, ‘Darling, you didn’t call, what happened?’

  Kristen Sweetzer, a large-bosomed would-be actress he had met at a party the night before and had a scene with. He had been quite smashed, and only vaguely remembered her.

  ‘Oh, hello, love,’ he said. ‘Sorry, did I say I’d call today?’

  ‘Yes, darling, but I’ll forgive you just this once.’ There was a short pause, and then, ‘Well, darling, when am I going to see you again?’

  He suddenly remembered that he couldn’t stand her. She reminded him of a bossy gym mistress, always talking in her unattractive guttural accent. ‘We’ll go back to my place,’ she had stated the night before. Not would you like to? Or shall we? And he had gone.

  ‘Listen, love,’ he said, ‘let’s go out to dinner later in the week. I’m a bit tied up these next few days, but I’ll call you soon, all right?’

  She sighed. ‘I was looking forward to seeing you more quickly.’

  He stood his ground. ‘Thursday or Friday; I’ll speak to you then.’

  ‘Very well, but I think you’re a naughty man!’

  He shuddered at her choice of adjective. ‘Yes, love, you’re probably right.’ He put the receiver down quickly, before she could continue the conversation.

  Women never failed to disappoint him. For as long as he could remember they had always managed to let him down. Even his ex-wife Lorna, after all the years they had been together, had finally proved herself to be like all the rest.

  The bitter memories of the last few months came rushing back. The accusations on both sides, the days of long silences followed by interminable rows. And worst of all, the utter hate and lack of interest Lorna seemed to project towards him.

  He bought her presents, jewellery, furs, a new car. She accepted them all in a cold unthrilled way, the way she accepted him in bed. She had never been of a very passionate nature, but in the last months, before the end, forget it. His very touch seemed to make her shrivel away from him. One memorable night he had been lying on top of her, trying to do what he had to as quickly as possible, when she had started to cry, long stifled sobs. He had withdrawn quickly, and felt there could be no greater distance between them than this.

  When he thought of Lorna he imagined that perhaps she was all the things a woman should be. But had he really behaved so badly that she couldn’t find it in herself to forgive him?

  In the end it had been she who had ended it, not he.

  He stopped thinking about the past, and put his mind to the future.

  Charlie Brick, a name well-known to millions. He had made a lot of films. A lot of money. Not bad after starting his career touring the variety halls as a comedian for fifteen pounds a week. If he didn’t want to, he need not work for the rest of his life. It was a comforting thought.

  His mother lived in a handsome house in Richmond with two servants, a car and chauffeur. His two children had money in trust for them. He had insisted. Lorna had not wanted a penny from him, but he had seen that the children were well looked after. On the material side, things couldn’t be better.

  The new picture should be interesting. The director was an old friend of his. His co-star, Michelle Lomas, was also an old friend, although in a different way. Michelle was a big star, a big voluptuous woman. Discovered in the south of France wearing a bikini at the age of nineteen, now, ten years later, she had an international reputation, both as an actress and a woman. Charlie had first met her five years previously, when his career as a film actor was jogging along nicely and hers beginning to smoulder.

  For the first time in a film, instead of being just a comedy actor, he had been given the romantic interest as well. Women everywhere took to him immediately in his new role as lover. If he was good enough to make love to Michelle Lomas, then he was good enough for them.

  The letters started to pour in, and his career started to zoom.

  It was the beginning of the end as far as Lorna and he were concerned.

  The start of his affair with Michelle had changed his life a great deal. In the beginning he just couldn’t believe that a famous sex symbol, probably the most famous European sex symbol of that time, could possibly fancy him. But fancy him she
had. Most of the arrangements had been manoeuvred by her. She had a husband who conveniently stayed in Paris and appeared only occasionally.

  ‘You are a wonderful man,’ she used to purr at him. ‘A wonderful lover, the best.’

  No one had ever said anything like that to him before. He had always felt inadequate, or, at the very most, average in bed. But Michelle had changed all that: she made him feel like a king.

  Of course his marriage suffered. He would return home from the studio later and later. At weekends, he would always say he had to work. In the end he hardly ever saw Lorna; they just happened to live in the same house.

  Occasionally they saw each other long enough for a brief exchange of insults.

  Lorna: ‘I know you’re screwing that big French cow.’

  Charlie: I don’t understand you, how can you say that?’

  Lorna: ‘You’re like a dog after a bitch in heat. What a fool you’re making of yourself.’

  And so it went on, fight after fight, insult after insult, until one day things really came to a head. Charlie was planning to follow Michelle back to France. She had been gone two weeks following the completion of their film, and they spoke on the phone every day.

  ‘My husband will be away in the south for ten days,’ she told him at last. ‘He will be leaving tomorrow, you can come then.’

  It was unfortunate that this should have coincided with his daughter’s birthday, and Lorna had arranged a party. He told her he had to leave immediately for discussions about a film.

  She stared at him very long and very hard. ‘If you go to her,’ she said very slowly, ‘then hold yourself responsible for the consequences.’

  When he returned things were different. There were no more fights, because Lorna was very rarely there to argue with. She seemed to manage to be just going out whenever he came in. She stayed away from home at night, not even bothering to say where she was.

  He didn’t question her. He was too involved with planning to see Michelle an often as possible.