Jackie Collins, page 29
to him. "Hey," he said, trying to comfort her. "I'm only going for a
month or two."
"You're lying," she cried, leaning all over him, getting mascara on his
one and only jacket.
"Maybe I send for you."
"Now you're really lying," she sobbed.
DeVille was no fool, she knew it was over.
As soon as they reached his apartment she began to pack, hurling her
things into a suitcase, well recovered from her crying jag. "I thought
you were different," she yelled. "But no way. You're just like every
other guy-selfish, self-centered, all you care about is your precious
dick."
She looked good when she was angry and somehow or other they ended up
in bed. DeVille thought if she was the best she'd ever been he might
take her with him. It was quite an experience. At four o'clock in the
morning their neighbors couldn't take the moaning and groaning any
longer and called the police. They ended up hysterical with
laughter.
In the morning they parted company. DeVille was sober and tense and in
a funny sort of way dignified.
When she left he almost missed her-only almost.
"You're a scumbag, you know that? No loyalty." Q.J. was on a kick and
he didn't intend to stop.
"Leave the kid alone," Erna said, coming to Nick's defense.
Q.J. glared angrily at his sister. "Did I ask for your input?"
"No, but-" "I treat him like a son," Q.J. interrupted. "Groomin' him,
y'know what I mean?"
"Grooming him for what?" Erna asked sharply. "To be in the bar
business all his life like us? Who wants that?"
They were at it again, talking about him as if he wasn't there.
Len entered into the conversation. "He'll be back," he said, nodding
wisely. "It's too hot in California."
Q.J. didn't seem so sure. "Ya think?" he said.
"No," said Erna spitefully. "He won't be back. Why would he?"
On his last night Q.J. relented and threw him a big farewell party
after the bar closed. For the first time he wondered if he was making
the right move. Everybody was so warm and friendly. The waitresses,
strippers, Erna, Len-even Q.J. In a way this was his family nowthe
family he'd never had.
DeVille put on a show-and what a show it was! Enough bumping and
grinding to turn on a priest! Maybe she wanted him to know exactly
what he was leaving behind. He knew all right, but he still couldn't
help himself.
Q.J. clapped him around the shoulders. "Ya know something', Nick, if
y'ever wanna come back, y'got your job waitin'. I ain't never said
that to nobody who worked for me before. Consider yourself honored."
"I consider myself honored," he said, grinning.
"In the meantime," Q.J. continued, "when ya get to L.A. I want ya took
up my ex-partner.
"Who's your ex-partner?"
"Some guy used to be known as Manny the Menace, now he's strictly
legit. Call him Mr. Manfred and don't go mentioning his nickname-it
drives him beserko."
"What does he do?"
"Runs a car service. Respectable. Just like me."
Nick burst out laughing. "Whoever said you were respectable?"
"Very funny." Q.J. smoothed an imaginary crease in his pinstripe pants
which did not go with his bright red jacket and green polka-dot tie.
"You're sure this guy is straight?" Nick asked, thinking that tonight
Q.J. looked like a waiter in a whorehouse.
"Would I lie to you?"
"Yes."
"Go see him, Nick. He'll give you a job. All ya gotta say is I'm
callin' in the favor he owes me. Q.J."s collectin'-that's what ya tell
him.
He'll know what you mean.
"Shouldn't you contact him first?"
"We don't speak."
"So why would he want to-" "Trust me." Q.J. scribbled on a piece of
paper and handed it over.
"Here's his number. Do like I say and phone him soon as y'get
there."
"Thanks," he said, shoving the paper in his pocket. It was certainly
better than arriving in L.A. cold.
Erna hugged him, covering him in her cloying scent. "Don't forget
about us now, you hear me?"
"How," he said, grinning, "could I ever forget you?"
She giggled coyly. "Not much chance of that."
Len was his usual stoic self. They shook hands. "You'll be back," Len
said knowingly.
"Maybe-one of these days."
Now he was really beginning to regret his decision to leave. He had no
idea what Los Angeles was like. He had no friends there, no job, just
Cyndra, and he hadn't even warned her he was coming, figuring a
surprise would be good.
In the morning Q.J. was on the missing list. "He don't like goodbyes,"
Erna explained, as she and Len drove him to the airport.
"Gotta see you off in style," she added with a saucy wink.
They couldn't park, so they dropped him off curbside. He grabbed his
carry-on bag from the trunk and stood on the sidewalk waving to them as
they drove away in Len's two-toned gold Chevrolet with the dented front
fender.
As soon as they were gone he felt alone, but only for a moment.
Then he picked up his bag, turned and strode purposefully toward the
airline desk.
The Greyhound bus delivered Lauren into New York at noon. She waved
goodbye to the driver, collected her suitcase and stood alone in the
middle of the busy bus station.
Before she could take two steps a scruffy-looking man stinking of cheap
aftershave approached her. His long greasy hair hung in strands around
his face, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his chapped
lips.
"Hiya, lovely. Looking' for a place t'stay?"
She was no naive little country bumpkin getting off the bus in New York
ready to be picked off by some lurking pimp.
"I have somewhere, thank you," she said, giving him a withering look.
"Just asking'. Can't do more than that, pretty chick like you."
She hurried away, only to be accosted a few yards later by a
darkskinned man in a filthy white suit who sidled up behind her.
"Wanna be a model?" he said, speaking out of the corner of his
mouth.
She kept walking.
"Wanna be a model an' make a lotta bucks?" he said, keeping pace with
her.
She ignored him.
"Wanna fuck me?"
She stopped, turned to look at him and said in a very loud voice,
"Leave me alone or 111 call a cop. Got it, pervert?"
He slunk off.
Outside the bus station she found a cab and gave the driver the address
of the Barbizon Hotel for Women.
"How many times you get hit on in there?" the driver asked, shoving
his foot on the gas and zooming away from the curb, missing another cab
by mere inches.
"Enough," she replied, gazing out the window at the dirty sidewalks,
scurrying crowds and snarled traffic.
It was like a dream. Here she was, finally in New York, and she was
free, she had nobody to answer to except herselœ She'd booked a room at
the Barbizon before leaving Philadelphia.
She'd also been buying the New York papers and circling job
opportunities, setting up several appointments by phone.
After she'd unpacked and settled in, she took a walk over to Fifth
Avenue. Oh, yes, it was just like Breakfast at Tiffany's. The same
wide street, the same expensive stores. She found herself outside
Tiffany's staring into the windows like a tourist. She stifled a
giggle-all she needed now was a cat and she was all set!
The next day she awoke early. It was autumn and the weather was
brisk.
She dressed carefully in a simple dark blue dress, low-heeled shoes and
her mother's pearls. On top she belted a navy trench coat.
She'd pulled her thick chestnut hair back, securing it with a barrette,
and wore very little makeup. The plainer the better, she thought. But
there was no disguising the fact that at twenty-one Lauren was a
natural beauty with her perfect oval face, unusual tortoiseshell-color
eyes and dazzling smile.
Before doing anything else she opened a bank account and deposited her
four-thousand-dollar savings. Then she set off on the first of three
interviews.
The first one was with a law firm housed in a tall chrome and glass
building on Park Avenue. There she was interrogated by an attractive
black woman, who asked her a series of probing questions and made her
fill out a personality analysis form. After that she had to sit in a
room and produce a sample of her typing.
"Excellent!" she exclaimed. "Where can we The woman timed her.
reach you?"
Her next interview was with a firm of accountants on Lexington
Avenue.
The building was not so nice, although it was near Bloomingdale's and
she'd certainly heard plenty about Bloomingdale's. The man who
interviewed her was a junior partner. He was friendly and didn't seem
on the make. He read through her references twice and asked if she
could start the following week. She told him she'd have to let him
know.
Her third interview was with a modeling agency on Madison Avenue called
Samm's. They'd advertised for a booker. Lauren had no idea what a
booker did-but working at a modeling agency might be fun, and she could
certainly do with a little fun in her life.
A harassed girl in a purple jumpsuit told her that she'd made a mistake
and better come back the next day because there was nobody to see
her.
"I can't come back tomorrow," she said. "My appointment was for
oday.
I have two other jobs under consideration and I have to make a
decision."
The girl looked at her like she was nuts. "So don't come back," she
said. "Take one of the other jobs."
"I'd like to make a choice," Lauren said. "Why can't somebody see me
today?"
"They're all over at the big photo shoot for Flash Cosmetics. Is that
a good enough reason for you?"
She went downstairs, found a phone booth and looked up Flash
Cosmetics.
Then she called their office. "Can you tell me where the ad photo
session is taking place?" she asked. "This is Lauren from Samm's."
"Sure, just a moment," said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Two minutes later she had the information-a photographer's studio on
East 64th Street.
She walked to the studio. It only took her fifteen minutes and when
she arrived she informed the receptionist that she had something to
deliver from Samm's. The girl told her to go to the studio in back.
She made her way down a narrow corridor which led into a large,
brightly lit studio jammed with people.
The first person she noticed was a short, flamboyant man hovering
behind a camera, while several other people stood around watching.
In front of the camera languished the most startling-looking girl
Lauren had ever seen. She was an exceptionally tall blonde with masses
of curly hair, huge blue eyes and pouty lips, encased in a low-cut,
slinky, silver sequined gown. Lauren recognized her as Nature, the
current darling of the fashion magazines.
"Get yer finger out, Antonio," Nature screamed. She had a voice like a
fishwife and a cockney accent that could sharpen knives. "I'm freezing
me balls off."
"Close your legs, darling, maybe that will help," murmured a thin
fortyish redhead standing to one side.
Lauren hovered on the periphery.
Nature struck a pose.
Antonio started shooting. "Bellisima, darling, bellisima! You are the
most fantastic woman in the world!"
The more he flattered her the more Nature loved it. She postured and
preened, making intimate contact with the camera, her glossy lips
quivering with emotion, her big blue eyes mesmerizing.
Antonio shot several rolls of film before calling for a break.
Everybody clapped. Nature threw her head back and laughed, sounding
like a demented parrot. "Me bleedin' feet are killin' me," she roared,
collapsing into a chair while a makeup artist and hairdresser rushed
forward to attend to her every need.
"Excuse me." Lauren tapped one of the camera assistants on the arm.
"Can you tell me who the executives from Samm's are?"
"Over there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the redheaded
woman.
Tentatively Lauren approached her. The woman was in the process of
lighting up a long thin cigarillo.
"Uh . . . excuse me," she said. "My name's Lauren Roberts. I had an
apointment today with someone at Samm's, but the girl told me everyone
was here."
The woman dragged on her cigarette and stared at her. "Too short, too
heavy, too eager.
Lauren frowned. At five feet seven she'd never been called shortand as
for heavy . . . no way. This woman was definitely peculiar. "I beg
your pardon?" she said hotly.
"You'll never make it. daflin. You don't have the attitiic1e" never
make what?"
"A model. Isn't that what you want to be? Isn't that what they all
want to be? Although, I must say, it's tres original, following me to
the studio."
She stood her ground. "I didn't follow you anywhere. And nobody's
ever called me heavy before."
"For a real person you're not the least bit heavy. For a would-be
model you're grossly overweight."
"We had an appointment," Lauren said. "Someone was supposed to
interview me about the booker's job. I went to your office and the
girl said there was nobody to see me.
"So you decided to come here?"
She couldn't stop herself from staring at the woman's blood-red
inch-long nails-talons, her mother would've called them. "Yes."
"In that case you get high marks for using your head. Can you type?"
"I sent in my" "Can you type?" the woman repeated impatiently.
Don't get aggravated, Roberts. Stay cool. "Yes, I can type."
"Can you answer phones?"
She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "It sounds like a
really challenging job."
The woman was unfazed. "Oh, don't worry, dear, it's challenging all
right. I'll try you out. Be at the office at nine o'clock
tomorrow."
"If I decide to take the job, I can start Monday."
The woman looked at her like she wasn't quite sure she'd heard
correctly. "If you decide to take the job? My God, little Miss
Independent, aren't we?"
"I have two other job offers I'm looking into."
"And what would you do if I said this offer was only open now, this
very moment, and if you turn it down don't bother coming back?"
There was a brief silence, broken by Nature screaming, "Get yer
bleedin' arses in gear-I'm ready ter shoot."
Lauren took a moment to consider the possibilities. She could accept
the job with the law firm, but she already knew what that would be
