Hollywood Sinners

43

Los Angeles



Harriet Foley’s mansion sat in the heart of Beverly Hills, a magnificent white building set in a cluster of palms and furnished with a staggeringly expensive collection of contemporary art. Guests milled poolside under a violet sky pierced with stars. The evening smelled sweet, like money and sex and the December sun bleeding out of the day.

Chloe hadn’t felt like coming. Since her afternoon with Nate a few days ago, she’d felt dreadful–she hadn’t seen him since. All her instincts told her to run back to London, back to the house in Hampstead and curl up in bed, shutting the curtains and forgetting the world. But she couldn’t. And anyway, the UK was the worst place she could be right now.

She couldn’t find the courage to break up with him. She didn’t know if she could do it by herself. And what if she’d misunderstood? What if she’d misread the situation? But, despite these brief intervals of hope, she always reached the same conclusion: whichever way she looked at it, Nate was guilty as sin. It killed her.

‘Hey,’ said Brock, taking her arm as they were ushered inside to take their seats, ‘everything all right?’

She nodded. She had to pull herself together–this was an important evening.

Harriet’s dining room was more like a greenhouse, with lush jade foliage hanging down each side. An absurdly long table, as it would need to be to cater for this number of diners, was decorated with lavish flower arrangements and spotted with baskets of multi-seeded bread. A small, tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, as if to show willing.

‘You know,’ Brock nudged her, ‘Harriet’s been looking at you all night. She likes what she sees.’

Chloe had dressed carefully in an all-black trouser suit, Louboutin heels and bold silver jewellery. With her glossy black hair and cat-like grey eyes, the effect was simple but striking. She knew she ought to feel more excited, but couldn’t get rid of this lead weight in her stomach. The thought of Nate with all those other women or, arguably worse, with just one …

‘I’m glad.’ She forced herself to smile.

‘Good.’ Brock reached into an ornate Japanese bowl for an edamame bean pod. ‘Stop looking so glum.’

A starter of tempura prawns arrived–only two, resting self-consciously on a tiny nest of watercress. While Brock turned to an agent friend of his, Chloe searched for someone with whom to start a conversation. She found the women difficult to approach, had been especially sensitive to it since the reception she’d had from Kate diLaurentis. Apart from a kid actor opposite who she vaguely recognised, she was probably the youngest person here–and guessed that didn’t do her any favours. She wondered where Lana Falcon was tonight. Probably with Cole, enjoying a dreamy romantic evening.

Chloe clenched her fists in her lap. She couldn’t bring herself to think where Nate was tonight. Or with whom.

‘Excellent,’ said Brock, dragging her back to the moment. ‘Here’s Jimmy.’

She heard the accent first, a little bit Americanised but still very much there, then looked up as a lofty, shambolic-looking man swept in, apologising profusely in the British tradition, greeting his host then falling into the seat next to Chloe, where he promptly did justice to the plate in front of him.

‘What a f*cking day,’ he said, chewing loudly. His wine glass was filled and he slugged half of it back in one.

It was past nine o’clock and Chloe suspected his late arrival wasn’t the best etiquette, but seeing Jimmy now she understood how he could get away with things like this–in that bumbling, awkward way people like Hugh Grant might.

Chloe felt Brock tense. ‘Jimmy,’ he said in an undertone, ‘what’s going on?’

Jimmy glanced up, ready to placate his agent, when he clapped eyes on Chloe and his face froze. It was a classic double-take.

‘Good, you’re not drunk,’ Brock said out the side of his mouth, topping up Jimmy’s water glass all the same. ‘Jimmy, meet Chloe French. Lana Falcon’s new protégée.’

He stared at her, a prawn suspended between his finger and thumb.

‘I’m Jimmy,’ he said finally, holding out his other hand. He had a nice face, with scratchy lines round the eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. His top teeth came out a fraction over his lower, which gave him an unpretentious, quite geeky look, and his hairline was receding in a sexy Jack Nicholson-type way. Yes, Chloe thought, he was definitely attractive. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. He had a good, firm shake. She thanked the waitress as her glass was refilled.

‘Which part of London are you from?’ he asked, not taking his eyes from her.

‘North,’ she answered, glad to have someone to talk to, ‘Hampstead. And you?’

‘Even further north. Manchester, originally.’ He looked down at the prawn, appeared surprised, as though someone had put it there without him noticing, and popped it in his mouth. ‘Don’t go back to the UK so much any more–except for work, which isn’t the same.’

‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.

He made a face. ‘Yeah. Not so much it as, well, me.’ A pause. ‘That sounds weird.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He grinned. ‘You’re sweet.’ His gaze was so intense that Chloe felt the rest of the room retreating, as if she and Jimmy were the only people there. He was not what she had expected: she’d seen him in a few things, including that awful film where they put him in a fat suit, and had always thought him borderline cringy. In the flesh he was surprisingly charismatic and charming.

When the main arrived Chloe found she had lost her appetite. But this time it wasn’t because she was sad, it was something different. She’d never been able to eat in front of someone she fancied.

A pang of guilt shot through her, before she remembered what Nate had done. A little flirtation was nothing compared with his betrayal.

‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’ asked Jimmy.

Chloe was embarrassed–she didn’t want him to think she had a problem. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.

He seemed unfazed. ‘Mind if I …?’

‘Go for it!’ She laughed, nudging across her plate.

‘Thanks,’ he said, forking a chunk of meat into his mouth. ‘There’s barely food at home, have to grab it when I can.’ He winked and she wasn’t sure if he was joking.

‘Really?’

It was his turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’m exaggerating,’ he said, a little uncomfortably. ‘My wife’s on a permanent diet, that’s all.’

Chloe all but slapped a palm to her forehead. Of course, he was married to Kate diLaurentis. For a moment she’d totally forgotten.

‘How is Kate?’ she asked politely, not really caring how Kate was. She couldn’t believe such a nice man was married to that bitch.

‘She’s fine,’ he said abruptly, stabbing at the food. He was clearly ill at ease talking about his wife.

Chloe sipped her drink. A snippet of information was swimming to the light, something she remembered Lana telling her. Wasn’t Jimmy a serial cheat, forever doing the dirty?

They all are, she thought bitterly. Everybody cheats.

‘Kate’s in Italy. She’s working on some fashion range, meeting designers and stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know too much about it, actually …’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Chloe, wondering how many girls he was bedding in his wife’s absence. Much as she disliked the woman, she now knew how it felt.

And how her father must have felt.

Chloe gritted her teeth. Trust. There was a joke of a word.

Fortunately Brock cut in and the men struck up a conversation about some casting Jimmy had been to. Chloe was relieved and decided not to talk to him again this evening–it was a shame, she’d liked him, but now she was learning that the only person she could really rely on was herself. This town would make her tough. Maybe it was what she needed.

Dessert arrived, a chocolate concoction with a blood-red jus, and Chloe, regaining her appetite, shovelled it in.

‘You like sweet things,’ observed Jimmy. ‘You know, I could tell you a terrible chat-up line.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Chloe, finishing.

Jimmy grinned, happy with her feisty response. ‘Sweet, but with a twist.’

With a screech she pushed back her chair and stood, excusing herself.

In the bathroom she sat on the loo with her head in her hands, trying not to think about Nate. The number of times he must have chatted up other women, taken them home, done things to them that she’d thought were only theirs. How many? How long had it been going on? Her mind flipped back sickeningly through the times they’d shared in London, that crazy night in Kentish Town that she’d thought had been a one-off but maybe hadn’t, looking for the signs. She’d been blind, thinking he loved her. What was love anyway? Growing up, it had been what her parents had; then it had been what she shared with Nate. Now she didn’t have a single f*cking clue.

When she came back to the table, people were up and mingling. She caught Jimmy Hart watching her and pulled her shoulders back, for a moment enjoying his attention. If she’d wanted Jimmy, not that she did, she knew she had him hook, line and sinker.

She and Brock mingled for a while before he suggested they make an early exit.

‘But it’s only just gone eleven,’ Chloe protested, a little drunk, as he wrapped a coat round her shoulders.

‘Always be among the first to leave, darling,’ he advised. ‘Remember it.’

They said their goodbyes to Harriet, who air-kissed Chloe in dramatic fashion, enveloping her in a cloud of citrusy perfume. A tiny piece of spinach was clinging to her top lip, which no one was daring enough to tell her about.

‘Call me,’ she told Brock, giving him a meaningful look.

On the way out a tall, curly-haired figure stepped in front of Chloe, blocking the way.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Jimmy asked, swaying a bit.

Chloe nodded. ‘It was good to meet you.’

‘Can I see you again?’ he asked quietly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. It was clear what he wanted and he was practised at getting it.

Suddenly Chloe felt reckless. She was tired of being the good little girl that everybody crapped on, left behind, got bored with.

‘You can take my number,’ she found herself saying. She expected it to come out shaky but instead it came out firm, like a new voice.

If Nate could do it, why the hell couldn’t she?