Hollywood Sinners

47

London



Christmas in Hampstead had been bleak. England was grey and cold and Chloe couldn’t wait to get back to America. Brock had several castings lined up already-word had got out fast about her performance in Eastern Sky, helped along by Sam Lucas’s glowing approval.

The London house had been monopolised by Janet and her boys-it seemed the hole Chloe had left in her absence had rapidly been filled. Janet did Christmas in her own, different manner, and everybody knew you should only ever do Christmas one way: in the way you always had. She and her father had muddled through after the divorce, always digging out the same moth-eaten decorations, ripped streamers and balding tinsel, an angel with a smudged face she had chewed when she was four. Now everything was changed-it was all from Liberty and neat and good quality and none of it she recognised.

Chloe lay on her bed, black hair fanned out across the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Next week she’d be back in LA. It was a new year and she could start to get her head together-beginning with her finally finding the guts to dump Nate. She’d been wondering if maybe she could learn to live with her gruesome discovery, just get on and turn a blind eye-didn’t people do it all the time? But seeing her father again over Christmas, she knew she could not. The only person she was cheating was herself-and she’d been cheated on enough.

She rolled over, her stomach crunching at the thought. She’d been a coward these past few weeks, but she’d also learned a lot. It was time for a change.

Thursday was Nate’s album launch, a big fancy affair at some club in Soho. The event itself would be too public-she’d do it after, she could play the charade until then. The break-up would be painful, but she had to rip it off quickly, like a plaster. The scab would heal eventually.

‘Darling!’ Gordon French called up the stairs in a loud baritone. ‘Pamela and Freddie are here.’

Chloe sighed. Not even the militia of extended family was enough to distract her from her black mood. She swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs to greet her jovial uncle, and an aunt who always smelled of soup.

Two days later Chloe arrived at Shaik, a celebrity hang-out in Soho, to celebrate the launch of The Hides’ new album.

She spotted Nate hanging about outside as the car pulled up. He’d told her to meet him there-the perfect stage management for their first UK shot together in months, no doubt.

‘Babe!’ he called as she exited the car. She knew she looked good in a clinging jersey dress and biker boots. Paparazzi surged forward.

‘Hi, Nate,’ she said coolly, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. Cameras circled them like vultures. When Nate kissed her, she felt nothing.

Inside, the place was heaving. Designers and DJs, models and musicians, actors and artists chatted and drank in their cliques, most of whom had parents who were famous in the eighties. Long-legged beauties leaned, bored, against the bar, their feet crossed at the ankles; an up-and-coming male singer in skinny jeans and a blazer, his quiff arranged on his head like a croissant, held fort in a grey-leather booth; a chart-topping twenty-something with her forty-six-year-old boyfriend downed cocktails amid a swarm of admiring hangers-on. Everybody wore a slightly pained expression, as though it hurt to be this cool. Chloe felt distanced from it all.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Nate, guiding her through. As an afterthought, he added, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ Chloe scanned the room as she trailed after Nate. How many of the women here had he slept with? All this time she’d thought the London girls gave her bitchy looks because of her modelling, and it could just as well be down to them shagging her boyfriend. She felt a twist of humiliation.

He got them a couple of sambuca shots. Chloe tossed hers back in one, wincing as the aniseed torched her throat.

‘Thirsty?’ Nate teased, ordering two more. He rammed his tongue down her throat while they were waiting. It tasted grim.

Chloe heard her name being called and pulled away.

‘Chloe, hey!’ It was Melissa Darling. ‘Hello, Nate.’ She put her beer down on the bar.

‘Hey.’

Chloe hugged her agent hello. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’ She meant it.

‘Me, too,’ said Melissa. ‘They’re going mad for you two outside.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think they’ve been lonely without you!’

Nate smirked. ‘Amazing what a slice of the American pie can do for you, eh, babe?’ It wasn’t clear which woman he was talking to.

Melissa gave a polite smile. ‘Congratulations on the launch.’

‘Ta.’

‘You look gorgeous, Chloe.’ She turned back to her client. ‘LA suits you.’

‘Thanks. I can’t wait to go back.’

Nate cut in. ‘All right, Chlo, keep your knickers on.’ He winked at Melissa. ‘We don’t get to see much of each other in LA, busy schedules and all that,’ he explained. ‘It’s quite nice being back for a bit, don’t you think?’

Chloe couldn’t look at him. ‘Sure,’ she said.

There was an awkward silence.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Melissa, kissing her. ‘Let’s go for coffee before you fly back.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘All the best with the album, Nate.’

He nodded through a mouthful of beer as she moved off.

‘Right, I’m on,’ he said, gesturing over Chloe’s bare shoulder. He planted a wet one on her cheek and swaggered through a gaggle of fans.

Chloe turned. The rest of the band was grabbing their instruments on a dimly lit stage in one corner-she hadn’t even noticed it when she’d walked in. The mike, lit dramatically from behind, stood patiently as Nate parted the waves of the crowd. He high-fived a flurry of outstretched palms as he mounted the steps and took his position.

‘Hey,’ Nate grunted into the mike. ‘Thanks for coming.’ There was a tinny shriek.

Chloe ordered another shot. She downed the sticky liquid as soon as it arrived.

F*ck it. She ordered another as the guitars started up. Then another. She’d need a good dose of Dutch courage to get through the pretence.

Nate strutted across the stage in his skinny jeans, shaking his head and jerking the mike, flipping it round in his hands as he sang-or largely spoke-the words. The crowd was doing most of the work, taking over the lyrics dutifully whenever Nate plugged the mike in their direction. Normally Chloe would join in, but she didn’t even know how this new one went.

They only did a couple of numbers, and when it was over Chloe felt the room spinning. She wanted to go home, she couldn’t be arsed with any of it.

Fuzzily she walked over to one of the booths and slumped down. She felt like everyone in the place was looking at her, laughing at her, knowing what a stupid fool she’d been.

‘Hi there.’ A bloke came to sit next to her, someone she vaguely recognised from a party she’d been to with Nate a year before. Was he a playwright? She couldn’t remember.

‘Hey,’ she said back, disinterested. She didn’t care if she appeared rude-she was too tired and emotional and drunk to bother how she came across.

‘Want a drink?’ He moved closer. His hair was thinning and he was wearing little round glasses in the style of John Lennon, she guessed, though he just looked like a freak.

She rested her chin on her hands. ‘No, I’ve had enough.’

‘I’m Baz.’

‘Great.’ How could this guy just waltz in and start chatting her up, knowing she was officially with Nate? Clearly she was the only person in the whole world to whom relationships actually meant something.

‘Want to get out of here?’ the man asked.

Chloe’s attention was distracted. She could see Nate talking to a pretty brunette at the bar. The girl was giggling at everything he said and tossing her hair, her bright red lips wet with gloss. And then-no, he couldn’t be, not while his girlfriend was sitting right here-one of his hands reached down and patted the girl’s behind. Not only that but it stayed there, and now he was leaning in, whispering something in her ear.

That was it.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first,’ said Chloe, getting to her feet.

Feeling surprisingly calm, she walked over to where Nate and the girl were standing. F*ck him-she’d been Little Miss Nice for way too long. He deserved everything that was coming his way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, tapping Nate’s shoulder.

He looked up, an inane grin on his face. He didn’t even do her the good grace of appearing guilty. ‘Hey, babe,’ he said instead, eyes foggy.

‘I’m not your babe,’ Chloe spat.

He was confused. ‘What did you say?’ The girl next to him opened her doe eyes wide, relishing the drama.

‘Do you want me to spell it out?’ Chloe demanded, hands on hips.

‘Chill out, babe, you’re making a scene.’

‘No.’ She stuck her chin in the air. ‘I won’t chill out. Why should I?’

Now he looked uncomfortable. ‘You’re drunk. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ He put a hand behind her back, preparing to guide her out.

She shook him off. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever, ever again touch me. How dare you imagine you have any right to come within a mile of me? You lying, conniving—’

‘What did you call me?’ Nate took a step forward, anger twisting his features.

‘Go f*ck yourself, Nate. You know what you’ve done.’

The group around them fanned out, people backing away to get a better view, until it was just Chloe and Nate in the circle.

‘Do I?’ Nate called her bluff, attempting to laugh it off now they had an audience.

‘Oh, you need me to say it louder, do you?’ Chloe’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Whatever you want, Nate, just like we’ve always done it.’ She whipped round, her dark hair lashing behind her like a whip, and stormed towards the stage. Nate bolted after her, grabbing at her top, but he missed and went flying face first on to the floor. There was a scuffle before he surfaced, straightening his leather jacket, a strident shade of red.

Chloe took the mike, turned it on and banged it a couple of times. She was drunk but for once she could see totally clearly. The music died.

‘Nate Reid,’ announced Chloe, ‘is a liar and a cheat.’ She waited while a thick silence descended on the crowd. Their outlines were black against the glare of the spotlight.

‘I don’t know how long he’s been going behind my back–probably since the beginning. He’s a filthy, dirty, philandering bastard, and more than that, he’s an actor.’ She clapped her hands slowly several times. ‘He’s played the part of my boyfriend very well.’

‘Shut your f*cking mouth, Chloe.’ Nate lashed to the front, eyes blazing. ‘It’s all lies.’

‘I’ve had to go for an STI check,’ Chloe went on, her voice sounding loud and clear round the warehouse, ‘and I’d encourage any girl who’s been with him to do the same. If you think you’re the only one, chances are you’re wrong.’

A gasp rippled round the crowd.

‘What a load of bullshit!’ shrieked Nate. ‘You’re seriously going to listen to her? Give me a break. She’s just jealous, can’t handle my fame. Isn’t that right, babe?’

‘Do you know what?’ Chloe said calmly. ‘F*ck you, Nate Reid. F*ck you and your pretentious f*cking music. I don’t need you to corroborate me and I never have–in fact, if you could operate your shit-sized brain for more than a second you’d realise it’s the other way round. Without me you’re nothing but a wannabe musician pretending to be poor.’ A pause. ‘Oh, yes, surely everyone here knows about the Buckley-Reids, Nathaniel–if they don’t, maybe you should tell them?’ She saw Nate gulp. ‘You’re phoney and you’re arrogant and all you ever think about is yourself. Go find a pretty little airhead who’s interested in sucking you off, because I’m telling you, it’s not me.’

Gathering all the dignity she could muster, Chloe replaced the microphone, stepped off the stage, made her way through the crowd and left. A smattering of uncertain applause accompanied her exit but then just as quickly died.

Nate was shaking. Someone tried to touch his shoulder and he slapped them away. His whole body was trembling, shuddering with uncontrollable rage. Vaguely he heard the DJ start up again, the crowd dispersing, no one knowing what to say.

Nate stood alone. How dare she? Stupid stuck-up-her-own-arse bitch!

In a frenzy he stalked out of the club, shoving a paparazzo on his way past. Someone else tried to take his photo and he punched their camera, the lens smashing as it crashed to the ground. Pumped with adrenalin he hauled the unfortunate man up and slammed a fist into his face, sending him careening back into the flank of a black cab.

‘Steady on, mate,’ someone said.

He started walking. He didn’t care where he was going. Never before in his life had he felt so livid, so incensed, so … humiliated. Maybe if he walked fast enough he could catch that bitch up and wring her scrawny neck.

Eventually he stopped, lit a fag, slumped down on the pavement.

He’d get his revenge.

One thing was for sure: nobody humiliated Nate Reid and got away with it.