PRIDE'S CHILDREN - a novel of obsession, betrayal, and love. Book 1

Chapter 1, Scene 3

8:45 p.m. PST, Hollywood Hills

 “You okay, babe? You haven’t said a word.”

 “Look, Michael, I’m going to get screwed again—can we not talk about it?” Bianca Doyle gazed out the side window of the limo, but her focus was not on the occasional streetlights nor the well-set mansions lining Alameda East up towards The Hills. She reviewed the meeting mercilessly. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

 True, Thomas Pentell had insisted on an early dinner at Les Clés, almost too early for this Dior—she lengthened her neck, lifted her chin—cleavage only worked if you showed it. And Pentell’d made her wait until they were finished. ‘Sorry, my sweet.’ He lit up one of his awful cigars, finally got it puffing foul smoke, his excuse for choosing the private club. ‘The studio just won’t go for it: you have no directing experience, the script is a patchwork, and you know after the last two...’ He knew perfectly well you did what you got—Hollywood was hell on women—if they sent you crap, you acted the crap out of it. If the studio’d put any money behind distribution… Before that they couldn’t get enough of me, America’s Sweetheart, remember? ‘It’s high concept, Tom. Francis is working on it—’ ‘People don’t want to see a movie about a pervert.’ ‘Even if he wrote Alice in Wonderland?’ ‘Biopics are dead. And, by the way, they hate the title.’ ‘Dodgson? It’s a working title for God’s sake, Tom.’ She knew Pentell wouldn’t be meeting with her if he wasn’t interested. ‘But the angle, Tom. Did he tell stories to the girls to cover his affair with their governess, did he go after Miss Pritchett to hide a thing for little girls, or—’ ‘Or was he just too innocent. Tell me something I don’t know.’

 “C’mon, Bi,” Michael interrupted her replay again. “He said ‘yes’. Pentell is going to get the studio execs to let you direct.”

 Were you even there, Michael? “If, Michael. If. If I get O’Connell. If I get that dumb-ass Francis to get off his butt and finish the script. If I produce it for peanuts.” She turned away in disgust.

 “But you said you had O’Connell—”

 For someone claiming to run a production company, Michael was as dumb as a rock. What had she ever seen in him? “What I said was that he was interested in the part. Which isn’t the same as having signed on the dotted line.” And if the damn Branford Studios hadn’t dragged its heels, it would have been a done deal last year at the Academy Awards dinner, when she’d had five minutes to pitch Andrew O’Connell right when he was smarting from being gracious about First at Lies losing every award but cinematography. “Now, after Roland, he’ll be completely out of reach.”

 “But Roland was released too late for consideration for this year’s awards.”

 “Thank God for small favors!” Huge favors. What were its producers thinking when they couldn’t manage Roland’s editing in time for a limited release before New Year’s? Idiots. By next year, no one would remember, not the Academy anyway.

 “You’ll have plenty of time to talk to O’Connell up in Maine next month.”

 “New Hampshire.” Is it really that hard, Michael, to remember where my next movie is? Men are fools. Damn fools. All of them.

 “Whatever—you can do it.”

 One chance—the boonies—closed set—. She had a mountain of work ahead of her. O’Connell had been alone at the Academy ceremonies—no ‘significant other’? Be damned if he’s not eating out of my hand by the time New Hampshire’s a wrap.

 The limousine whispered on, usually the most calming of sounds, windshield wipers whisking away the beginnings of a light winter mist. She forced herself to relax into the soothing leather with its faint aroma of saddle soap, but they were already turning into their cul-de-sac.

 Then everything went horribly wrong: the limo turned on its approach, and, through the rain-dribbled side window, her gaze locked onto her mansion, a floating wraith pale and insubstantial at the end of the drive. She gripped the armrest as warmth drained from her body. A ghost house. Everything I’ve worked for is a dream.

 “Bianca? What is it?”

 A switch somewhere activated. The long line of Mission California arches sprang to life. She blinked.

 “Nothing.” She shuddered, pulled the shawl closer. “Turn up the heat.”

 “But we’re almost home—”

 She glared at him. “And get that timer fixed. Immediately.” She never again wanted the illusion of a dead set.

 Michael shrugged, adjusted the heat. He checked the security system, activated the remote in his pocket; the gate swung open. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.

 The driver pulled up to the front steps, stopped. He came round to open the door. Michael stepped out, carefully scanning the area around the brilliantly-lit entrance before opening the umbrella and offering her his hand.

 She quashed the tiny fear. Michael was good at this now. No fans here—though there had been a small crowd at Les Clés, if not fans, then gawky tourists who would settle for any celebrity. Leaving the club, Michael had known to allow just a few autographs—napkins, maps, even an actual autograph book—and a couple snapshots, before motioning the limousine forward for her gracious escape. Fans didn’t argue with Michael Hendricks; even in Armani something about his bearing screamed ‘ex action star.’ Here, home, safe—but she leaned lightly on his hand and made the effort graceful, gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Michael.” Too bad there were no cameras.

 She inhaled the heavy fragrance of massed huele-de-noche flanking the entrance. This is mine—my Tara—whatever it takes.

 “Bi? You’re getting wet.” Michael had dismissed car and driver; he waited, annoyance evident in the pointed way he held the umbrella.

 She let him guide her up the steps to where, on cue, the door opened. She said ‘Buenas noches’ to whichever uniformed maid had evening duty, handed the maid her wrap. “Don’t be too long,” she threw back over her shoulder as she strode away. She could hear Michael ordering ice for a nightcap. Which irritated her all over again. Must he drink every night? Daddy had to have his every single night—and look where that landed him. Men. Would it be too much to hope that the damned Irishman O’Connell didn’t drink? For that was where the solution lay: she could visualize him and that sandy hair so clearly in the scenes Francis had finished, Lewis Carroll: the Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, writer, cleric—and what else?

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