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

Chapter 3 - ...if he shall gain the whole world...

Chapter 3

 ...if he shall gain the whole world...

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 ...from the French/Spanish border where Norman Endleson is filming ROLAND due out by Christmas: he should have heeded warnings about headstrong ANDREW O’CONNELL, whose demands brought production to a near standstill more than once. O’Connell’s clumsiness with a sword nearly cost an extra’s life, and he seems equally adept at slicing himself up...

 www.insidefilms.com, Archives

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 ...rumors of ROLAND post-production holdups delaying the release ‘til after New Year’s, dashing hopes of Academy noms for the monstrously expensive epic...

 www.insidefilms.com, Archives

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 Hollywood Hills, 9 p.m.

 Bianca dragged the star sapphires from her earlobes as she strode towards her dressing suite with the uniformed maid in tow. Daddy’s dancing-ballerina jewelry box should have given her a lift, but instead it added to her sense of impotence. She stowed the earrings, slamming the lid and sending the dancer’s legs jittering.

 The maid held out a sleek nightgown sheath in ice-blue satin like a tributary offering. She departed with an armload of lingerie, her skinny peasant braids knitted together with red yarn making a ‘U’ across her back.

 Calm down—they’re all bastards. The gilt-and-marble bathroom designed by silent film star Noira Matthews reminded her of who she was. She reached for her electric toothbrush, polished each tooth with care. It left behind a hint of too-sweet wintergreen. Great—dessert.

 She sat herself erect in front of the lit mirror. One by one she dug out the long hairpins, dropped them on the dressing table. Thick hair pooled about her shoulders. Time to work. She ran her fingers through it, massaged her scalp, reached for the brush. Gently, then harder, she pulled it through, long luxurious strokes. She shook her head, admired the silk-curtain effect; reluctantly, she braided the glossy hank loosely for the night. Jean-Pierre constantly proclaimed, ‘Always to bed beautiful’. Whatever it costs—I’m worth it.

 She fondled her skin, inspecting up close the smooth brow, the delicate skin under the eyes; she could hear Jean-Pierre’s voice: ‘You make the crease so many times, then the skin it marks—save for the camera.’ She feathered in the final eye cream. And again, ‘Softly, chérie. No frottage.’ She leaned closer, switching the lights to the harsh ‘Daylight’ setting. That was not a tiny wrinkle.

 Tonight the ritual reminded her she would be thirty in a year.

 Fact: she could do, in front of the camera, anything a director wanted.

 Fact: Grant Sykes chose her for Incident at Bunker Hill.

 One last look in the full-length mirrors. They are not replacing me with sixteen-year-old starlets.

 Michael was already propped up in bed, in silk PJ boxers which exposed the tanned abs he was so proud of. He stretched a palm out like an invitation on a silver platter. She ignored him, piled pillows on her side. Lousy timing. As usual. She scooped up the stack of papers from her nightstand, tucked a pillow behind her waist. More nitwit romantic comedies. She discarded each grommeted script after a few pages. “Crap!”

 “Who’s your backup?”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “If you can’t get O’Connell? Face it, babe, even if you seduce him in New Hampshire, you gotta have a backup—”