Free Hollywood Husbands by Jackie Collins

acting career, and was now, according to her answering service, in Peru, and not expected back for a while. Disappointed, Jade called another model friend from New York. The girl kept her on the phone for thirty-five minutes complaining about an errant husband. Next, she spoke to a married girlfriend; this one was in the throes of a messy divorce. Man trouble was obviously catching.
    A more fun group seemed to be the way to go, so she telephoned Antonio – the photographer, an amusing friend once you got over his I am a star photographer trip. They had worked together often and enjoyed many a great night out in New York when he visited.
    ‘I’m here,’ she announced. ‘And the good news is that I’m a free agent, so let’s get together. Preferably tonight.’
    ‘ Bellissima! ’ he crooned. ‘My bella Jade. What dee -lightful pleasure to hear your voice.’
    ‘You too, baby. How’s Dix?’
    ‘Dead!’ was the dramatic retort.
    ‘Another one hits the dust, huh?’ She was not surprised. Antonio had a new boyfriend every month, and according to him they all let him down.
    ‘He was Eeenglish ,’ Antonio snorted, as if that explained everything.
    ‘Well…’ she said. ‘That makes two of us with dead boyfriends. I gave Mark back to his wife.’
    ‘ Bene . He was Eeenglish. Tonight I take you to the birthday part of the true beetch.’
    ‘Anyone I know?’
    ‘Seelver Anderson. The woman kill when she see you. Dress up, bella. ’
    Hanging up the phone she decided a big Hollywood party in the company of the waspish Antonio was just what she needed. Usually the word party produced an instant excuse. Mark shied away from them – probably because he did not wish to risk being photographed with her.
    What had he told his wife? They had often been caught by stray paparazzi leaving Elaine’s restaurant in New York, or attending the opening of a new art gallery. Knowing Mark, he no doubt passed her off as a casual acquaintance, and aristocratic Lady Fiona must have believed every lying word. Mark and his clever lies. God!
    Pouring a glass of wine, she allowed herself the pleasure of reliving the denouement.
    * * *
    Lord Mark Rand returned from a photographic trip, his thin features flushed with enjoyment, his brown wavy hair untidy – like a little boy’s. He was almost fifty, but looked no more than thirty-five. The plan was that he spend six days in New York with her, and then return to London. Usually he divided his time between England and America, with numerous foreign assignments in between.
    Dropping various camera cases, he put both arms around her. ‘Hello, lovely lady. Are you ready to give home and comfort to an extremely tired Englishman?’
    Six years was just about to be part of her past. She didn’t want to rush it. ‘You smell like a camel,’ she remarked, wrinkling her nose.
    Laughing, he said, ‘Bathe me. Cover me with sweet oils. Massage my tired body and I shall be yours forever.’
    What a corny English asshole. Why had it never bothered her before?
    He walked into the crowded living room of her Village apartment. Quite a few times he had suggested she move uptown to a more expensive place. ‘You can afford it,’ he would complain. ‘Why stay here?’ Never once had he offered to share the rent. Not that she needed his money, she did very nicely on her own. Still… the offer would have shown commitment.
    It never bothered her until they split.
    ‘How was the trip?’ she asked.
    ‘God, it was unbelievable!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Sunsets the like of which even I have never seen before.’
    ‘And the girls?’ She referred to the three models he had been photographing for an upmarket nude calendar layout.
    ‘Young. Boring. And stupid.’
    ‘Did you sleep with them?’
    Raising an eyebrow he looked at her quizzically. ‘What a strange question.’
    ‘Do you sleep with your wife?’
    Frowning, he said, ‘What is the matter with you? You know I don’t. We’ve discussed it