‘Hello, Cole,’ he’d said, his mottled skin slack. ‘Have you been avoiding me?’
Cole gagged at the memory.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up with his wife. Lana had been distant for months now and pleading illness didn’t wash with him. His years with Kate had taught him to know when a woman was lying.
He’d resisted Marty’s suggestion at first, there had to be another way. Now she had left him with no choice.
Cole speed-dialled his agent’s office. On his signal the driver sealed the partition glass.
Marty picked up straight away. ‘Cole, hi.’
Cole looked through the tinted glass at the grids of LA rushing by and gripped the leather armrest. He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve made my decision.’
He could hear Marty making excuses to the company he was with. Once he was alone: ‘Are you sure?’
Cole didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m sure. You start making things happen. Marty, I want her pregnant.’
Las Vegas
‘What is that?’
Jessica Bernstein grabbed a fistful of her sister’s hair and pushed it back, revealing a moth-sized bruise of a hicky just below her diamond-encrusted earlobe.
Elisabeth smacked her hand away. ‘Get off, it’s nothing.’
The sisters, along with Christie Carmen, were looking through bridal magazines at the Bernstein mansion. It was a warm March day and they were gathered on the east veranda, watching the sun flashing off Bernstein’s gold-bottomed swimming pool.
‘Gross!’ Jessica tried to get another look before being swiped away. ‘What are you, in high school? I never had Robert down as a biter.’
‘Whatever,’ Elisabeth said hurriedly. She had deliberately worn her caramel hair long and loose in an effort to obscure Alberto’s mark of passion. No amount of concealer had made the damnedest bit of difference. Trust Jessica to uncover it.
‘This one’s cute,’ whined Christie Carmen. Elisabeth’s eyes darted to the page and she cattily thought it would be a million years before those over-inflated breasts squeezed their way into a corset dress.
God, when had she turned into such a cow? She wasn’t in the least bit happy about the joint wedding–in fact, it was an atrocity–but deep down she knew it was more than that.
‘Your tits are too big,’ said Jessica bluntly, flipping the page. Christie seemed to take it as a compliment.
‘I want a dress like yours!’ she wheedled, looking to Elisabeth.
‘I’m already sharing my wedding, I’m not sharing my gown,’ Elisabeth muttered, pushing back her chair.
‘You’re a bitch these days,’ observed Jessica with a note of admiration. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be the blushing bride?’
‘We’re not at the wedding yet,’ Elisabeth lashed out. Dread tightened in her stomach at the thought of it, a meagre five months away. She’d sort out her head before then, put a stop once and for all to this madness. Damn it, why did she keep going back for more? Alberto Bellini was like a drug–they just had this profound connection, she couldn’t explain it.
Desperate to get away, she padded inside and fixed herself a martini, plopping in a plump green olive–she had to keep eating, after all. Her appetite had vanished these past few weeks and she was finding it hard to sleep.
Jessica tapped on the glass with a long fingernail. ‘Yes, please,’ she called, indicating the drink. Wearily Elisabeth drew out two more glasses.
After the wedding was set she had tried to cool things, really she had, but Alberto refused to take no for an answer. So had begun a dedicated wooing campaign: flowers and jewels delivered to the house, increasingly hard to conceal; champagne cocktails beneath the stars; a candlelit dinner he had prepared himself. ‘In Sicily, we cook with love,’ he had said that night in the grounds of his mansion, feeding her dark chocolate, and then, after they had swum in silver moonlight, tasting zinging papaya sorbet from that most private of places … She shuddered now when she thought of And all of it, every moment, behind Robert’s back.
Get your shit together, Elisabeth. You’re about to be married.
Back on the terrace, Jessica had moved on from bridal gowns and was busily flicking through a glossy celebrity magazine, looking for pictures of herself. She snatched the martini.
‘Thanks,’ said Christie, taking hers.
‘I went to that party,’ Jessica moaned, tapping the page, ‘and I had the best dress.’ She scanned the photos. ‘They haven’t even got my picture!’
Suddenly Christie piped up. ‘He’s so my crush right now,’ she drawled, nodding to a picture of Nate Reid looking moody outside a London bar.
Elisabeth frowned. Nate Reid, who in some shots looked barely a day over eighteen, was possibly the furthest from Frank Bernstein she could possibly think of. She couldn’t imagine her father was ticking all the same boxes.
‘He’s an asshole,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Didn’t you hear about his girlfriend dumping him? Turns out he’s a cheat with bells on.’ You can talk! her inner voice screamed.
Jessica shrugged. ‘He likes to party,’ she said smugly. ‘And I’d know. Because I’ve had him.’
‘Really?’ Christie’s eyes bugged.
‘He’s wild, all right,’ she said, giving Christie a meaningful look. ‘Very wild.’
‘Like how?’
‘Must we listen to this?’ Elisabeth interjected. ‘Get over him, Jessica.’
Jessica bristled. ‘I’m not hung up.’
‘Sure you are.’
‘Am not.’
‘Are.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Besides, I read he’s hot for Kate diLaurentis. Met her at Danielle Roman’s wedding.’
Jessica laughed nastily. ‘Come on. Isn’t she a granny by now?’
‘Hardly: she’s only a few years older than me.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You’re a bitch.’
‘Takes one to know one.’ Jessica pouted. ‘Anyway, she’s married.’
‘Who?’
‘Kate diLaurentis.’
‘That hardly makes a difference.’
Christie Carmen looked between the two like she was watching a tennis match.
‘Will it make a difference to you?’ Jessica’s eyes flashed.
Elisabeth’s mouth went dry. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? ‘
‘Just asking.’
‘Well, don’t. It was a stupid question.’
‘Oh, sorry. I guess it can’t freak you out that for every single night for the rest of your life you’ll be sleeping with the same fucking person.’
‘Not if that person’s Robert,’ said Elisabeth loyally.
‘Bullshit.’