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Santa Barbara
The happy couple were married on a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Press swarmed across the coastline like ants, not just to catch Danielle and George Roman but the host of stars they had invited to celebrate their day.
‘I’m delighted you could both come,’ said Danielle after the ceremony, kissing Lana and Cole on both cheeks. The fashion designer was resplendent in her ivory fishtail wedding gown, a great satin meringue studded with rhinestone and crystal.
Lana smiled. ‘It was really beautiful,’ she said. The bluff gave on to the wide azure water that glittered in the late-November sunshine. It was the perfect spot.
‘It reminds me of our wedding day,’ observed Cole, slickly hooking an arm round his wife’s waist.
Lana didn’t see why: their wedding three years before had been an extravagant affair held at a sixteenth-century castle in Europe. This had a much simpler charm about it.
However, the observation pleased Danielle, who clasped her hands together with glee.
Lana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘I think it’s quite different,’ she said. Cole shot her a look.
‘It’s where George proposed,’ trilled Danielle, ‘a year ago today.’ On cue her much older husband joined her. He had a caddish forties look about him, a handsome, clean-cut movie producer with the Midas touch. George had been married when they’d met and he’d left his first wife, one of the most esteemed actresses of her generation, in a hive of controversy.
‘Darling,’ he crooned, ‘we’re needed for photographs.’
You could say that, thought Lana, looking across at the gathered press. It was bizarre to invite so many strangers to such a private day–but then she’d done it, hadn’t she? And why not? Her wedding to Cole had been a work engagement, there had been no intimacy to compromise.
A photographer swooped in and snapped the four of them together.
‘Please excuse us,’ said Danielle graciously, taking her husband’s hand. ‘Oh, look, there’s Kate!’
‘Darling …’ George gave Cole a ‘What are women like?’ look and trailed after her. Cole gave a weird sort of salute to indicate he knew exactly what women were like and laughed too loudly.
‘Kate looks well,’ observed Lana, watching Danielle drift over to greet Kate diLaurentis and her husband. The women were working together on a new fashion collection.
Cole stiffened next to her. ‘Why must you disagree with me in public?’ he hissed.
Lana turned to him in surprise. ‘What?’
‘We won’t talk about this now,’ said Cole, a pulse going in his neck. ‘You must never disagree with me in public again.’ He wasn’t looking at her.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Lana, feeling her fists clench by her sides.
‘Especially where it concerns our wedding.’
‘Am I not permitted to have an opinion?’
Cole’s face broke into a professional smile as he spotted an actor friend and his wife. A lot of back-slapping ensued as they greeted each other, before Cole brought Lana forward.
Thank God this marriage will soon be over, thought Lana. It was all she could think as she engaged in a conversation with the woman she barely knew. Thank God it will soon be over.
The reception took place in a five-star luxury resort on the coast. Hundreds of guests arrived for the celebrations in limos and private helicopters.
Chloe and Nate entered the hotel accompanied by Brock Wilde. ‘This is a number-one photo opportunity,’ he’d advised her days before. ‘Get photographed here, honey, and you’re on your way.’
‘I can’t believe this place,’ whispered Chloe, squeezing Nate’s hand. The lobby was huge, a glass ceiling gleaming hundreds of feet above and pillars soaring high into the vaults. It was like Daddy Warbucks’s house in Annie.
‘Keep it cool, babe,’ said Nate, grabbing a glass of champagne and downing it. He didn’t want to appear all simpering and tragic, even if he was a bit nervous. Just a bit. Chloe getting them invited to this gig was a major coup–he certainly hadn’t secured this kind of company yet.
The ballroom was packed with celebrity guests. Everywhere Chloe turned she saw faces she recognised, faces from magazines and films, faces she couldn’t remember the names of but had seen countless times–faces that were as much a part of her history as her own family.
‘This is freaking me out,’ she confessed. Brock thrust a cocktail into her hand and told her to drink it.
‘Not too fast, babe,’ chipped in Nate, swigging his own drink. ‘Don’t want you getting drunk and embarrassing us.’
Brock frowned.
‘There’s Lana!’ said Chloe happily, waving across the room. They had been introduced on-set a week before and had got on well.
Nate straightened his tie, depositing his glass on a passing tray.
‘And look!’ She turned to him, eyes wide. ‘There’s Cole Steel.’
Cole spotted Marty King across the room just as a lofty, very striking dark-haired girl walked over, apparently to talk to his wife.
‘Marty,’ Cole said, interrupting his conversation with another client, ‘I need a word.’
Marty’s expression was strained. ‘One moment, Cole,’ he said.
Cole had never seen the client before in his life, a young, pasty actor with pointed ears. ‘Now, Marty.’
‘Excuse me,’ Marty told the man, knowing where to hedge his bets.
‘What is it?’ he hissed as Cole steered him smoothly out to the terrace. The sun was kissing the horizon, a hot red circle on the lilac sky.
‘I want to know where we are with the plans, Marty.’
‘Cole, please, I’ve had things to—’
‘I repeat: where are we?’
Marty mopped his brow. ‘I’m yet to come up with a solution,’ he said. When Cole opened his mouth to speak, Marty barrelled on. ‘But I will. The contract’s a tricky thing, you know that. Give me time.’
‘We don’t have much time.’
Marty shook his head in confusion.
‘Lana wants out. I know it.’ He put his hands on the veranda, breathing deep the clean air. ‘Find a way, OK? You’ve got two weeks.’
‘Two weeks isn’t—’
‘You’ve got two weeks,’ Cole said again, his voice flat.
Marty closed his eyes. When he opened them again he placed a hand on his client’s shoulder. ‘Two weeks it is, buddy. I’m your man.’
Kate diLaurentis hadn’t let Jimmy Hart out of her sight all afternoon. There were too many starlets here and with a party of them staying overnight at the hotel, she didn’t want her husband doing one of his vanishing acts.
‘I’m going for a smoke,’ Jimmy told her, fumbling in his suit pocket.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Kate, smile in place as she greeted Danielle’s sister Freya, a stout screenwriter with bad hair and jowls. Kate noticed she hadn’t bothered losing weight to squeeze into her bridesmaid’s dress.
‘You look radiant,’ she lied.