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way there was no chance of missing out on anything good that might go to another actor.
    He started to read. Thinking about Lorna had depressed him, but he soon became immersed in the script, and fell asleep while reading.

 

Chapter Four
    Carey St Martin was a tall attractive black girl of twenty-eight. She wore her hair in a sleek Vidal Sassoon bob, and her clothes were smart and gave the impression of being expensive. She smoked twenty cigarettes a day, drove a pale beige year-old Thunderbird, and lived in an elegant three-room apartment high above the Strip.
    Carey had done very well for herself.
    It was a hot June day and the smog hung like cobwebs over Hollywood.
    Carey yawned. What a drag for the agency to pick her to go and persuade Sunday Simmons to get her ass back on the picture. These starlets were all the same. Cute dumb bits of fluff, who had finally laid enough guys to get on film. Carey was proud to think that she had never laid anybody in her career to get where she was today.
    She stopped at a red light, and a man in a Lincoln tried to catch her eye. She ignored him, and turned the air conditioning higher. Wow – it was hot !
    Carey worked for Marshall K. Marshall, one of the biggest agents in town. She had started as a secretary seven years ago, and now she was, and had been for two years, a personal representative, looking after some of the clients he handled. Actually for some time now Carey had been seriously thinking of branching out on her own. What she really wanted to do was personal management. Carey St Martin, Public Relations & Management . Incredible!
    She parked her car near the Château Marmont where Sunday was staying, and picked up the contract lying on the seat beside her. It stipulated that Sunday Simmons was contracted to work three weeks for Milan Productions from June 3rd to the 24th. Clause three mentioned a nude scene from the waist up, as written in the script.
    Carey wondered what Sunday’s problem was. She must have read the contract before signing it.
    Marshall had told her, ‘Get the silly little broad back to the studio – and fast. If she’s not back by four she’s off the picture, and they’ll probably sue. Anyway she won’t be able to work anywhere else – stupid bitch!’
    Carey put on green-tinted sunglasses and walked into the Château. She was wearing a green linen two-piece dress purchased at Orbach’s, a Paris copy.
    ‘Yes?’ The little old lady at the desk glanced up.
    She asked for Sunday’s room. It was funny how the lobby of the Château always seemed like a piece of Hollywood long gone. Shades of Sunset Boulevard .
    Sunday had a suite on the fifth floor and Carey took the newly decorated elevator. Her mind was dwelling on an office building nearby where she had looked at space the previous week. She really meant to break with Marshall soon.
    Sunday answered the door. She was dressed in a short orange muu-muu, her feet were bare, and she still had on her film make-up.
    Carey felt a jolt at the sheer magnetism of the girl’s face. She held out her hand and said, ‘Hi, I’m Carey St Martin. Marshall K. Marshall sent me over to see if we can get things sorted out.’
    ‘I suppose you had better come in.’ Sunday’s big eyes were cloudy.
    She led Carey into the living room, which was strewn with clothes and half-opened suitcases. Carey couldn’t decide if she was packing or unpacking.
    ‘Would you like a Coca-Cola? I’m afraid there’s no ice.’
    ‘Lovely. Can I get it?’
    ‘No, that’s all right.’ Sunday padded into the kitchen.
    Carey sat down and opened up the contract. She wondered if Marshall had seen this girl.
    Sunday came back in and handed her a glass. ‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she said quickly. ‘I know it makes me look like I’m being difficult, but really, I must explain it to you.’
    ‘Yes, sure,’ Carey replied, slightly taken aback. She hadn’t expected the apologetic bit, rather the ranting and raving scene.