Palm Springs: will be sleeping in a bed the size of a tennis court, won’t be having my eyes done

coffe table book
Linda stopped the Fleetwood convertible in front of the house without turning into the driveway. She leaned back and looked at the house and then looked at me.

“It’s a new section of the Springs, darling. I rented the house for the season. It’s a bit on the chi-chi side, but so is Poodle Springs.”

“The pool is too small,” I said. “And no springboard.”

“I’ve permission from the owner to put one in. I hope you will like the house, darling. There are only two bedrooms, but the master bedroom has a Hollywood bed that looks as big as a tennis court.”

“That’s nice. If we don’t get on together, we can be distant.”

“The bathroom is out of this world — out of any world.

The adjoining dressing room has ankle-deep pink carpeting, wall to wall. It has every kind of cosmetic you ever heard of on three plate-glass shelves. The toilet — if you’ll excuse my being earthy — is all alone in an annex with a door and the toilet cover has a large rose on it in relief. And every room in the house looks out on a patio or the pool.”

Philip Marlowe Is Back, and in Trouble.

 

“I’m going to have my eyes done,” Maralee announced dramatically. “I’m only telling you, and you mustn’t mention it to a soul.” “As if I would!” Elaine replied, quite affronted. “Who’s doing it?” “The Palm Springs connection. I’ll spend a couple of weeks there — after all, I have the house. Then I’ll come back and nobody will know the difference. They’ll just think I was vacationing.” “Wonderful idea,” Elaine said. Was Maralee stupid or what? Nobody took a vacation in Palm Springs, even if they did have a house there. They either weekended or retired. “When?” she asked, her eyes flicking restlessly round the restaurant. “As soon as possible. Next week if he can fit me in.” They both stopped talking to observe the entrance of Sylvester Stallone. Elaine threw him a perfunctory wave, but he did not appear to notice her. “Probably needs glasses,” she sniffed. “I met him at a party only last week.” Maralee produced a small gold compact and inspected her face. “He won’t last,” she remarked dismissively, removing a smudge of lipstick from her teeth. “Let’s face it, Clark Gable he’s not.” “Oh yeah, that’s it… don’t stop… don’t ever stop. Oh yeah, yeah . . . just keep on going, sweetheart, keep right on going.”

via Hollywood Wives – Chapter One » Jackie Collins.

 

5 comments

  1. George Kaplan

    Oh, I’m a fan of Robert B Parker’s Spenser novels (tho’ I’ve not read Poodle Springs, the Marlowe book), I was sad when he died. And, well, I’ve *seen* Miz Jackie’s tomes on bookshelves… 😉
    Palm Springs here you come! Say, imagine a tennis court as big as a bed… Ahem!

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