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retreat.
    ‘You want me to choose?’ she’d said, very slowly.
    ‘Goddammit. Yes .’
    ‘Then I’ll take my career, thank you very much.’ Her eyes, filled with hurt and anger, challenged him to back down.
    He didn’t. He packed a suitcase and left the house.
    A week later she started divorce proceedings.
    One thing about Whitney, she was scrupulously fair. No Hollywood Wife she. There were no demands. She didn’t want alimony or a settlement. She kept half the money from their house when it was sold, and that was it.
    ‘I don’t believe your luck!’ Howard had exclaimed.
    ‘I’d still be married if it wasn’t for you,’ Mannon growled.
    He had never stopped wanting her back.

Chapter Eight
    The photo session was going well. Lionel Richie tapes flooded the studio, and Silver, watched by a large entourage, put the photographer through his paces.
    He was a famous Italian photographer, a star in his own right. Only Silver remembered when he’d photographed her before superstardom, and had treated her like shit. He’d also made her look like shit, which wasn’t surprising considering he’d only shot one roll of film, and any idiot knew you never got anything worthwhile until the third roll at least. He’d also forced her to use his own makeup and hair people. A bad mistake.
    Now she was in charge, and enjoying every minute.
    ‘Antonio, dear,’ she said, stopping the click of his shutter. ‘Do you know that today is my birthday?’
    Antonio threw up his hands as if she had just declared World War III. ‘ Bellissima! You don’t have the birthday. You have the celebration!’
    ‘Exactly.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘So where’s the caviar and champagne?’
    Antonio looked concerned. ‘You want some, cara ?’
    ‘I’d love some, Antonio, dear. And if you are very good, I’ll invite you to my party later.’
    He beckoned one of his assistants. ‘Champagne and caviar for Signorina Anderson. Pronto. Pronto.’
    The assistant, a girl dressed like a boy, held out her hand. ‘I’ll need money,’ she said, wondering how much he would come up with. His stinginess was notorious.
    A scowl flitted across Antonio’s small but perfectly formed fifty-five-year-old features. He reached into the back pocket of his impeccably cut trousers and reluctantly pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
    Silver laughed loudly. ‘My God, Antonio, you’re as tight as your own ass! The poor girl will need more than that. Let me see—’ she played to her entourage – ‘there must be at least ten of us. We’ll want three bottles of Cristal, and a nice big jar of fish eggs. Give her your credit card.’
    Give her yours, bitch! Antonio wanted to snarl. Only he didn’t. He knew she was getting her own back for the last session, and in a way he didn’t blame her. One had to admire Silver Anderson’s success. A few years ago she was washed up, completely finished. And now she was sizzling, at what – forty-three? Four? Nobody knew her exact age. She was up there somewhere and that’s all that mattered. In a town comprised mostly of big-bosomed twenty-two-year-olds, her achievement was certainly something.
    He produced his MasterCard with a flourish. Let Silver see that the great Antonio accepted defeat with style.
    She stretched languorously. ‘How about a break?’ she suggested in a low, husky voice, standing up before finishing the sentence, uninterested in whether Antonio cared to break or not.
    ‘My idea too, bellissima ,’ he said quickly.
    Strolling behind the camera she playfully peeked through the viewfinder. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Let me see the Polaroids again.’
    Dutifully her hairdresser Fernando, her makeup artist Raoul, and the stylist for the shoot sprang forward – each waving an instant photo for her inspection.
    She gazed at the pictures of herself like an uninvolved critic.
    ‘Your hair looks mah vellous,’ raved Fernando, who wore his own spiky locks in a currently fashionable purple Mohawk.
    She