A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA Read online

  A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

  Also by J.P Bowie

  ******

  A Portrait of Phillip

  A Portrait of Emily

  A Portrait of Andrew

  A Self-Portrait

  The Journeyer

  A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

  s

  J.P. Bowie

  iUniverse, Inc.

  New York Lincoln Shanghai

  A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

  Copyright © 2006 by J.P. Bowie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting: iUniverse

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  ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38103-6 (pbk)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82470-0 (ebk)

  ISBN-10: 0-595-38103-0 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 0-595-82470-6 (ebk)

  Printed in the United States of America

  for Phil

  c h a p t e r 1

  s

  There is not much left in my life to look forward to—all has been taken from me by the selfish and unfeeling actions of those around me. Those I thought I could trust—those I gave the better part of my life to—nurturing them, caring for them—only to have them betray me, leaving me alone and desolate.

  My days are spent trying to forget their iniquities, their perversions, their gross behavior that was perpetrated here, in this very house—my home. How stupid they must have thought I was not to know what they were doing—my own daughters, seducing their father with their coy little ways, till he could no longer resist. My son, for whom I would once have done anything, now distanced from me by his choice of lifestyle, living with another man who inflicted his vile needs upon him.

  My sister has told me I am to blame for my loneliness—that if I opened my eyes to the truth, I would realize that the children are blameless and that the reason for our estrangement lies at my doorstep. How could she, too, turn against me after all I have suffered? It was to her that I turned when the very fabric of our lives was torn apart; my husband murdered, the children turning their backs on me—blaming me for their misery.

  How could they blame their own mother?

  Paula, Emily—both sluts—now pretending they have found happiness with husbands; poor fools who must be blind to their wives’ wickedness. The world is a terrible place, when whores and perverts are allowed to masquerade as decent citizens; and worse still, raise families!

  I am ashamed to be the grandmother of such offspring.

  Thank God, I can find solace in the world of escapism that television provides.

  At least there, watching the better religious channels, I can believe that good, car-

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  J.P. Bowie

  2

  ing, honest people abound. One of my favorite shows used to be the Olivia Winters Hour. I still watch it every day; no longer for the enjoyment it used to bring, but rather to censure the immorality it now represents. Miss Winters let me down badly a few weeks ago, when she had as her guests, two men I hold in deep contempt.

  Why? You may well ask. To me, they represent all that is wrong with the world today. Two men, who proudly flaunt the fact that they live together, professing that they love one another. How could such a thing be? How can two men, or two women for that matter, love each other in that way?

  I recognized them, of course, as the two who interfered with my family’s affairs when we were trying to deal with the horrors that had befallen us. One, the private investigator, trying to prove that Emily had not killed her father—something I still say she did, even though they arrested some other poor fool for the crime.

  And the other, with his so-called psychic ability, taking the credit for saving my son from the clutches of some monster, when, in fact, it was most likely he who drew poor Anthony into the life that led him to that terrible situation.

  They had the temerity to sit, preening in front of millions of people, and tell Olivia that sordid story of how they met. After all, why would anyone believe all that nonsense? How annoyed and upset I was to see Olivia Winters fawn over them—and that vapid audience applaud almost every word they uttered. It was too disgusting, and I wrote and told her so in no uncertain terms. I am sure I was not alone in my objections to such people being given the opportunity to appear as credible and rational beings, when God himself has decried their existence. It is a constant amazement to me that he has not exacted another punishment upon them, now that AIDS seems no longer to be their undoing.

  I said all this in my letter and more. I wanted to sign my name, but thought it expedient to remain anonymous. After all, the private investigator might just remember me and come knocking at my door. He might do me physical harm—there is no telling the depth of their depravity…but, I intend to voice my opinion again soon, for I heard Miss Winters announce that she was going to have them back on her show.

  Perhaps this time, I should warn her that God’s wrath might befall her if she continues to represent the wicked of this world. Yes, that might give her pause to reconsider the kind of person she invites on her show. I wish her no harm, you understand. She just must toe the line of decency, like everyone else in public life—or suffer the consequences, if she cannot…

  J.P. Bowie

  3

  Orange County Times

  Report by Mark Forrest

  Following his successful interview on the Olivia Winters Hour, during which he was commissioned by the lady herself to paint her portrait, local artist and celebrity, Peter Brandon, is kept busy these days commuting between Miss Winters’ Beverly Hills penthouse and his home in Laguna Beach…

  It was the kind of showplace usually reserved for the glossy pages of Archi-tectural Digest. One of the finest penthouse homes to be found in Beverly Hills, California. Spacious rooms, covered in thick white carpeting, accented with honey oak wood flooring in the hallways and kitchen.

  Giant sliding glass doors led out to a wide tiled verandah that overlooked well-manicured lawns, carefully clipped trees and bushes surrounding a sparkling lap pool. The place reeked of money and good living—and why not? It was owned by one of the most successful women on daytime television—Olivia Winters.

  Olivia Winters, one time weather woman for a small TV station in Lincoln, Nebraska, now the almost undisputed ruler of the afternoon talk shows, nationwide. Five times a week millions of devoted fans sat glued to their television sets as Olivia paraded a host of the biggest celebrities in front of them. It was rumored throughout the gossip mill, that to refuse an invitation to appear on Olivia’s show was tantamount to career suicide, and since she’d hit the big time, no one had. Most of the time these famous people would sit with an almost quiet humility, while Olivia bombarded them with searching questions about their careers and personal lives.

  Only Bette Midler had had the temerity to tell Olivia to mind her own f***in’ business—the expletive, of course, being beeped out for the broadcast.

  Olivia had appeared to have taken the slap with jovial good humor, but later she was overheard telling her program director to never ask that ‘kike bitch’

  back on her show—something that several of Bette’s friends knew had been her intention.

  J.P. Bowie

  4

  Now, seated on a divan in the center of the living room, clad in a white silk evening gown that accented the hon
ey sheen of her skin, Olivia strove to keep this languid pose for the artist who stood at his canvas, concentrating intently on the image he was creating.

  Olivia’s dark green eyes narrowed as she watched him work. What a cutie, she thought lasciviously. She’d always had a penchant for young blond white men, especially with blue eyes—and did he have blue eyes. Olivia couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with eyes like his. Cobalt blue—and when he smiled, they sparkled. Jeez, she would really love to add this one to her long list of lovers.

  Not that there was much chance of that…Why were so many good-looking guys fags? God, what she could do with that trim, athletic body. Betcha he’s hung too…Her eyes slid down to the artist’s crotch and before she could stop herself she parted her lips and moistened them with the tip of her tongue. Oh yeah, I bet he’s a big boy all right…

  “Getting tired?” Peter Brandon put down his paintbrush and smiled at his subject.

  Olivia started as he broke into her reverie. “Oh no, no…” She returned his smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight blush that had risen into her cheeks. He had caught her unawares and she felt slightly put out. She rose from the divan. “Well, seein’ you’ve stopped for the moment, let’s take a break. Why don’t I ring for some refreshments?”

  “Thank you, that’d be great.”

  She walked with a stately tread to an intercom on one of the walls. Pressing one of the buttons, she said sharply, “Joyce?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “Bring Mr. Brandon and me a glass of that Pinot Grigio I like—and some munchies.”

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  Olivia watched as Peter cleaned off his brushes and packed them away, then she gestured to the luxurious leather sectional by the window. “Take a load off.” Walking over to the easel she studied her likeness on the canvas.

  “What do you think?” Peter asked, watching her inscrutable expression.

  “I look good, therefore I like it.” She smiled as she joined him on the couch.

  “You’re a talented guy, Peter. You live up to your reputation—I like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be showing this portrait to millions of viewers on my show. It’s gonna increase your prestige as an artist like never before. You’ll be called on from all J.P. Bowie

  5

  over the world; people beggin’ you to paint them, though God knows, some of them shouldn’t bother…but what can y’do?” She gave out a brittle little laugh.

  “I mean, have you seen some of those bitches without their make-up? You should see what I have to look at when they come to the studio. Some of them need ten make-up artists to just make ’em look decent for the camera. I should keep a stock of Spackle handy for some of them. Ha-ha!”

  She fell silent as a young girl in a maid’s outfit entered the room carrying a silver tray on which stood two crystal glasses filled with white wine, and a plate of hors d’ouvres.

  “That better be chilled enough,” Olivia said, her tone sharp.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The young girl’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered the tray onto the table in front of them. Peter could not quite believe his eyes as she gave Olivia a little curtsey before she left the room.

  His patron gave out a heavy sigh. “Help…such a liability. Where was I? Oh yeah…Now me, I was born with this skin. Me and Halle—Halle Berry that is—we’re blessed with perfect skin. Look, no wrinkles, no moles, no blotches.”

  She paused in her discourse and picked up her glass. “Hey, here’s mud in your eye.”

  “Cheers,” Peter murmured, giving his watch a surreptitious glance.

  Olivia’s eyes flickered with annoyance. “You have somewhere to go?”

  “Only home.” He gave her a boyish smile. “It’s Jeff ’s birthday. We’re not really celebrating till tomorrow, but…”

  “Oh, I wish I had known,” Olivia interrupted, pouting. “Why didn’t you tell me? I want to take you guys out to celebrate.”

  “Oh well, we’re having just a few friends over tomorrow…”

  “But let me do something.” Olivia’s voice held an almost plaintive note.

  “You know I love Jeff.” She grabbed a thick leather planner from the side table and quickly skimmed through the pages.

  “Olivia,” Peter protested, “this really isn’t necessary. Jeff can come up with me on our next session and we could have a drink or…”

  “Great idea! We’ll go out—Sardi’s or somethin’. Just leave it to me.” She threw the planner back on the table.

  “Please don’t go to any trouble…”

  “Are you kidding? It’s no trouble to be seen out on the town with two great looking guys.”

  Peter groaned mentally. Lord, Jeff was going to hate this, he thought, looking at his watch again. “Olivia, I’m sorry. Would you mind if we called it a day?

  J.P. Bowie

  6

  The traffic’s going to be a bitch shortly and I wanted to be home before Jeff got there.”

  “I’ll just bet you do, you little devil.” Olivia leered at him. “Oh, you guys…Tell me, who’s top man?”

  Peter’s jaw dropped. Was she kidding? He could feel his face burning as she let out a raucous laugh.

  “Gotcha!” she roared. “Peter, you are such a prude.”

  “Not really…”

  “Yes you are.” She continued to laugh at his expense. Then she stood and held her arms open. “Give me a hug, shy boy, then run home to your lover. I never want to get in the way of true love.”

  Peter hid his annoyance as he stood and allowed Olivia to wrap her arms around him. He grimaced as she put her hands on his backside and pulled him in tight.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, her lips against his neck. “If you ever want to try the real thing, let me know.” She laughed again as she released him. “Tell Jeff I said ‘Happy Birthday’, wontcha?”

  “I’ll tell him.” Peter kissed her cheek then headed for the door. He paused, and knew he was going to hate himself for what he was about to say. “Uh, Olivia…if you’re not busy tomorrow, maybe you’d like to come to Jeff ’s party?

  It’s from five on…very casual…”

  Olivia’s smile was sweet. “Gee honey, that’s so nice of you, but I have a bunch of meetings and all. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll see you next week.”

  Olivia watched him leave, her smile quickly fading. She picked up her wine-glass and threw back its contents. “Joyce?” she yelled. “Bring me the rest of that bottle!”

  “I cannot stand this,” Peter moaned within the confines of his car as he pulled out of Olivia’s driveway. Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to this? Or rather when did it start to become such a chore? It had all seemed so fantastic in the beginning. The phone call from Olivia’s manager, Brenda Shapiro, telling him that Olivia had read the piece People magazine had done on him and Jeff after the Paul Lefevre case, and how much she wanted them on her show.

  Peter had not quite believed it. Olivia Winters’ show was peopled with mega-celebrities and Peter had never considered himself remotely in that league. After he’d put the phone down, he had called Jeff with the news.

  “She wants me there too?” he’d gasped. “But why? You’re the talent.”

  J.P. Bowie

  7

  “Well, from what I could gather from her manager, she’s also into the crime busting aspect. You know, the ‘Gay Hardy Boys bit’ that the media dubbed us.”

  “Oh.” Jeff was quiet for a moment. “What do you think? I’ve never seen her show, have you?”

  “A couple of times. Mom likes it, so I’ve watched it with her. It’s OK.”

  “Well, I guess it might be fun…”

  “That’s kinda what I thought. So I’ll say ‘yes’ when they call back?”

  “I guess…Nick can take over at the office for the day.” He paused. “I’ve never been on TV before. What the heck do you say?”

&nbs
p; Peter laughed. “You answer questions. It’s all taped beforehand, so if we mess up no one will know.”

  He sighed as he remembered how excited his mother had been when he told her they were to be interviewed by Olivia. “The Olivia Winters’ Hour!” she’d exclaimed with delight. “Oh, how marvelous. You and Jeff on the Olivia Winters’ show—I can’t believe it.”

  “Better wear your best dress,” he’d teased her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there’s no way I could let you miss out on all the excitement, Mom.

  You’ll be coming with us.”

  The day of the taping Peter and Jeff had a taste of what it felt like to be treated like ‘very famous people’. Early that morning a limo arrived at their home to take them to the studio. While Eve was escorted to her seat in the theatre, they were taken to a luxurious ‘green room’ where they were told Olivia would meet with them prior to the taping. In the meanwhile, would they care for some light refreshments?

  In the middle of them tackling a large plate of sandwiches, Olivia and Brenda descended upon them. Peter was impressed with the physical presence of the daytime diva. She was tall and slender, elegantly dressed in an off-white silk pantsuit that clung in all the right places to her curvaceous body. Her hair, carefully arranged in tiny ringlets framing her fine-boned face, was made even more beautiful by an artist’s skillful application of makeup. Her dark green eyes gleamed under long black eyelashes and the honeyed darkness of her skin lent her an astonishingly exotic appeal. No one could deny that Olivia Winters was a beautiful woman.

  Peter, ever the artist, found himself examining the planes and contours of her face with a critical eye until he was brought up short, startled, by her braying laugh.

  J.P. Bowie

  8

  “Oh—My— God!” She stood, hands on hips, studying the two men before her. “You guys are even more gorgeous in real life. Shit, ain’t no one be lookin’

  at me today!” She laughed again and then, with a mercurial shift in attitude smiled sweetly. “Hi, I’m Olivia.” She held out her hand and both Peter and Jeff took it gently and murmured polite hellos. Brenda, a short, stocky woman with brassy blonde hair cut ultra-short, handed them a list of possible questions Olivia might ask.