Sinners by Jackie Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

married. He lay in bed day after day, his eyes glassy and blank, hardly talking, completely passive.
    She visited him every day, and after a few weeks he begged her to get him out, to let him come home. He assured her he was completely cured.
    The doctor said no, it was too soon. But she felt so sorry for him just lying there. She felt sure that at home he would become his old self.
    She persuaded the doctor to release him, and within two days at home he had made a miraculous recovery. He was his old charming assured self.
    Of course he was back on the drug.
    The next two years were a nightmare. She became his nurse, enemy, spy, welfare visitor, and jailer. And he went from doctor to doctor, hospital to nursing home, with intervals in between at home – supposedly cured. But she would always discover the truth, and back to another doctor he would go.
    Her life became an existence of visiting him, or if he was home, watching him. She also had to work as much as she could, for suddenly there was no money, and his family didn’t care to be involved.
    The end came one morning when she awoke uneasily. Paulo had been home a week, off the drug, just lying in bed staring at the ceiling, his once-handsome face unshaven and drawn. Now he was not beside her.
    She ran first to the bathroom. The door was locked. She knocked and called his name, but there was no reply. She looked through the keyhole, he was lying on the floor quite still.
    Panic stricken she called the doctor, and together they broke the door down.
    Paulo was dead. Killed by a massive overdose.
    At the inquest they called it accidental death. In her own mind Sunday wasn’t sure.
    She endured the gossip for a few weeks, and then the opportunity to go to Hollywood arose and she leaped at the chance.
    Rome no longer held the same magic for her.
    *    *    *
    ‘Look, I really think you should go to this party of Jack’s,’ Carey said for the second time.
    Sunday was staring out of the window cuddling her little dog. ‘Did you know my husband killed himself?’ she asked.
    ‘What?’ Carey looked at her in amazement. They had never discussed Sunday’s former life although Carey knew all about it from newspaper clippings.
    ‘Yes.’ Sunday nodded dreamily. ‘How will that fit into my big publicity build-up?’
    ‘Look, honey,’ Carey put a hand lightly on her shoulder, ‘I know about your past and that’s what it is – past. It’s not normal for you to shut yourself up here. You’re a beautiful girl, you’ve got to get out and enjoy yourself. Apart from which, it will be good for your image to be seen. Just Jack’s party to start off with, huh?’
    ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Sunday said. ‘OK, I’ll go.’
    ‘Great! There’s a good girl. Now what are you going to wear that will knock ’em all cold?’

 

Chapter Seven
    Herbert Lincoln Jefferson polished the faded crinkled leather of his best brown shoes. He had had them eight years but they still gave good service.
    Marge shuffled into the kitchen to fetch herself a beer from the fridge. She was chewing on a chicken leg.
    ‘You want me to do that?’ she asked mouth full of chicken.
    Herbert shook his head. She asked him every night, and every night he said no.
    Marge pulled the ring on the beer can and some of the liquid sprayed out over Herbert’s shoes, which he was cleaning on the table.
    ‘Gee, I’m sorry, Herbie,’ she said nervously, grabbing at a corner of her dress and attempting to rub the shoes.
    He gave her a shove.
    She looked at him with hurt eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Herbie, I said I’m sorry . . .’ She took her can of beer and left the kitchen.
    Muttering under his breath Herbert finished polishing the shoes. He put them on and admired them, one foot at a time. Then he put on his jacket, patted the letter in the inside pocket, and left the house on his way to the bus stop.
    He liked working nights for the Supreme Chauffeur Company. He hated the daytime jobs, boring trips