Picking up on the real beach idea:
It's such a pleasure working with 20th Century Fox, where men really know how to treat a lady. When Joan Collins was under contract the Rank Organisation, it was as though they didn't want to give good roles to British actresses. But Fox wants Joan to be the next Liz Taylor. She appreciates the UK angle, although Joan intends to be the one and only Joan Collins!
As a sign of support, the studio has sent a muscular teamster to carry Joan's beach umbrella down the precipitous path to El Matador Beach. And of course, Joan's assistant brought the vital ice chest with all the makings for a cool, fizzy Vodka Collins. Joan liked to think the drink had been named after her. Joe Collins may be a cold-hearted bastard, but he knows how showbiz works. "Get off your bum and get yourself to Hollywood," he'd told his daughter. "Get with them with money, who'll spend it promoting you, and never forget to promote yourself."
It is true that people in the States are so coarse. What's unforgivably pushy in London is the height of Hollywood manners. And the women were even worse. Look at the rough girls in this contest. They could hardly speak English, some of them, and that was the Yanks! Still, if it were good for her career, Joan didn't mind mixing it up a bit. The key to these contests is to avoid real damage, provide a few good hair-pulling stills and keep the make-up girl close at hand.
But it was annoying to be kept waiting in this heat by that Fonda girl. She apparently thought she was some sort of Hollywood royalty because of her father, as though Hollywood could ever recognise true royalty! Clearly Joan and company are in the right place, because down the way there's a peppermint-striped tent with "Welcome Wildcats" or some such drivel on it. Now that Joan is down here on the beach, though, she has to admit the spot was scenic, a pocket beach wedged along the bluffs below the Pacific Highway, with the sandy expanse broken by scattered rocky outcroppings, including some that were quite large, real boulders.
Finally, here comes skinny Jane Fonda, stumbling down the precipitous path, hair flying, sweating already. Joan is surprised she has no entourage with her, another sign of poor planning. Jane is flushed and flustered. She had taken Decker Canyon Road, just like her dad had told her. She was sure that's what he had said, although when she called the studio to check, Henry Fonda had not returned her call, any of her calls. Sure enough, the first turn from the highway led to a beach, but there weren't any celebrities in sight. Jane raced back to her unreliable Fiat and drove along the highway until she found the turn-in for El Matador.
It was a long way from the parking lot to the beach, and Jane had time to think about her situation. It is good to be out in the sunshine, away from the East Coast and all those painful memories. She does miss Mr. Strasberg, though. He'd been the first man to believe in her, and has probably done more for her in this business than her father. Still, if her dad doesn't open doors, his name does. Jane thinks she could really make something of herself in Hollywood. Warner Brothers latched onto her after Broadway, and they really seem to like her. It's a good situation, except for that creepy Jack Warner turning up for all the costume fittings, always demanding more padding in Jane's bra. But if she hits it big in movies, then her father would have to notice her! And when she finishes slapping around some of these other women, maybe he'll even respect her.
"Nice of you to join us, dearie," Joan needles her.
"Sorry, sorry," Jane replies, annoyed at Joan and herself. "I'll be ready in just a moment."
Joan skims her sun hat to her assistant, then slowly unwraps her terrycloth robe and winks at the teamster. Underneath, she's wearing one of those new bikinis, a large-pane, brightly colored plaid. It's not one of her favorites, but she doesn't mind if it gets torn off. Even on, it's abbreviated enough that it doesn't cover too much of her beautiful breasts or shapely bum. Joan knows she's the most beautiful thing on this beach.
Jane pulls off her knit top, kicks off her white sandals and is unbuttoning her aqua culottes as she asks, "Where's the referee?"
Joan is about to say she didn't know but the tent flap opens and a man in a business suit and slick-backed hair emerges. His concessions to the informal situation are his open-necked shirt and loafers.
"Ready to go, girls?" he asks. striding forward quickly.
"Mr. Warner?" Jane says in surprise.
Joan opens her mouth, shuts it, and then begins again. "Excuse me, sir. I'm Joan Collins."
"Nice to meet you, sweetie," he says, without raising his eyes from Joan's chest.
"Mr. Warner?" Jane repeats.
"Hiya, kid," he says with a wave, but is still staring at Joan's great rack.
Joan's fine with that, but not with the head of a rival studio supervising her match. "Mr. Warner, this girl works for you," she says with a nod toward Jane.
Jack briefly glances that way, says, "So she does" and returns to studying Joan's breasts.
"Well, I will not compete under these circumstances," Joan says. "It would hardly be fair."
Jack is so startled that he looks Joan in the face. Great face to wake up to, he thinks.
"Hey, I'm always fair," he says. "Just ask" he snaps his fingers at Jane but cannot find her name. Exasperated, he looks back to Joan's face, "Who works for who, that's just business. What I care about," his gaze again drops to Joan's boobs, "is talent. Don't you know, I'm one of the sponsors of these matches, a regular patron of the art. I want the best fight possible, everything hunky-dory."
Joan senses opportunity. She leans forward and links arms with Warner. "Let's negotiate," she says, pulling him closer, and they start strolling down the beach. After a moment, they pause, and Jack half turns and calls to Joan's people. "The craft spread is in the tent. Try the caviar and blini."
"Mr. Warner!" Jane calls after them, increasingly agitated, but the others head down the beach to eat.
Why does so much in Hollywood go on behind closed doors? Even now, you can't really say it's closed doors, since they're out on the beach. But it's like it's behind closed doors, with Mr. Warner and that Collins woman with their heads together. They're all smiles as they turn and stroll back.
Jane has gotten down to a little bikini in an orange-and-gold flower pattern. Jane thinks it's pretty. True, the top is a bit big for her, but Jane solves that with tissues. The bottom hugs her little butt nicely, and Jane thinks that's one of her best features. But Fonda is not thinking about her ass now. She wants to find out what the heck is going on.
"All settled," Jack tells her. "Let's go."
"Wait a minute..." Jane begins, but Joan springs at her.
Sand doesn't make for the best footing, but Joan spent plenty of time on the beach in Brighton. She gets enough momentum into her launch that her nails slash across Jane's cheeks and find her hair. Even better, Joan's body crashes chest first into the thinner woman. Jane goes down, twisting away from Joan's claws. For a moment, Collins is on top of her, yanking her hair. Sand scours Jane's face, where blood already peeps from scratches. But as Jane rolls away, Joan loses her grip. She lunges after her prey, lashing out, but as Jane shifts away the blows lose force. Jane scrambles to her feet.
Fonda is quicker than Collins, and immediately shifts to attack, jumping Joan as she's still in the process of standing up, driving her back down. But the sand is tricky, and Jane lands awkwardly, coming down on Joan's right shoulder instead of landing squarely. Joan feels a shooting pain in her neck as Jane's arms whack her, but her shoulder catches Fonda in the ribs, bruising her. Jane falls off, but is able to roll away as Joan pauses to favor her neck. The pain quickly subsides, but by then Jane is back on her feet and coming on, eyes flashing.
This time, Joan knows to spring up quickly, but Jane is still quicker. She connects with an open-handed slap, hard enough to stagger Joan. Joan puts out her hands and grabs Jane as she's coming in, but Jane gets her right arm free and lands two quick punches before Collins can grab her again. Jane looks at Joan's lush figure and knows Collins is soft. But in close, she is surprised to find she can't overpower the English rose. As they grapple, slipping in the sand, Jane tries to push Joan back toward the water. But it's Joan who breaks Jane's hold. The shorter women has even more leverage as she comes uphill at Fonda. Joan bulls her way in, pulling Jane's arms down and tossing her with a hip throw.
Jane is shaken, but she's still focused. She shoots out a leg and sweeps Collins off her feet. Jane realizes she needs to avoid close combat and doesn't pounce on the fallen woman. Instead, as Joan pushes off the sand, Jane kicks her in the side of the head. Fonda makes a mental note: that's painful without shoes. But more so for Collins, now face down in the sand. She starts to get up, but Jane launches another kick. It's only a glancing blow, and Joan grabs at Jane's slim leg. It slides out of her grasp, but Jane, off balance, falls to the sand. Joan is able to rise, but she's still dazed. On the damp sand, she backs away in a half circle as Jane approaches. Joan stumbles over one of the small rocks on the beach, and as she hops in pain, Jane strides forward. With her opponent near, Joan regains her balance and takes a punching stance, but Jane shoots under her defense for the takedown. Joan rolls to the side and manages to get halfway to her feet, but this time, Jane tackles her from behind. Clawing her way over Joan's magnificent ass and up her back, Jane unsnaps the Englishwoman's bikini top.
Maybe Jane has seen too many movies, for her idea is to wrap the top around Joan's throat and throttle her. In practice, she finds it's too far for her to reach from behind to the apex of Joan's heaving chest, especially as Joan struggles to get free. Jane loses her grasp on the garment, and also her balance as Joan shrugs her aside. Knocked to the sand, Jane kicks out and connects solidly with Joan's thigh.
That hurt, and even though Joan is standing again, this has turned far too serious for her liking. To her dismay, the American pops right up again. Joan is backing up the beach, panting, her left eye starting to close from Jane's earlier punches. She can't believe that stringy girl shows no signs of stopping. Instead, Jane suddenly sprints to come even with Joan. From out of arm's reach, Jane tries a jump kick. She misses her target, Joan's stomach, as her opponent turns, but still catches her in the side. Joan lets out a little cry and stumbles away.
To Jane, Joan looks scared. Damn, the bitch's boobs are enormous compared to mine, she must be top heavy. With a few more long-range shots, she should be down and out. Jane stalks Collins carefully. Does Joan realize she's backing toward that large boulder? Apparently she does, because suddenly it's Joan who takes a few quick steps, going behind it. This is ridiculous. Is Jane supposed to chase her around the rock?
"Hey, wait for me, I can't see," comes a yell. It's Jack Warner, balancing to put a loafer back on, his suit dusted with sand. In the intensity of the fight, Jane completely forgot about him.
"Listen, Mr. Warner, either get her back out here or declare me the winner," Jane says, no longer feeling deferential.
"Hold your horses, sweetheart, let's take a look," he says and steps toward the boulder, then stops and waves Jane forward. "C'mon, it's your fight."
Jane moves a few yards up from the boulder, so she won't be surprised while circling it. Instead, she's surprised to see that Joan has climbed up on it.
"What are you doing?" Jack asks plaintively as Collins comes into his view.
Jane walks toward the rock to join him. "Really? Really?" she says, spreading her arms wide as she looks at Joan with increasing exasperation. "Tell her I win," Jane says to Warner.
"I guess," he begins, but Joan suddenly springs off per perch. Her aim isn't good, she almost misses Jane completely. But as she is flying past, Joan's right fist and forearm smack Jane hard across the face.
Jane is lying on something soft but scratchy, maybe a vast pillow. But is it day or night? Everything seems bright, mostly bright red, but also dark. The sky is full of stars and meteors, but the sun is out. Oh, she's on a beach. With a groan, Jane rolls over and digs her fingers into sand.
Joan is on her knees, watching her rival. That bitch is not going to bounce back again, is she? Not with her eyes rolling like slot machine counters and blood spurting from her nose?
"Shouldn't you be counting her out or something?" Joan says to Jack. "Isn't this over?"
The man in the suit shrugs, "It's over when it's over."
Furious, Joan gets to her feet. "This should not be necessary," she said, but marches over to Jane, who's between her and the rising tide. Joan would like to think the scrawny girl is just twitching, but no, she's pulling her hands in, pushing herself up. Jane is wobbly, her head hanging so her bottle blonde hand lashes the sand. But shakily, she pushes her ass into the air.
Joan's foot strikes it with a very satisfying thunk. Jane flies forward, her face furrowing the wet sand, which plugs her nose bleed. Now that Joan takes a closer look, this loser does have quite a cute little ass, with just enough cushioning that it doesn't hurt to kick it. Unbelievably, Jane pulls her head out of the sand. Joan happily boots her in the rear again, sending Jane prone closer to the water.
"All right, that's done it," Joan says, turning to Jack. "I need a stiff drink."
"No, no, no," he says excitedly. "You've got to strip her."
"What?"
"It's in the rules!"
"Damn the rules," Joan says, but she abruptly bends down, grabs Jane's bikini bottoms, and roughly pulls it down from Jane's narrow hips, which offer little opposition. Puffing, Joan drags the scrap of orange through the sand, down the girl's thin legs and off her narrow feet. The procedure seems to revive Jane slightly. Still flat in the sand, she starts to snake away feebly.
"Now her top," Warner says in a strangled voice, flushing.
Joan looks at him contemptuously. Just because he might be able to do her some good doesn't mean he isn't a weasel. But she plants a foot firmly on Jane's butt to stop her crawl. She has to kneel to unsnap Fonda's bikini top and slide it over Jane's bony shoulders. Struggling, she rolls Jane onto her side and pulls the top away from her chest. Two wads of tissues fall from Jane's A-cups and begin floating off on the breeze. Joan bursts out laughing.
She looks up at Jack with a triumphant grin and points at Jane's flat chest. "You sent a boy to do a woman's job."
"I know, I know," he says with a sad sigh.
Jane twists away and starts crawling again. Joan grabs her long hair and yanks her head back. But she can't keep her grip and struggles for a few steps to stop Jane and try again. Finally, Joan twists her arm, causing Jane to writhe around. Joan is able to pull the top down Jane's other arm and rips it away. She's exhausted, she's hurting and she's got no earthly use for a 32A bikini top, except maybe as an egg cosy. She lets Jane drop on her side, creating a tiny splash in the foam now lapping around them. To punish her for all the aggravation, Joan reaches down to give each of Jane's tiny titties a twist, but when the girl is on her back, they're too small to grasp. Joan settles for nipple pinches, which bring a gratifying squeal from the loser.
Joan stands up and throws the bikini top at Jack. "There, happy? Now where are my people?"
Jack makes a choking sound, and waves his hands in a crossing pattern. Joan assumes he's signaling "all over," nods and takes a stride up the beach, looking for the tent. Jack grabs her arm.
"What is it?" she hisses.
"You've got to humiliate her," he squeaks.
Joan looks at him a long moment. She is happier than ever that she'd signed with Fox. Spyros Skouras may have his eccentricities, but he's a real prince compared to this lad.
"What do you call that?" she demands, with a hand backward at the battered girl at the water's edge.
"That was stripping her," Jack says, sweating heavily.
For being so small, it was amazing that Jane's nipples could send such jolting pain through her, and she writhes as Joan drops her. A splash of cold water fully awakens her, although Jane isn't sure whether she would say she is revived. Her horizon is filled with small waves that from sand level looked like tsunamis. Jane realizes she is naked. It feels like every inch of her exposed skin had been flayed. Her face is sticky with sand and blood, her ribs feel broken and she might never sit down again. But the ringing in her ears is gradually resolving into an argument.
"This is really quite déclassé, Jack," a female voice is saying.
"No really, it's got loads of class," comes the reply. It's a man, someone familiar.
"It's quite unnecessary and I've already done enough," the woman again, one of those phony British tones.
"It's in the rules, see, humiliation," the man says triumphantly. Why that's Mr. Warner! Where is he? Oh, oh, that's what's happening, the fight with whoever.
Jane Fonda pushed herself up to her hands and knees, which sent a throb of pain through her buttocks. So this is El Matador Beach. Pain and blood aside, it's sort of nice. There's these rocks scattered through the sand, some with stray flecks of something shiny like mica. She found herself staying at one poking up from the sand, as tiny and perky as one of Jane's tits. She should pick it up.
The sexy woman in the plaid bikini and the suited man with slicked-back hair were turned away from her. Their voices were arguing, but their heads were close, and one of his thick hands was creeping along her taut waist.
"C'mon," he says, cajoling. "You Brits invented humiliation. Haven't you ever been to a country house for the weekend?"
It takes every bit of Jane's concentration to put one foot in front of the other, but once she starts there's no way to stop her momentum. It feels natural, windmilling her arms, until the hand with the stone comes down on the statuesque woman's pile of dark hair. The contact slows Jane, but she still stumbles into the man as the woman falls like timber, face down in the sand.
"Mr. Warner," Jane gasps, as he catches her in her arms.
"Hiya, kid," he says without missing a beat.
Whose kid is this again? Hell, you can play xylophone tunes on her ribs. What is she, 14? It's too bad the dame with the tits didn't win. And with the ass. And with the thighs. And with the face. Jack Warner was ready to make that woman a contract offer she couldn't refuse. Ah well, next time, maybe.
"I knew you could do it, kid," he tells Jane. "Have you got enough left to pee on her?"
