Synopsis

London 1968-The capital of cool. Against her parents’ wishes, Rin, a naïve but determined American 21-year-old, is off to study acting at an unconventional London drama school. So far Rin’s done everything right. This is her one chance to do something daring.

London, electric and unpredictable, is full of characters who are as seductive as they are unreliable. Rin is torn between the demands of acting school and the glittering roller-coaster life of Chelsea, where every night promises adventure—or more often than not, disaster. A glamorous country weekend turns into a bungled jewel heist orchestrated by an unapologetically immoral former debutante. There’s an affair with a famous actor whose romantic plate is fuller than she knew. A promising film job in Rome turns out to be a surreal scheme. And then she falls for a charismatic rogue who might be the love or her undoing.

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Excerpt

“Be yourself, everyone else is already taken ”

                         -Oscar Wilde

Prologue

Fall 1969. Late afternoon light filters through the glass windows of a restaurant overlooking the heartbeat of London, Kings Road. An A-list roster from every stratum crams the place. Look. There’s the Mexican Minister of Finance in a crisp navy blazer lunching with a wispy Marianne Faithfull, her half-closed eyes smudged with mascara. Chanel-clad debs and rockers in high-heeled boots flit from table to table, alighting ever so briefly on clusters of glitterati scattered about like so many seductive bouquets.

Wearing crushed velvet bell-bottoms and white go-go boots purchased at a seedy St. Marks Place boutique, I am not the best-dressed girl in the room. But I am at arguably the best table in the best club in London. Passing around a fourth bottle of expensive Merlot, an exotic model in a leopard jumpsuit shares a joke with a dour Roman Polanski. Decked out in a voluminous caftan is a Lady somebody, who’s just made bail on a felony charge. The staggeringly handsome Steve McQueen holds court, resplendent in a fringed suede jacket. “Hey Jude” plays through oversized speakers.

”What are you doing here?” A slender blonde woman in the softest of soft suede caramel pants is asking.

“I’m a drama student.” This is me trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.

”No,” the suede-on-suede woman says in a posh English accent. “What I mean is, what are you doing here? Who are you?” For that, I do not have a ready answer.

Six months ago, I’d been babysitting in Queens, New York.

A tall young man in a gauzy magenta tunic, his wrists encircled with jangling silver bracelets, pulls his chair closer. With masses of shoulder-length dark hair and high cheekbones, he’s a Polish prince, best friend to a Rolling Stone, and pretty much a stone-cold freak. This is my new boyfriend.

Six months ago, I’d been going steady with a med student from West End Avenue. And a virgin.

In this new city, I’ve been in a romantic triangle with a movie legend and nearly gotten arrested for robbing a manor house. I’m an actress but earn money reading soft-core porn to a dotty duchess. I’ve saved one friend from killing herself off the coast of Capri but can’t save another. I am on the verge of signing on with a Bad Boy who might be the love of my life. Or my undoing. I’m not nearly as polished as the suede-on-suede blonde, but has she ever slept in Keith Richard’s bed? I think not. Still, she has a point. What am I doing here?

Excerpt taken from Chapter 6

David Henderson is the hottest British actor on the scene. He’s starred in a provocative and stylish hit movie filled with sex, mystery, and naked underage girls. With his portrayal of the film’s debauched photographer, David has come to define everything cool and wild . . . and English. David is the stuff of dreams.

In my Junior year at NYU, we’d briefly dated, quite chastely, no sex, when a friend’s movie producer father had decided to provide his latest film’s star and star’s best friend with two bright, un-celeb, girls for several respectable Upper East Side dinner on their way to LA.  The next year the papers reported he’d married a Texas starlet with masses of brunette hair. Was I in love? No. Was I star-struck? Definitely. If anyone was a twentieth-century Heathcliff, he was.

Now we’d run into each in London. We’d had a polite lunch and walking me home he asked me to take a  look at the flat into which he’d just moved. He lives in a small one-bedroom in a Belgravia mews, a tiny cul-de-sac filled with absurdly expensive carriage houses sporting colorful painted shutters. An afternoon drizzle has just started as we scurry inside his bright red door. The flat sports bold hunter green walls where several antique brass horns are mounted. Buttery-soft leather armchairs flank the fireplace. Black and white sketches hang above the mantle. An old man busking on a corner. A nude lying on a couch.

“Those are amazing. Where did you find them?”

“I drew them,” David says, looking up from the fire. “They’re rubbish, really.”

He’s an artist as well? I do not want to find out anything to make him more appealing.

Small detail. The married part. But, in this tasteful man-cave, there are no signs of a Mrs. David. Not even in the bathroom through which, as any smart girl would, I do a complete reconnaissance. No makeup. No telltale skin cream. Not even an extra toothbrush.

“Your wife spends a lot of time here?”

“We are, as they say, ‘split.’ My wife, soon to be ex-wife, has chosen to remain in LA.”

Hmm.

David makes a soothing hot buttered rum. The fire obligingly crackles. And then he deals a particularly low blow. He pulls out a guitar. Yes, also a musician. David’s voice is lilting, soulful, and more to the point, seductive.

We wind up in bed.

Seeing David without clothes is surreal. After all, I’ve spent endless hours studying him on film in my Senior year film class. Had never tired of watching the erotic scene where David seduces a long-legged model. Now, pulling off his shirt, I’m seeing that same lean, rangy body. In real life.

I feel deeply shy. Frozen. My voluptuous body is so out of synch with the flat-chested Kings Road babes who are the fashion icons. I’ve never felt so naked in my life.

“That was worth waiting for,” he smiles.

Sliding off his soft corduroy jeans, he stands in front of me. What I can’t take my eyes off is the “V” his muscles form, sliding downward from his torso.

This simple piece of anatomy feels like it should count as anatomical porn. What is startling is how normal it all seems. He’s not a movie star.I’m not a schoolgirl.

Being naked is the great equalizer.

Some sex can be raunchy and salty with rough edges. This sex is filled with moments of surprise that “that” could feel like “that.” With Michael, making love was all about the destination, not the voyage. This is a journey I don’t want to end. I keep my eyes closed.

“I want to see you,” he says. “Look at me.”

And so, I look into David’s enormous eyes. Intense. Luminous blue.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this easily,” they say.

About the Author

Ellen Sherman, writer and producer, took a circuitous path to both after an acting career which included Broadway, TV and the lead in a curious avant garde Mexican horror film. She’s been a screenwriter, journalist and documentary filmmaker. Her award-winning doc, All Dressed Up and No Place to Go, chronicling the lives of four heterosexual cross dressers, was featured at the Montreal Film Festival and on HBO/Cinemax. .

Her career took an unexpected turn when she began writing and producing crime-centric one hours for, among others, MSNBC and A&E Investigates. She then spent 8 years as a staff Writer/Producer for NBC Dateline. In 2023 she launched the podcast Binge or Bomb which reviews streaming international TV series the world loves, and you might never have heard of.

Ellen grew up in New York City, but relished her time living in London, Mexico City and Los Angeles. Having had a gloriously misspent youth, it’s the backdrop against which BAD GIRLS GO EVERYWHERE is based.

Currently she lives in Manhattan and Bridgehampton with husband, Peter and the amazing Ziggy.

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