Lucky (62 page)

‘Matt knows the real story,’ Jess added. ‘Not that he’s likely to tell it. The whole mob scene in Vegas is a grey area – nobody talks.’

‘Thanks for the guided tour of Lucky Santangelo’s life. It doesn’t make any difference – I still feel the same way about her.’

‘Christ! You sound like some naive jerk up from the sticks. What
is it
with you and these dumb stupid obsessions you get? I can remember the Lennie Golden who could get laid without giving a damn. What happened?’

‘You know something, Jess? You’re my manager, not my fucking keeper.’

They glared at each other, neither giving an inch.

The Tonight Show
came and went. He was good, not as good as he could have been, but Johnny seemed to like him – in fact he asked him to sit with the other guests after he’d done his bit, and they chatted, and Johnny was charming, and when it was over he got invited back.

‘You were
great.
They
loved
you,’ Jess enthused in the limo on the way home. ‘When Johnny asks you over, you
know
you’ve got it made.’

He wasn’t really listening, he was wondering if Lucky had watched the show, and hoped she had.

They were only hours apart, but he missed her.

*   *   *

Lucky utilized Dimitri’s desk and worked on ideas for the Santangelo. She put on her Sony earphones and listened to Isaac Hayes – one of her favourite soul singers. He really let it all hang out – his deep sensuous voice expressing everything she felt.

At eleven-thirty she glanced at the television, and automatically switched it on.

‘Heeeeere’s
Johnny!’ said the familiar voice of Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson.

The most famous man on American television strolled in front of the camera and indulged in light banter with his excited audience.

Lucky fixed herself a drink and stared at the set. Halfway through Johnny’s monologue she turned it off.

Five minutes later she switched it on again.

Why watch Lennie Golden?

Why not?

When he finally appeared he received a wild ovation from the audience. Obviously, as Alice had said, he was hot.

And he was. His cutting ironic wit hit home with everyone. And he looked great too.

She lit a cigarette and blew contemplative smoke rings.

Lennie Golden.

More than just a casual encounter.

*   *   *

The day after the Carson show, Lennie cancelled a club engagement – much to Jess’s fury – and flew to New York. He checked into the Regency Hotel and called Lucky. ‘I’m here, and we have to talk,’ he announced.

‘Forget it. Nothing’s going to happen,’ she replied.

‘Don’t give me a hard time. Just have dinner with me.’

‘What for? It won’t do any good.’

‘Because I want you to tell me nothing more can happen between us when we’re face to face, and then I’ll leave you alone. That’s a promise.’

She hesitated.

He persisted. ‘Is it a deal?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Hey, you want to get left alone, don’t you? I mean I can really drive you nuts with phone calls and letters and flowers. I can hang around outside your apartment, complicate your life – you know what I mean?’ He paused, then, ‘If I was you, lady, I would
grab
this magnificent offer and run like crazy.’ He waited a beat, giving her just enough time to make a decision. ‘So – what time shall I pick you up?’

‘It won’t do—’

‘. . . any good,’ he finished the sentence for her. ‘Expect me at eight-thirty.’

She started to object, but he hung up before she could argue further.

Lucky Santangelo was going to be his, and nothing was going to stop him.

Francesca Fern considered Dimitri Stanislopoulos marrying again a direct insult. She brought the subject up at every opportunity, becoming progressively agitated as the cruise drew to an end.

‘It is humiliating!’ she complained, as they faced each other over the ever-present backgammon board. ‘The
world
knows it is
me
you love. And now you have married this . . . this . . . person. How do you think I feel? You have made a public fool of me.’

He leaned over and touched her coarse red hair. Then he let his hand stray down the neckline of her low-cut dress, reaching for her prominent nipples. ‘Magnificent!’ he murmured. The jut of her breasts reminded him of a native African woman he had once seen pictured in
National Geographic
, and to chew on her nipples was the greatest aphrodisiac a man could know.

She slapped his hand away. ‘Good God, Dimitri!’ She glared at him, full of passion. ‘Wasn’t
my love
enough?’

Quickly he defended himself. ‘I married Lucky because of the boy,’ he explained for the hundredth time.

‘Yes. And now you must divorce her,’ Francesca replied imperiously, her tone brooking no argument.

‘I don’t think so,’ Dimitri said. ‘She doesn’t bother us. She’s very independent, and quite frankly, my dear, when you are not around I need a woman by my side.’

‘She’s no woman!’ Francesca spat viciously. ‘She’s a slut! I don’t know how you can have touched her in the first place. She’s a Romany – a gypsy. She looks dirty to me.’

Francesca was not happy when denied her own way.

‘Enough!’ said Dimitri sharply. ‘I never criticize that miserable dog
you’re
married to.’

‘Why should you? Horace has been very . . . understanding over the years.’

‘Understanding indeed! He’s nothing but a cuckold with no balls. A joke, my dear, hardly worth mentioning.’

She pursed her thin lips, slashed with carmine. ‘Goddamn you to hell,’ she hissed. ‘All you want is my body. You use me. You care nothing for my feelings.’

Dimitri laughed harshly. ‘Nobody uses
you
, Francesca.’

She rose from the table, tall, big-boned and sinewy. ‘True,’ she said haughtily. ‘Nobody uses Francesca Fern – not even the big bad Greek.’ Her voice began to mock. ‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos, with all his money and power. Dimitri Stanislopoulos, who would
die
to be near me, but who refuses to obey my one tiny request.’

‘And what about
my
request?’ he bellowed loudly. ‘For too many years I have been asking you to free yourself from Horace and marry me. I have begged and threatened, done everything a man can possibly do. You
dare
to talk of humiliation.
I’m
the one who has been humiliated. That you should choose to stay with such a pathetic creature when you could have been Mrs Stanislopoulos. My God, Francesca!’

‘Divorce the gypsy, and we shall see,’ she murmured mysteriously.

‘No,’ Dimitri replied, pushing the backgammon board away and getting up.
‘You
divorce Horace and we shall see.’

‘Don’t blackmail me,’ she raged. ‘Don’t you
dare
to blackmail Francesca Fern!’

‘This is not blackmail, this is survival,’ he countered sternly.

She swept her lover with a look. ‘Very well,’ she decided dramatically. ‘The time has come.’

‘For what?’

‘For us to be together as you have always wished.’

‘You will divorce Horace?’

‘I will think about it.’

Dimitri thumped the table with his fist.
‘Goddamn
you, woman. Make up your mind.’

Her eyes flashed as she tossed back her mane of red hair. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will do it!’

*   *   *

The Contessa clasped Susan’s hand. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she said. ‘Or should I say
au revoir
, for surely we shall meet again.’

The Contessa smelt of Chanel. She had leathery skin and a downturned, discontented mouth. Her beauty must have been exceptional when she was young. Now she was merely chic. She made Susan feel like a naive girl, a feeling she hadn’t had for thirty-five years.

‘Please phone if you ever get to Beverly Hills,’ Susan urged politely, and hoped she wouldn’t.

‘Beverly Hills,’ the Contessa said with an amused smile. ‘Rodeo Drive and film people.’ She made both sound like dirty words.

‘And Arabs,’ Susan added tartly. The Contessa was a snob. And as far as Susan was concerned she was also a pervert. After their first delicious sexual encounter the Contessa had suggested that her oily Arab boyfriend join in the fun. Susan had been appalled. ‘Certainly not,’ she had said, and the Contessa had treated her with irritating condescension ever since.

Susan thought about Paige. She couldn’t wait to see her. Paige would never dare suggest a threesome.

*   *   *

Olympia returned to the yacht, happy and coked up to the eyeballs. Dimitri was too busy to notice. Francesca had agreed to visit his lawyer in Paris and work out the details of getting rid of Horace. Then they would tell him. Together.

Olympia kissed Brigette on the cheek and counted the days before the child returned to boarding school in England. Having a daughter was such a burdensome responsibility – if it wasn’t for Brigette, she would be free to do whatever she wanted. It never occurred to her that she did do
exactly
what she wanted at all times.

Flash had flown off to Germany for a recording session. They were to meet in her New York apartment in a week’s time. Life would be normal again. Sex, drugs and rock and roll.

Olympia was pleased with the way things had worked out. Flash never mentioned his teenage wife except to wave his hand airily and say, ‘A mistake, gel. She’ll never bother us.’

Olympia felt the same way about Lennie. A mistake also. Now she had Flash back she would get rid of him. He was in California, far far away. No problem.

‘Francesca’s going to Paris for the day later in the week,’ Dimitri announced casually over dinner. ‘My plane will take her.’ Horace busied himself with his cracked crab, determined to ignore the fact that his world was about to crumble. There were only the Ferns and Olympia left on the cruise, and the two children and their respective nannies.

‘Wonderful!’ Olympia exclaimed. ‘I’ll go too. I need a day’s shopping.’

‘Can I come, Mama?’ begged Brigette, who had been allowed to eat with the grown-ups as a special treat.

‘Don’t be so silly, darling,’ trilled Olympia.

‘Why not?’ demanded Brigette.

‘Because . . .’ replied Olympia vaguely.

Brigette chewed on her thumb. ‘Please, mama!’ she whined.

‘No’, snapped Olympia. ‘Absolutely not.’

Brigette glared. ‘I hate you!’ she yelled suddenly, taking everyone by surprise. ‘I really hate you. You’re a big fat cow!’

‘Brigette!’ thundered Dimitri. ‘How dare you talk to your mother like that. Go to your room immediately.’

Brigette weighed the chances of taking on her grandfather and decided against it. ‘But grandpoppa, it’s just that I never
see
Mama,’ she whined pathetically. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. But why
can’t
I go?’

Dimitri turned to his daughter.

‘Ridiculous!’ sniffed Olympia. ‘I am not dragging a child with me.’

Brigette decided a few sobs might come in handy. She began to snivel.

‘God!’ huffed Olympia, and rang for Nanny Mabel, who removed the crying child immediately.

A date. Lucky didn’t go on dates – it had never been part of her lifestyle. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,’ Lennie had said. She hadn’t agreed. He had merely stated what he was going to do and she had accepted it.

Now she wished she hadn’t. What good would it do? Theirs was a relationship headed nowhere. She realized it. Why didn’t he?

At seven o’clock she instructed the butler to say she was out of town. Then she spent the next half hour worrying what Lennie would do. Maybe it was best to see him, and sort things out once and for all.

She changed her instructions and tried to decide what to wear. Dimitri liked her to dress up, but she preferred casual, so she settled for soft black leather pants and an oversized white silk shirt which she belted tightly. Black boots, gold hoop earrings, and her panther brooch completed the outfit. She wore her hair loose.

By eight o’clock she had changed her mind again.
Why
see him? He obviously didn’t understand what a delicate situation they were caught in. Like most men he probably thought he was on to a good thing – an available piece of ass presented itself and he went for it. Shit! He had suckered her. He was chasing an easy lay. That’s all she was to him. Men couldn’t seem to understand that women could be as sexually free as the male sex. Screw Lennie Golden. Why
should
she see him?

‘I’m going out,’ she informed the butler. ‘When Mr Golden gets here tell him I won’t be back tonight.’

‘Yes, madame,’ said the butler, his Englishness not betraying a flicker of interest.