Lucky (65 page)

Lennie never even entered her thoughts. He was old news. As good as divorced. The moment she returned to New York she would instruct her lawyer to terminate the marriage.

*   *   *

Susan lay naked and aquiver. Her smooth alabaster skin had not been exposed to the southern sun of France. She was pale perfection, with just a small appendix scar marring the fleshscape.

Paige had stripped to aubergine bikini panties, and a lacy matching bra from which her generous bosom bulged. She gazed down at Susan, and felt no stirring passion whatsoever. The thrill is gone, she thought.

Susan’s breasts were flaccid, the nipples inverted, waiting to be brought to attention. She always
had
expected Paige to do all the work. Once the challenge had been enjoyable, now Paige didn’t know where to start. A tweak here, a feel there. It did not take much to turn Susan on.

Paige gritted her teeth and bent to the task ahead.

*   *   *

Dimitri’s lawyer in Paris ushered Francesca Fern into his office with great solicitousness. He had been warned, by the man himself, to handle her with great care. ‘Whatever she wants – do it,’ Dimitri had commanded. ‘Her divorce must be expedited immediately. No hold ups. When it is done I shall decide what to do about my present wife.’

‘Dimitri,’ his lawyer groaned. ‘If you are thinking of divorcing Lucky it will cost you a fortune.’

‘Are you forgetting she signed a marriage contract?’ Dimitri reminded.

‘No. But you also put your signature to a paper allowing her to build a hotel in Atlantic City at your expense. It could cost you many millions.’

‘She’ll never do it,’ Dimitri said dismissively. ‘And if she doesn’t handle it personally, the document becomes null and void. There is also a time limit involved. I am not a fool.’

His lawyer said, ‘No, you are not.’ But privately he thought any man who would prefer Francesca Fern to Lucky Santangelo had to be racing toward senility.

Francesca sat before him in a short silk dress, black stockings, and very high-heeled shoes. She smelt of Calèche, smoked disgusting cheroots, and every so often indulged in a coughing fit. Her legs were heavy, and when she crossed and uncrossed them, which was often, he couldn’t help noticing she wore no panties.

‘If I
do
decide to divorce my husband, Horace, at Mr Stanislopoulos’ request,’ she said huskily, ‘Horace is to be compensated handsomely, from Mr Stanislopoulos’ pocket,
not from
mine. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Madame Fern,’ the lawyer agreed pleasantly. ‘Dimitri made that clear to me on the telephone yesterday.’

She ignored his use of Dimitri’s first name, signalling a closer relationship than she wished to acknowledge. To Francesca, anyone you paid was an employee, and that’s the way she treated them.

‘Should I proceed with this divorce,’ she mused, ‘papers must be prepared for both myself and Mr Stanislopoulos to sign.’

‘Naturally,’ replied the lawyer. A marriage between these two without a financial contract was unthinkable.

‘I have many needs,’ continued Francesca, blowing smoke in his face, and crossing her heavy legs yet again.

‘I’m sure that you have, Madame Fern,’ soothed the lawyer, hating this horse-faced woman who talked down to him as if he was an office boy.

And then she told him of her needs, and he loathed her even more. Not only was she a bitch. She was a calculating one. Her requirements were outrageous. When he relayed them to Dimitri he hoped he would be equally affronted.

She wanted a huge cash settlement on the day of her divorce. A further fortune when she and Dimitri were married. More lump sums of money for each year they were together. A massive monthly expense allowance. An apartment in Paris, and a duplex in New York. A weekly clothes budget which would feed a family of four for a lifetime.
And
, a special clause which stipulated that over the period of a year she and Dimitri only had to spend six months in each other’s company. The rest of the time they were free to travel wherever they so desired.

The lawyer tried to remain expressionless as she relayed her requests, but a nerve in his cheek began to jump uncontrollably.

‘I hope you have made a full list of my requirements,’ she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt.

The lawyer rose also. ‘Yes, madame,’ he said politely.

‘Good,’ she replied haughtily. And without so much as a goodbye she stalked from his office.

Immediately he reached for the phone.

*   *   *

The Beverly Hills house was hardly a welcoming place to return to. It was less home than showplace.

Late afternoon, and the only sound was a bee buzzing.

Gino walked into the living room and found a half-eaten English tea set out on the coffee table. He helped himself to a cucumber sandwich and wandered into the kitchen which was also deserted. Then he made his way upstairs, prepared to find Susan showing Paige some new couturier creation. Women and clothes. The two went together like money and power. They spent fortunes on various expensive outfits – and then wore them only once. Who could figure it?

He smelled Paige’s perfume in the air. Musk oil. She drenched herself in it. Better than the sickly sweet ‘Joy’ which Susan favoured.

He smiled to himself. Gino Santangelo – the scent expert. The street kid with a nose!

He threw open the bedroom door and stood quite still. A tableau greeted him. Two women frozen in shock.

The blonde, not so young but well preserved. Whiter than white skin and unexciting breasts.

The copperhead. Buxom and raunchy.

They were playing games.
You show me yours . . . I’ll show you mine.

The only sound in the entire house was the roaring in his head.

Lucky tried to concentrate. It was not easy. She kept on thinking of Lennie, and when she did a stupid grin would spread itself across her face and she felt a complete fool.

‘What’s the joke?’ one of the architects she was meeting with repeatedly asked. He was an attractive guy in his early thirties. Once she might have whiled away an evening with him – but things were different now.

‘No joke,’ she said, still grinning.

He flirted with his eyes. ‘In that case you’ve got a great disposition.’

She didn’t want to encourage him, obviously her permanent smile was doing so. ‘Try telling that to my husband,’ she said offhandedly, and turned away.

Dimitri. What was she going to do about him? Since she had left the yacht a series of pictures had cropped up in various publications taken by lurking paparazzi. All were of Dimitri with Francesca. Getting on the yacht . . . off the yacht . . . running from a nightclub . . . entering a restaurant. Arms around each other, teeth flashing. The irrepressible pair. Dimitri Stanislopoulos and Francesca Fern.

How the newspapers and magazines loved them! The aging billionaire and the prima-donna actress. Both married, flam-boyant, and great newspaper copy.

Lucky was thrilled his interest in Francesca seemed not to have been dimmed by their marriage. It would make it all the easier for her to tell him it was over. The perfect excuse. She wished she could drop him a short note,
Dear Dimitri. I am releasing you from our marriage for obvious reasons. Let’s stay friends. Lucky.

How clean and simple it could be.

Instinctively she knew it would not turn out to be that civilized.

*   *   *

Olympia had purchased three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothes in Paris. Plus a new sable coat, and a selection of extravagant jewellery. She had also scored an excellent supply of top grade cocaine, a substance she now needed daily if she was to function at all. How fortunate she had been born an heiress. There was no way she could imagine a man spending that kind of money on her. Men were cheap, however much they had. She had observed her father over the years, he rarely dipped into his pocket unless it was for himself or Francesca.

She glanced at the aging actress sitting across the aisle of Dimitri’s private plane. What
did
he see in the old cow? And why hadn’t he done something about it after all these years?

She wondered why Francesca had made the sudden trip to Paris. Maybe she would ask Dimitri upon their return. He might tell her, then again he might not.

She leaned across the aisle. ‘Did you do any shopping?’ she asked.

Francesca favoured her with a look. Deep-set brooding eyes decorated with sweeping fake lashes. ‘Shopping bores me,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t bore
me,’
Olympia replied, flashing a gaudy ruby and diamond bracelet. ‘Beautiful things turn me on.’

Francesca smiled condescendingly. ‘Perhaps if you had worked a day in your life you would realize that shopping is merely mind fodder for the idle rich,’ she commented.

‘What utter balls!’ Olympia responded. She would have said more, but the plane was entering a summer storm, and the sudden turbulence shut her up.

*   *   *

And in the south of France Dimitri waited patiently for the return of his mistress. He watched Roberto and Brigette splash and play in the pool. He tried to ignore tentative conversation from Horace. He listened to his lawyer on the telephone from Paris, and roared with laughter when he heard Francesca’s demands. ‘Give her whatever she wants,’ he boomed. And he meant it.

Francesca was finally going to belong to him. He didn’t care
what
it cost.

*   *   *

Lennie flew back to L.A., an angry Jess, and an empty apartment. The producers of
The Springs
were not exactly wild with happiness either. Especially when he complained about the script he had been sent in New York, and read on the plane.

‘It’s shit,’ said Lennie.

‘Fuck you,’ said the producers. ‘We start shooting tomorrow. You want changes – you should have been here.’

Lennie sat up all night rewriting, trying to keep his concentration, thinking of Lucky.

He called her every hour until she said, ‘This is ridiculous.’ And still they continued talking.

‘I’ve got to get some sleep,’ she finally said. ‘Dimitri’s coming in tomorrow and I have to be clear-headed.’

‘You’ll call me,’ Lennie instructed. ‘I’ll be back from the studio around eight, LA. time.’

They had planned the scenario. Lucky wasn’t going to hesitate. She was to tell Dimitri it was over as soon as possible. Then she was to move out of the New York apartment with Roberto and CeeCee, and resume residence in her East Hampton house. Lawyers would then take over.

It all sounded trouble free. With acute intuition Lucky knew it would not be.

*   *   *

Olympia sensed something was wrong immediately. She had flown long enough and far enough to observe trouble when it happened. They had been preparing to land for far too long.

The Swedish stewardess was pale beneath her tan, and it was nothing to do with the storm and the turbulence they had travelled through.

‘What’s the matter?’ Olympia demanded, grabbing her arm as she attempted to rush past.

The woman gave a sickly smile. ‘Nothing,’ she said, falsely jovial.

‘Don’t give me that,’ replied Olympia, strangely calm.

‘Just a problem with the landing gear.’

‘What kind of problem?’

‘It’s stuck.’

‘Oh, wonderful!’

‘Nice Airport has been alerted. But the captain feels it will right itself before we have to use emergency procedures.’

For a moment Olympia felt panic, but only for a moment. She glanced at Francesca – the prima donna slept. ‘Don’t wake her until you have to,’ she ordered.

The stewardness nodded, visibly shaking beneath her Swedish cool.

‘How long before we have to land?’ Olympia asked.

‘Twenty minutes.’

Twenty minutes to get the landing gear to work.

And if it didn’t?

Olympia reached for her stash.

Dimitri Stanislopoulos’ private plane crash-landed at 7.45 p.m. on Friday evening.

There were nine people aboard. Seven crew and two passengers.

Upon landing on a sea of foam, the plane careened down the runway and burst into flames. Two members of the crew managed to escape the fiery furnace and one of the passengers. All three were severely burned. The rest of the people aboard perished.

*

Carrie Berkeley smiled at Bryant Gumbel as the two of them entertained America on
The Today Show.
It was early in the morning and a steaming heat wave was searing the streets of New York. Inside the air-conditioned NBC studio in Rockefeller Centre, Carrie Berkeley, a very well preserved and stylish sixty-nine, and Bryant Gumbel, one of the best interviewers on television, exchanged words, looks, and created an easygoing banter.