‘So . . . don’t you think it’s a little . . . strange?’
Francesca shrugged, snatched the menu from a hovering Captain, and studied it intently. ‘Nothing strange. It’s
his
island.’
‘Hmm’, said Olympia. ‘I think it’s strange that he hands out explicit instructions
nobody
is to visit while he’s there. And that includes me. I wanted to send my daughter and I was informed I couldn’t.’
Francesca dragged deeply on her cheroot, and waved to a passing producer. ‘Why are you telling
me
? I have no wish to go there.’
‘You and Dimitri are such good . . . friends. I thought you might know why he’s acting like this. Does he have a new girlfriend?’
Francesca turned her brilliant gaze on the Captain. ‘A herb omelette’, she requested. ‘And a green salad. No dressing.’
Olympia frowned. Francesca didn’t seem at all concerned that Dimitri might be shacked up with a secret new love.
‘For you, Miz Stanislopoulos?’ the Captain asked respectfully.
‘Blinis, sour cream, caviar, apple pancakes, and a dish of strawberries on the side.’
Francesca’s look said it all. ‘Don’t you watch your diet?’ she murmured.
‘No’, Olympia replied defiantly. ‘It goes straight to my tits – and Flash watches those.’
Lunch, after that, was all downhill. Stilted conversation, and a rush to be the first to leave.
‘Goodbye’, said Francesca graciously. ‘I expect we shall see each other as usual in August.’
‘I don’t know about that’, replied Olympia. ‘Dimitri might be otherwise engaged. He could cancel the cruise.’
‘I don’t think so’, said Francesca with a knowing smile, and swept out.
Olympia could not stand the woman. She decided to stay and order another portion of strawberries, a fresh Bloody Mary, and maybe just the tiniest piece of cheesecake.
She was glad she did, for who should appear a few minutes later, but Vitos Felicidade, her short-term lover before Flash.
‘Vitos’, she cried out, waving vigorously.
He stopped, glanced in her direction. It took him a moment to remember her, but when he did the smile was perfect, the hand kissing beautifully executed. ‘Oleeempeea! So loooovlee.’
Vitos had been the victim of a huge media blitz in the past year, and was now far more famous than when they first met. He was dressed impeccably. A Savile Row blue silk suit, custom-made shirt, gold cufflinks and a not so discreet diamond identity bracelet. He was accompanied by two women. One of them was his personal PR, and the other, a fat female carrying a tape recorder and a file of clippings.
‘Thees ees the
New York Times
’ he announced, indicating the large woman. ‘Ana thees – Pamela.’ The PR nodded curtly, as Vitos elaborately gestured toward Olympia. ‘La-deez, may I presenta you, Senorita Oleempeea Staneeezlo-poulos.’
Both women jumped to attention and stared at the voluptuous puffy-faced blonde. Her affair with rock-cult figure Flash had been making headlines for two years.
Olympia nodded dismissively – she hated the press unless it was
Vogue
or
Harpers
– even
Architectural Digest
passed muster.
She scribbled her phone number on a book of matches and handed them to Vitos. ‘Call me,’ she instructed with a knowing look. ‘Later.’
His smile was still perfection. He clicked his heels in an olde-worlde fashion, saluted, and departed, the two women close behind him.
Olympia pursed her lips. He might provide a relaxing interlude. The afternoon stretched endlessly before her. She did not have an appointment with her manicurist. In fact she had nothing to do at all except return to her apartment (dull without the electric presence of Flash) and her child. Brigette, now eleven, was even more of a monster. She and Flash had experienced instant hate, and a month after their meeting Olympia had arranged for Brigette to continue her education in England. Flash’s manager had suggested a suitable school in Oxfordshire, and Olympia packed Nanny Mabel and Brigette straight off. Brigette attended weekly boarding school, and Nanny Mabel was installed in a house nearby so that Brigette would have somewhere to spend the weekends. It was all working out well enough – if one chose to ignore the dreadful report cards.
The major problem was vacations. Naturally Olympia had to spend
some
time with her child and there was no escaping vacations. She had hoped she could send Brigette and Nanny to Dimitri’s island, but he, surprisingly, had said no. That was when Olympia realized something was up. She had thought Francesca might have provided answers, but no such luck.
It was not easy being a mother. Awesome responsibilities. And Brigette did not appreciate a thing. The older she got the more difficult she became. Did she realize that right now Olympia was giving up precious time with Flash?
No, of course she didn’t.
Leaving the restaurant, Olympia dismissed her limousine and strolled along the street to Bendels, one of her favourite department stores. She browsed for a while, picking a pale beige suede outfit, and an eight-hundred-dollar pair of sequinned shoes. She ordered them to be sent.
It was a pleasant summer day, not too humid, so she headed for Bergdorfs, and dropped another two thousand dollars there. As she proceeded across Fifth Avenue on her way home, she noticed a news vendor on the corner. She observed the stand, because, displayed amidst a bunch of girlie magazines, right next to the
Enquirer
and the
Star
, was a rag called
Pointer.
And on the cover of the rag was a large picture of Flash, leering, naked from the waist up except for a long ragged scarf, with his scrawny arm around a couldn’t-be-more-than-seven-teen, skinny, flaxen-haired doll. And the headline read:
SECRET FLASH MARRIAGE WITH TEENAGER.
Olympia stopped and stared. She narrowed her small blue eyes. She reached into her Hermes bag and thrust a ten dollar bill at the news vendor while snatching a copy of the offending paper. And as the old man groped for change she scanned the caption beneath the picture. It was brief and to the point:
Legendary Rock Superstar, Flash, revealed in the south of France, where he is working on a new album with the Layabouts, that he has been secretly married to 18-year-old Kipp Hartley for three years. Kipp, a schoolgirl when they met, is expecting their first baby early in the New Year.
The decision was made. Lucky was getting married. For the second time.
‘No big ceremony. Let’s do it here with just the staff for witnesses,’ she told Dimitri.
He agreed. That way people would have no idea when they were married, and Roberto would not have to go through life with even a shadowy stigma of illegitimacy.
They decided to have the ceremony the day before leaving the island. Dimitri’s lawyer flew in forty-eight hours beforehand. He carried with him a briefcase stuffed with papers. Most of them were for Lucky to sign. She didn’t mind, as long as the most important paper of all was included. This was an agreement between her and Dimitri stating he would be entirely responsible for purchasing the land, building and financing an Atlantic City hotel which would belong to her free and clear. And on her death it would pass into the hands of their son, Roberto.
‘Your wedding present,’ Dimitri said, signing the document with a flourish.
She added her own signature. Other than that she relinquished most of his fortune. What did she care? Roberto would receive half of everything anyway, and the hotel was a multi-million dollar investment which would be all hers.
The day of their wedding was perfect. Lucky wore a simple white dress with flowers in her hair. Dimitri chose a lightweight suit – nothing too formal.
A Greek Orthodox priest was flown from the mainland for the ceremony. The wedding guests were the staff, and Roberto, who spent most of the day balanced on CeeCee’s hip, not understanding at all what was going on, but enjoying the excitement in the air.
Lucky remembered her first wedding at sixteen. Las Vegas. Five hundred guests. A big gaudy circus she had been a part of. Unwillingly.
Gino’s fault. Gino’s way of getting rid of her.
The sun cooled, Roberto was put to bed, and Dimitri and Lucky dined on the terrace alone. They feasted on thinly sliced roast lamb smothered in herbs, roast potatoes flavoured with garlic, small fresh peas sauteed in butter, and for dessert, a miniature wedding cake made of strawberries and meringue.
They toasted each other with ouzo, Dimitri’s favourite liquor, and later swam naked in the pool.
In bed he made love to her slowly, and she gave herself up to the ritual of his experienced talented lovemaking.
How different from her wedding night with Craven in the Bahamas. He had burned himself to a crisp in the hot tropical sun, and spent the night bitching and whining. What a wimp!
Tomorrow we will leave the island
, she thought.
Tomorrow I must telephone Gino and Costa.
Tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . .
She drifted off to sleep, one arm flung casually across her new husband.
* * *
Gino raised his hand and bid five thousand dollars toward yet another needy cause. Susan had needy causes coming out her ass. One thing after another. You couldn’t fault Susan Santangelo. She gave great charity. With
his
money.
Susan tossed him a bountiful smile. ‘Thank you, darling,’ she whispered.
They were at a function at the Century Plaza Hotel. Table for twelve. His table. No, her table. He paid. She invited.
He was seated between Susan and her good friend, Paige Wheeler. He liked Paige. She had a sense of humour, which is more than could be said for most of Susan’s ‘good friends’.
The other guests included Paige’s husband, Ryder, a film producer who had no conversation except ‘the industry’. And an assortment of Susan’s attendants. Her hairdresser, her interior designer, and her dentist. And of course her children. Gemma, Miss High and Mighty. And Nathan–‘mustn’t-soil-my-hands-with-a-day’s-work-now-that-I’ve-graduated-from-college’.
Once he had thought them charming, a credit to their mother. But two years in their company had taught him otherwise. They were convinced the world owed them a living – both victims of Too much too soon and What’s in it for me? Two Beverly Hills brats in designer sportsclothes and matching convertibles.
Sadly Gino had to admit he could not warm to either of them, although he had tried many times.
He knew they didn’t like or even approve of him.
Fuck ’em. What did he care? He had married Susan, not her kids.
Susan was determined they should all be one big happy family, and she never stopped shoving them together.
They called him Gino.
Susan wanted them to call him father.
They tried to stay out of his way.
Susan wanted him to adopt them legally.
Jeez! He had laughed in her face when she first suggested it.
‘C’mon.
They’re grown-ups, adults. What’s all this adoption crap?’
‘They’re children at heart. They need a proper father. Unless you adopt them, Gino, show them you
really
care – then I’m not sure if you’ll
ever get
along.’
‘Horseshit.’
‘No, dear. Face the truth.’
She had already discussed it with her lawyer, who, according to Susan, thought it an excellent idea.
Whenever she brought the subject up, which was often, Gino changed the conversation. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice,’ Susan was fond of saying, ‘to have children who really care about you?’
Her way of getting in a dig at Lucky.
It
was
true. He never heard from her. She attended his wedding with an uptight expression, and he didn’t think she had called more than twice since.
When he first married Susan he had never really given much thought to how Lucky must have felt.
He was
getting married, what did
she
have to do with it? But in retrospect maybe he should have shown her more consideration, after all, they had been inseparable for a year – after a lifetime of misunderstandings and fights – and he had enjoyed their closeness as much as she had.
The Santangelos. Father and daughter. An unbeatable combination! He missed her. Maybe the time had come to mend bridges.
‘Methinks your mind is elsewhere,’ Paige whispered in his ear. ‘And who can blame you? These events suck.’
He turned to regard Susan’s friend. She was an attractive woman with her unkempt frizzy hair, and what in his day had been known as ‘bedroom eyes’.
She rested her hand lightly on his thigh. ‘Charity balls have always bored the pants off me. Send a cheque is my motto. Don’t you agree?’
He could feel the warmth of her hand through the material of his trousers, and he could also feel his cock begin to grow hard. Susan, for a variety of reasons, had not slept with him for six weeks. He might be old, but he wasn’t buried. He needed regular sex.