‘Be quiet,’ scolded Nanny Mabel.
‘Won’t!’ screamed Brigette. ‘Can’t make me. This place is
stiiiinking!!’
‘If you misbehave here I’ll be forced to tell your mother. And she’ll—’
Before she could continue further, a grim-faced security woman packing a gun appeared. ‘Shut the kid up,’ she commanded.
Nanny Mabel shot Brigette a warning look.
‘I’m not going to shut up,’ Brigitte yelled.
‘I’m
going to do whatever I like. So there, you stupid fat pig!’
‘Oh no you’re not,’ said the guard.
‘Oh yes I am,’ said Brigette.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nanny Mabel.
* * *
Matt Traynor presented himself at Olympia’s door.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, pulling a Chinese robe tightly around her.
‘I run the hotel, Miss Stanislopoulos.’
‘You got my message I presume.’
‘What message?’
‘About Lucky Santangelo.’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘Well, where is she?’
‘Miss Santangelo is no longer connected with the Magiriano.’
Olympia frowned. ‘Too bad.’
Matt did not appreciate being kept at the door like a delivery boy. ‘May I come in?’
‘What for?’
Matt decided he did not like the plump blonde heiress with the petulant expression and all the charm of a bad-tempered shop girl. ‘We have a slight problem with your daughter . . .’
‘How boring! What’s she done?’
‘Kicked a security woman, tried to dismantle a blackjack table, and—’
‘Where is she?’ Olympia interrupted.
‘We have her downstairs in an office. She’s creating a considerable disturbance. She refuses to er . . . be quiet . . . until you collect her.’
‘God!’ Olympia was visibly irritated. ‘What about her nanny? Why doesn’t
she
deal with her?’
‘She seems to have no control of the situation.’
Olympia rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘This is most inconvenient,’ she said testily, as if it were Matt’s personal fault. ‘Wait. I’ll have to dress.’
She slammed the door in his face and left him angrily marching up and down the corridor for ten minutes. Eventually she emerged and they proceeded downstairs in silence.
Brigette sat moodily in a small office chanting ‘Las Vegas stinks! Las Vegas stinks!’ at the top of her voice.
Nanny Mabel, red in the face, hovered outside, while the grim-looking female security guard stood at attention.
Olympia fixed her daughter with an icy blue stare, and she shut up.
‘What’s been going on?’ Olympia demanded.
Brigette produced a full flood of ever-ready tears. ‘Mama, mama,’ she cried, ‘these people have been
so
mean to me. Really really
mean.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the security woman. ‘This child needs a good spanking. She’s rude and spoilt and—’
‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ Olympia said dismiss-ively. ‘Come along, Brigette. It’s time for bed.’ She glared at Matt. ‘My daughter is tired, it’s been a long day.’
With that she took Brigette by the hand and swept out, a nervous Nanny Mabel trailing in her wake.
Carrie Berkeley had immense style. For many years, while married first to Bernard Dimes, and then to Elliott Berkeley, she had been a celebrity. The sort of celebrity who never really does anything but is always mentioned in gossip and society columns, and is often photographed for the fashion magazines. Several years in a row she had appeared in
Harpers Bazaar
as one of the ‘Ten Most Beautiful Women in America’.
When she divorced Elliott and went to live permanently on Fire Island, she retired from public life. But hers was still a well-known name, and it was no problem to arrange an appointment with Fred E. Lester of Lester and Wellington Publishers.
Steven wanted to accompany her, but she refused to let him. ‘I’m quite capable of deciding whether it’s him or not,’ she said coldly.
Lately that’s how she felt about Steven. Cold, withdrawn. He was her son, but she would never forgive him for what he was putting her through. Never.
What did it
matter
which one his father was? They were both bastards. Who cared?
Fred E. Lester sat behind an oak desk in a large, comfortable office. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with flurries of white hair surrounding a bald spot, and a healthy weekend tan. He was in his late sixties. He rose when Carrie was ushered into his office by a solicitous secretary, walked around his desk, and with outstretched hands said, ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, it was a long time ago, but . . .’
She felt a moment of sheer panic.
It was him.
The blood drained from her face and a sickness filled the pit of her stomach.
‘. . . a charity ball,’ he was saying. ‘It must have been some twenty years ago. You still look exactly the same. Lovely as ever.’
Thankfully she slumped into a chair.
It wasn’t him.
Fred E. Lester looked nothing like the college boy of so many years ago. How was it going to be possible to recognize a man she had only spent one night with forty-two years ago? Damn Steven. Why was he putting her through this?
‘Coffee? Tea? Perhaps a drink?’ Fred Lester asked.
His secretary stood by the door expectantly.
‘Tea,’ Carrie said quietly. ‘With lemon.’
‘Make that two,’ Fred said, sitting down behind his desk, and playing with a silver pen.
Carrie tried to recover her composure. She glanced around the office. There were framed covers of books on all the walls.
‘My successes,’ Fred said with a modest smile. ‘In this business you boast about your successes and try to hide your failures.’
She smiled politely.
‘Now then,’ Fred said, clasping his hands together. ‘Let’s hope that you and I are going to have a big success.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You
do
want to write a book for us, don’t you?’
She remembered that it
was
the reason she was sitting in his office. Steven had called and made the appointment. ‘Mrs Carrie Berkeley has an interesting idea for a book,’ he had said, and an appointment was immediately forthcoming.
‘I have a few ideas,’ she faltered.
‘That’s where it all begins.’ He beamed.
She stared at his bald head. It shone, as though someone had polished it with a soft cloth. Whitejack’s head had shone. Black and shiny. Sometimes he oiled it. ‘Makes all the pretty ladies cum,’ he used to say with a wicked grin, flashing his large white teeth.
‘My hunch is that you would like to write a beauty book,’ Fred Lester said. ‘Am I right?’
‘Beauty and . . . uh . . . maybe fashion, style,’ she replied, picking up on his idea.
‘Couldn’t be better. The timing is just right.’
He had very nice eyes. Brown, kindly eyes. On his desk there were three silver frames containing family pictures.
She felt secure with him. In a funny way he reminded her of Bernard, her first husband.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind, and we can proceed from there. Does that sound reasonable?’
She nodded, and racked her brain for ideas.
Costa met Lucky at L.A. airport. He fussed over Roberto as if
he
was the proud grandpa.
‘You haven’t told Gino, have you?’ she demanded.
‘I arrived late last night,’ Costa said. ‘He doesn’t even know
I’m
here.’
‘Good. We’ll really surprise him.’
She checked into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and immediately called Gino.
To her disappointment he was out. Now she had decided to tell him, she was too impatient for roadblocks. It was only a matter of time before Dimitri made an announcement, and she really did not want Gino reading about her marriage in a newspaper.
‘When will he be back?’ she asked the maid.
‘Later,’ the woman said unhelpfully.
Later could mean any time. She wondered where he was. What did a person who wasn’t in the movie business
do
in LA? Gino had always been so active. Didn’t he miss the hustle of Vegas? Surely he couldn’t spend his days strolling up and down Rodeo Drive.
She and Costa lunched out by the pool, while Roberto napped.
‘Well, Lucky,’ Costa asked. ‘When are you going to tell me? Who is this man you have married?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos,’ she anounced.
‘No, really, who?’ he persisted.
She shrugged. ‘Dimitri.’
Costa shook his head and looked grim.
‘It’s not a crime for crissake,’ Lucky said quickly. ‘So he’s a few years older than me. Big deal.’
‘I wish your Aunt Jennifer were alive,’ he said dourly.
‘We
all wish
she were alive. But she’s not, and even if she were, she wouldn’t be telling me what to do.’
‘You’ve been on your own too long,’ Costa said. ‘You’ve never had anyone to turn to. When you were growing up you should have had a mother. Someone to confide in. A—’
‘Will you quit with the dirge? I
like
being on my own.’
‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos is an old man.’
‘So are you. Does that make you a terrible person?’
‘Lucky, Dimitri Stanislopoulos is a father figure. Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve—’
‘Fuck you – Costa.’ Her black eyes blazed with anger. ‘I expected a lecture from Gino, but I don’t have to take this crap from you. I am nearly thirty years old. Will everyone stop telling me what to do.’
She stormed from the table.
* * *
Paige Wheeler had this little trick of holding him inside her like a vice. ‘I used to go with a snatch quack,’ she informed Gino when he asked her where she’d learnt it.
‘A what?’
‘A gynaecologist. He taught me everything I know. The man was an expert. Well, he was looking at it all day, I guess he picked up a thing or two.’
Gino liked her little trick. It meant he could go for as long as he wanted, and then she would take over, holding him, keeping him hard, until he was ready to make it again. Gino never liked to rush. He genuinely loved pleasing women. It gave him a real charge to observe their abandonment and pure lustful pleasure. That’s why marriage to Susan was such a deep disappointment. Paige was right, Susan did not like sex. Why hadn’t he noticed the signals
before
marrying her? Now he was stuck in a marriage he really didn’t want.
Every day he thought about getting out, calling Lucky and saying, ‘Hey – kid. I was wrong. Let’s go take over Atlantic City, an’ build our own hotel. Let’s set the fuckin’ world on fire!’
It wasn’t as simple as that. Susan never set a foot wrong. She was solicitous and attentive. She watched his diet. Made sure he exercised. Had the cook prepare all his favourite meals.
And she looked good, too. Attractive, groomed, gowned to perfection. They attended all the best social events, including every A-rated party.
Apart from sex, Susan was the perfect wife. She was also suffocatingly boring.
He hated Beverly Hills. He hated the whole phony social bit. He hated the A-parties filled with senile geriatrics. Same people. Same conversation. Same fucking bullshit.
Gino Santangelo wanted out. He just had to figure a way to do it.
* * *
‘Oh hi, Susan,’ Lucky said. She
would
have to get stuck with Grace Kelly. ‘Is Gino around?’
‘Are you here? In California?’
No. I’m at the North fucking pole. Where does it sound like I’m calling from?
‘Yes. As a matter of fact I am.’
‘How nice.’
‘Isn’t it.’ Beat of three. ‘Can I speak to Gino?’
‘Sorry, dear. He’s out.’
‘Will he be back soon?’
‘One never knows with Gino.’
‘Very true.’ At least she knew that much about him.
‘I’ll call back later.’
‘Good.’
Sure. You’re really pleased I’m here. Not even a ‘Where are you staying?’ Or, ‘We must get together.’
She prowled the bungalow. Roberto was out with CeeCee by the pool. She didn’t know where Costa was. She didn’t care.
Oh yes she did. He was concerned about her. How could she fault him for that? Dimitri
was
thirty-five years older than her. Costa would just have to see them together, and then he would realize the relationship worked.
* * *
Paige dressed. She wore delightfully whorish clothes and drove a gold Porsche, which Ryder had bought her for Christmas. Sometimes Gino puzzled about Susan’s friendship with her. She was so unlike Susan’s other friends – the polished Hollywood wives with their designer clothes, flawless face lifts, and narrow code of ethics.