Dinner was being served in the Stanislopoulos’ New York apartment. Three servants attended to Lucky and Dimitri’s every need.
‘I can’t find Olympia,’ Dimitri said with a grunt of disapproval. ‘She’s departed from New York with Brigette and left no word where she is.’
‘Olympia’s a big girl,’ Lucky commented, picking at her salad. ‘You don’t want her to check in every time she makes a move, do you?’
‘I expect to be able to reach her if I need to,’ he grumbled indignantly.
‘She’ll be in touch. You said she always comes on your summer cruise, and that’s only a couple of weeks off.’
‘Yes.’ Dimitri reached for a glass of red wine. He had arrived from Paris the day before, and had yet to inform Lucky that Francesca and Horace Fern would be joining them on the cruise. This was the perfect opportunity. He cleared his throat and presented her with a list of guests.
These included Francesca and Horace, Olympia and Flash, with Brigette and her nanny. A Texas oil tycoon and his wife. And a billionaire Arab fixer with his well-known socialite girlfriend.
Lucky grimaced. ‘Sounds like a fun group,’ she said, with more than a hit of sarcasm.
‘My summer cruise is a social highlight,’ Dimitri said pompously. ‘An invitation is a coveted prize.’
Lucky burst out laughing. ‘Sometimes you’re so full of crap!’
‘Why don’t
you
invite some friends?’ he asked, anxious to keep her happy.
‘Do I have to come?’ she inquired earnestly. ‘Social highlights are not exactly my scene, and I have so much to do. I’m viewing sites in Atlantic City tomorrow, and if I see the right space I need to get right on it. You know, meet with builders, architects. Start things moving.’
‘Naturally you must come. You are my wife now, and I want to introduce you to my friends. Even if you found the right site tomorrow, negotiations take time. My lawyers can handle everything.’ He paused. ‘Olympia will be on the cruise. We must tell her our news together.’
‘I wonder how she’s going to take it.’ Lucky sighed reflectively, as two servants cleared the salad dishes and refilled the wine glasses.
‘You were close once. You can be so again,’ he stated. ‘Perhaps you can be a positive influence on her. This ridiculous affair with Flash is headed for disaster. You can advise her.’
‘Oh great. Old friend Lucky reappears and immediately tells her how to run her life. That’ll go down big.’
‘Olympia needs guidance.’
‘Well she’s not getting it from me.’
A uniformed maid appeared with a platter of thinly sliced roast beef, and Lucky helped herself. She would have to do something about these formal little dinners for two. A pizza in front of the TV was more her style.
‘I have an idea,’ Dimitri said. ‘Why not invite your father and his charming wife on the cruise? I feel this should be a family affair.’
Lucky almost choked. Gino. On a boat. No way. Mind you, the charming wife would probably love it. Lucky could just imagine Susan frolicking with a clutch of fun-loving elderly billionaires. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Dimitri persevered. ‘Shall I have my secretary telephone and issue an invitation?’
She shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she said, knowing full well Gino would never come.
* * *
‘Yes,’ gushed Susan. ‘Tell Mr Stanislopoulos we would be delighted to join him on his yacht.’
She hung up the phone and immediately thought of clothes. What did she need? What should she take? A full shopping trip had to take place at once. How fortunate that Lucky Santangelo had done
one
intelligent thing in her life and married Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Although how she had landed
him
Susan would never know. What could a man like Dimitri possibly see in an uncouth girl like Lucky? She must have tricked him with the baby.
Susan remembered meeting Dimitri in Las Vegas. For one brief moment she had considered him as a prospective husband – at the time she was shopping. But it soon became obvious that all the stories about Francesca Fern were true – he talked of the woman all night. How had Lucky removed the formidable Francesca from his life? Maybe she would find out on the boat trip.
Why was she wasting time? Neiman-Marcus was waiting. Saks, Magnins, Bonwits . . . Hurriedly she left the house.
’I can’t believe you did this!’ screamed Jess. ‘Are you crazy? Insane? What?’
‘A simple congratulations would be enough,’ Lennie groaned.
‘You—’ Jess yelled, ‘are positioned to be the next big star – and I mean we’re talking fucking stupendous, man.’
He was lying on a couch in his suite – watching Jess bounce angrily up and down the thick carpeted length of his room. His head ached. His eyes ached. His body ached. Even his teeth were giving him trouble.
‘And what do you do?’ Jess yelled.
‘What do you do?
You marry some nympho moneybags who’ll use you to carry her
luggage.
You are certifiably
insane.’
Lennie moved the cold washcloth from his forehead and requested – ever so politely – that she lower her voice.
Jess responded with a malevolent glare. ‘Asshole!’ she muttered.
‘Rich asshole,’ he responded wearily.
‘Dumb
rich asshole,’ she shot back. ‘Marrying Olympia Staniswhateverhername is just a bad joke. How many husbands has she had? How many famous boyfriends? Join the list, Lennie. You are now one of a
very
big crowd. She’s the female Warren Beatty of the jet set
without the
talent. How does it feel to be one of many?’
‘Jess,’ he said quietly. ‘Do me a favour and piss off.’
‘I only wish I could.’
‘Force yourself. There’s an army of gorillas stamping through my head and I think we need to be alone together.’
‘Oh, Lennie,’ She sat down beside him and took his hand. ‘I suppose you were stoned and in heat. Why didn’t you just
fuck
her instead of
marrying
her?’
‘I think we did that too.’
Jess shook her head despairingly. Lennie. Best friend. Always capable of falling in the mire when it came to women.
She had arrived in his suite an hour earlier to find him sprawled on the couch, asleep, fully dressed, with the washcloth dripping on his forehead. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and she had attempted to move him into the bedroom. He had prised open his bloodshot eyes, and said, ‘1 think I’ve done something I’m not going to like.’ Then he confessed, and there was the marriage certificate on the floor to prove it.
Now the screaming was over she tried to collect her thoughts and look at the situation logically. ‘Where is Olympia?’ she asked, sounding far calmer than she felt.
‘I dunno’, he moaned, getting up and staggering into the bathroom. He peed, took one look at himself in the mirror, and lurched into the bedroom where he threw himself face down on the bed. No more drugs. Never again.
Jess followed him in. ‘I’ve ordered breakfast,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel better when you eat.’
‘Don’t
mention
food.’
‘Get up. Take a shower. We’ve got to sort this mess out.’
‘Piss off, Jess.’
‘Don’t keep on saying that. I’m here to help you.’
He scratched his head, sat up and reached for a cigarette. ‘I think you’ve left it a little late.’
* * *
Olympia did not sleep. She had learned a useful secret from Flash. After an all-night session of drinking and dope, the only way to face the new day was with a little help from a couple of large white pills. Quaaludes.
She took two on returning to the hotel, and by the time she had bathed and changed her clothes she was ready to set things in motion. First she called her lawyer in New York. Then the Magiriano’s publicist. And – because she was not lacking in good manners – Vitos.
‘Mr Felicidade is accepting no calls before twelve noon,’ the operator twanged.
Tough. Mr Felicidade would just have to find out the hard way.
* * *
Eden awoke early and slid from bed like a conspirator. Santino slept on his back, snoring loudly.
Quietly she took some clothes from the closet, crept into the bathroom and closed the door.
Why hadn’t she spoken to Lennie at the party? Why hadn’t
he
spoken to her?
She rinsed her face with cold water. The mark of Santino’s slap was gone, she looked as beautiful as ever with her porcelain skin, topaz eyes and exotic cheekbones.
She applied a touch of brown shadow, blusher, and dash of lip gloss. Then she tied her fine blonde hair back in a ponytail. The young unsophisticated look. Lennie loved it.
She dressed in white cotton pants and a silky T-shirt.
Almost holding her breath she slid back into the bedroom. Santino still slept. On a table beside the bed lay a wad of bills, several items of gold jewellery, and a snub-nosed revolver. Carefully she ignored the gun and jewellery, and took several hundred-dollar bills from the stack. Then, going over to the desk, she scribbled a short note,
GONE SHOPPING
,
BACK SOON
. He wouldn’t like it, she knew that, but she needed to get out without being followed. And hopefully Zeko was not sleeping outside their door.
Santino was a dangerous man. Obsessive and unpredictable. She had put up with him for two years, and she was prepared to continue to do so until the movie was made. But obviously, after last night’s performance, she needed insurance. And what better insurance than Lennie Golden. Especially now he was riding high.
‘Who are
you?’
Olympia demanded imperiously as she swept past Jess into Lennie’s suite.
The blonde heiress was dressed for business in a white lace dress with pink flowers festooned in her hair. She was trailed by several sales people carrying suits hidden beneath protective polythene, an array of shirts on hangers, and an assortment of boxes.
‘I’m Lennie’s manager,’ Jess said. ‘And what is—’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Olympia destroyed her with a sweeping look. ‘I expect you’ve heard our news then.’
‘Yes, and—’
Olympia ignored her and turned her attention to the minions with the clothes. ‘Leave everything on the couch and go,’ she commanded.
They did as they were bade.
When they had departed, Olympia once again directed her cool gaze at Jess. ‘Now,’ she said crisply, ‘there are several arrangements I want you to double check. The reception is arranged for three this afternoon. The hotel is supposed to be taking care of the food and flowers – but make sure it’s done properly. And
treble check
the press attendance. I want to be certain this is covered by the best. Several journalists are flying in from L.A. I need a limo to meet their plane, and they must be taken care of while they’re here.’ She paused for breath. ‘You don’t
look
like a manager,’ she added disparagingly. ‘Anyhow, I suppose Lennie knows what he’s doing. Where is he?’
Jess was almost speechless. Was
this
what Lennie had married? This shrill bossy kewpie doll, with fat legs and enormous boobs. Lennie, who had always had the cream. Class A ladies only.
She gestured helplessly toward the bedroom. ‘In there,’ she said. Let
him
deal with it. He was the one who had married it.
* * *
Vitos awoke to the sound of his own voice. It soothed him to re-enter the world listening to his soft caressing tones.
The tape/alarm clock did its duty at twelve noon precisely. He rolled over in bed and drifted in and out of sleep for a while, then he arose, exercised, showered, shaved, glued his hairpiece into place, put his bridgework in, and summoned room service and his manager. They arrived simultaneously.
While Vitos tackled fresh grapefruit, scrambled eggs, and lemon tea (he had to watch his diet at all times) his manager nervously paced the room. He had discovered Vitos when he had caught his Mexican maid drooling over the singer on a Spanish TV station.
‘These wimmen in America, they lova me so much,’ Vitos crooned, reflectively sipping his tea.
‘Yes,’ agreed his manager, wondering how to break the rumour that was buzzing all over the hotel.
‘Sometimes is so difficult maka the universal language offa lova. I thinka everyones, they unnerstanda me so well.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah . . .’ Vitos sighed. ‘Wimmen. They lova me.’
‘Where is Olympia?’ his manager asked quickly, seizing the opportunity.
‘You hava my papers from Spain?’ Vitos inquired, rising from the table and admiring himself in a nearby mirror. He practised his smile, liked what he saw, and proceeded to do a few facial exercises guaranteed to get rid of any lurking double chins. Not that he had any – but you could
never
be too careful.
‘The papers haven’t arrived yet.’
‘Too bad.’ Vitos thrust his chin forward and back. ‘Maybe nota
too
bad. Thisa marriage, you really thinks I should do it? The wimmen be – how you say – broken in six.’