Lennie handed her a glass of champagne, and took one for himself. ‘Congratulations, Mr Stanislopoulos,’ he said – happy to relinquish being the centre of attention.
‘I love weddings,’ sighed Alice. ‘Such happy times. I remember my wedding day as if it was a week ago. I wore a white cocktail dress – so smart – with a cinched waist.’ She turned to Olympia who couldn’t care less. ‘Do you know, my dear, I had an eighteen-inch waist. Eighteen inches!’
‘Really?’ asked Brigette.
‘Yes, really. I had—’
‘Alice, take Brigette for a nap’, Olympia said shortly, her tone brooking no argument.
‘But mama—’ Brigette began.
‘Now!’
‘Come along, pretty-puss,’ Alice crooned, shepherding the child from the room.
‘Who did you marry, poppa?’ Olympia asked sweetly, knowing it couldn’t possibly be Francesca, and wondering if it was that Brazilian whore who had nearly captured him a few years before. Or maybe the English socialite with the stately home and faint connections to the Royal Family. Dimitri always
had
liked culture.
‘Ah . . .’ he said. ‘Now you’ll
really
be surprised.’
Lennie felt this was between them, and a perfect time to make his escape. ‘Would you excuse me if I took a walk?’ he asked.
‘Go ahead,’ said Olympia, with hardly a glance.
He left quickly.
‘Who?’ Olympia persisted.
‘Well,’ said Dimitri, stringing it out. ‘Do you remember quite a while ago I told you I had bumped into an old school friend of yours, Lucky Santangelo?’
‘Yes.’
‘We renewed our acquaintanceship in New York, and,’ he shrugged expansively, ‘things happened.’
‘Things happened!’ shrieked Olympia louder than she intended. ‘You didn’t marry
Lucky?’
‘That’s
exactly
what I did.’
Now that Lucky knew – was certain – that Dimitri continued his affair with the flamboyant Madame Fern, she decided to see as little of him as possible. Roberto appeared to be happy in the excellent hands of loving CeeCee, so it was easy for her to slip away in the morning and wander around the picturesque streets. She left Dimitri a note saying she had gone on a sightseeing tour. Why should she suffer on the boat when she could be out on her own, free to sort out her feelings.
Being alone had never bothered Lucky. It was the story of her life. But now she had Roberto, which was the main reason she hadn’t taken a plane back to New York and the nearest lawyer. She wanted a divorce. But she didn’t want to lose the opportunity to build her hotel, and she had to make quite sure that everything was locked up before she made a move.
After wandering through the many boutiques and small shops, she took a cab to Tahiti Beach, which she had heard was the place to go. She was wearing an oversize T-shirt with a small scarlet bikini underneath and thong-toed sandals on her feet. Her jet hair hung down her back in a thick plait, and dark shades covered her eyes.
Armed with a Sony Walkman, a bottle of Ambre Solaire suntan oil, and a good book, she approached the fashionable crowded beach with confidence. She spoke a smattering of French – picked up in her youth – and she requested and paid for the hire of a striped chaise, towel, and large umbrella.
The bronzed attendant settled her in a row near the water’s edge, and she lay back to relax and observe.
One of life’s greatest pleasures is watching the world pass by. And on the Tahiti Beach, in St Tropez, you certainly saw some sights. Many of the women went topless, and there were breasts of all shapes and sizes and ages. Nobody seemed to object, in fact everybody was remarkably unselfconscious.
The French men favoured very small, tight bikini bottoms, and thrust their cocks out as if parading for first prize. There were some interesting contenders.
Lucky grinned. She liked their attitude. Being married to an older man she had forgotten the sheer pleasure of a perfect male body. That sweet combination of gleaming muscles and beautiful youth. She allowed her eyes – still under cover of dark shades – to sweep over their bodies, checking them out as men had always checked out women. It was an enjoyable pastime.
* * *
Lennie did not speak one word of French. He could say ‘fuck you’ in Italian, curse in German, and utter words of love in Swedish, but French eluded him. Perhaps it was because he had never slept with a French girl, and it was always his short-term lovers who taught him fragments of a language.
It didn’t matter. In St Tropez everyone spoke English – sometimes fluently – most times brokenly – but they all made an attempt.
He fell in love with the place immediately. It had a laid-back ambiance that grabbed him. He was not yet rich enough nor jaded enough to see it as a dirty, overcrowded tourist-trap. He merely observed a lot of young people out to have a good time – and it appealed to him. He grabbed a seat in a sidewalk cafe, ordered a Cinzano on the rocks, and sat for a while. It would have been nice, he mused, to have been here with a group. Jess, Isaac, Joey, the twins, Eden . . .
How had
she
slipped into his thoughts? She had looked like a five-hundred-dollar-a-night hooker sitting at a front table on his opening night in her silver sequinned dress with her gangster friends.
Eden Antonio.
I thought you were going to become a movie star. Whatever happened?
He imagined her face when she read about his marriage to Olympia Stanislopoulos. Slanty eyes. Thin lips. Elegant nose. It must have given her a jolt. He hoped.
Or did he?
The torch was dimming. This was the first time he had thought about her since leaving America. Things were looking up.
A young couple sitting at the next table were eyeing him with more than casual interest. The girl, pretty in an out-doorsy way, caught his eye and smiled. Politely he smiled back, causing her to nudge her companion, a long-haired greaser in a studded denim vest and dirty jeans. Before Lennie could even think about moving, they were at his table.
‘You
are
Lennie Golden, aren’t you?’ the girl asked excitedly. She had a bold suntan, with American teeth and an accent to match.
‘Guilty.’
‘I
told you
!’ the girl exclaimed. Her companion didn’t crack a smile. He had a skull and crossbones tattooed on his arm and a brooding expression. Not exactly James Dean – more the young James Coburn. He hung behind his girlfriend and scowled.
‘We’re Americans,’ she announced, still dazzling with her teeth. ‘We’ve been here a month.’
‘What do you want – a medal?’ deadpanned Lennie.
‘I never expected to see
you!
’ Dazzle, dazzle. ‘I’m crazy for your TV show. I
love
it. Never miss it. When I’m there, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Yeah, man, it’s okay,’ said Mister Scowl, joining in at last.
‘Glad you approve.’
They sat down uninvited, but not exactly unwelcome. Lennie felt like company, and they seemed to be okay kids.
A conversation took place. The usual.
What are you doing here? How long are you staying? Do you like it? Wanna score some great dope?
Lennie had a feeling a few ace joints might help the trip no end. And Olympia would be delighted if he returned bearing gifts.
‘Our stash is at the beach with my sister,’ explained the girl. ‘It’s only a few minutes away. Come on, we’ll take you.’
They offered him a ride in a decrepit old Renault which choked and spluttered all the way. He was hunched in the back, bent double. Nothing like getting back among the people. In a perverse way he enjoyed it. Limos, Learjets, penthouse suites, and private yachts were still a touch rich for his plebeian blood. He was already working on a monologue in his head about the way the very wealthy lived. So much material! And untouched, like a virgin oil well. If he could get it together in time it would be great to use on the
Tonight Show.
The girl with the dazzling smile had a sister who disdained clothes and wore only a native suntan, plenty of Indian beads, and a suede G-string. Where was she hiding the famous stash? Clearly not on her person.
Her French boyfriend was clad in a black jock-strap which he patted affectionately most of the time. Between them they shared a large canvas bag filled with goodies.
‘You name it. We got it,’ announced the greaser, taking over, and pulling out a small package of hash which he expertly rolled into a joint. He handed it to Lennie. ‘Compliments of the casa. Try it. Like it. Buy it.’
Lennie tried it, liked it, and ordered two dozen joints – ‘Rolled, please.’
The greaser was only too happy to oblige, and set about his task with insouciant ease.
‘I’ll be back,’ Lennie said, and wandered off down the beach admiring the scenery. Most of the women wore only the bottom half of scanty bikinis and acted as if they were fully clothed – jogging along the shore, running after escaping children, tonguing ice cream cones, lying back with open thighs – all the better to obtain the perfect tan.
For fifteen minutes Lennie thought he had died and gone to tit paradise. And then . . . so what? Big deal. Nipples could get boring too unless they were
really
special . . .
And then he spotted the girl with the jet hair and black eyes who had come on to him in Las Vegas. Here she was – two years later – lying on the beach in St Tropez looking as sensual and wild as ever. Naturally she was not topless. Why give a free show? She wore a dangerous red bikini, earphones, and her eyes were closed. He recognized her immediately. Somehow she had made an indelible impression.
Proceed with caution
, a voice in his head warned.
Remember – she has an acid tongue.
And one of the horniest bodies he had ever seen. Tall, slim and supple, with long legs, a small waist, great breasts, and broad shoulders.
He remembered her walk. Panther-like, graceful.
He remembered their one kiss, before he had called a halt to the proceedings. Schmuck of the year.
How was he to approach her now?
Why
was he to approach her now?
You are a married man
, said his conscience sternly.
So
what?
replied his libido.
Don’t do it
, said his conscience.
Go ahead
, replied his prick.
She must have sensed someone staring at her. Without warning she suddenly sat up, removed the earphones, took off her shades, and returned his quizzical stare.
He was not close enough to say anything. Fortunately. Because whenever he opened his mouth she shot him down.
Did she remember him? Was she going to come over?
He stood by the seashore, waiting.
Slowly she got up. Stretched languorously, and headed toward him.
He held his breath. He might be married but he wasn’t dead. This was one opportunity he wasn’t going to miss. Not the second time around.
Their eyes locked. As she got closer he was mesmerized by the blackness of hers, the long lashes that surrounded them, her glowing skin, and full lush lips.
He started to say something – he wasn’t sure what – ‘Hello,’ ‘You again’ – something innocuous. It didn’t matter. She walked straight past him into the sea.
For a moment he was stunned, but recovery was rapid. He turned around and watched her strike out toward a floating wooden platform. Without another thought he stripped off his shirt, threw it on the sand, and plunged into the sea after her.
She was a powerful swimmer and had a good lead on him. But with his highly personal erratic crawl he set off like a piston, and caught up before she was even halfway. He swam alongside her. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
It was late in the afternoon and the raft ahead of them loomed deserted.
He noticed her ears were pierced, as her head vanished and rose beneath the surface of the sea. She wore small diamond studs.
He noticed her arms. Strong and powerful as they cleaved the water.
He sensed adventure, knew anything was possible and didn’t draw back. How many times in his life was he going to come across a woman like this?
Eden.
Eden who?
* * *
Lucky was enjoying the game. She had watched Lennie approach through hooded eyes. Remembered him from their abortive meeting in Vegas, and immediately wondered if maybe this was what she needed – a purely physical encounter with no entanglements. If he didn’t back off like the last time.
Lennie Golden. She even remembered his name. A horny-looking guy. Why not put him to the test? After all, fate had placed him on the same St Tropez beach as she, and getting even had always appealed. He would be the perfect person to use to equal the score with Dimitri – who was probably still fawning all over that awful Fern woman.
She rose and strolled casually toward him. He mumbled something as she passed. She ignored him and plunged into the sea knowing he would follow.
Don’t talk. Don’t spoil it
, she willed.