It occurs to me that Olympia is always right. She sure knows her stuff, because the moment we hit the main drag in Cannes, guys are all over us! Well, I guess I should say guys are all over Olympia. It’s the big boobs and the blonde hair, not to mention the short shorts she has squeezed herself into, so short that they barely cover her ass.
I suppose we make an odd couple—me in my tight jeans and T-shirt, Olympia dressed to kill. I could show off my bod if I wanted to, the thing is—I don’t want to.
Olympia boldly checks out the prospects, finally settling on a slim blondish man who is sitting by himself on the Blue Bar terrace. He gets up when she passes for the second time, mumbles something about haven’t they met before, then when she says no way—he invites us both for a drink.
I am inclined to say no. However, Olympia is already sitting down at his table, and he is ordering Pernod all around.
Reluctantly I join her, even though I’m not sure I like the look of him. He strikes me as a bit shifty with his long corn-colored hair and pale eyelashes.
It turns out he’s an American film producer by the name of Warris Charters, and he’s in town for the Cannes Film Festival.
“What films have you produced?” I ask, wondering if food is on the agenda.
His eyes switch from Olympia’s boobs to me.
“Kiss and Kill,” he says brusquely. “Big hit.”
“Never heard of it,” I want to say, only I don’t. Seems he’s the one about to buy us dinner so I’d better stay cool.
“I wouldn’t mind being an actress,” Olympia says, flashing him a winning smile. “Maybe you’ll put me in one of your movies.”
“Acting’s not all glitz and glamour,” Warris remarks, scratching his chin. “I was a child star until I hit puberty. At thirteen it was all over—so eventually I turned producer. Control and cash, that’s where it’s all at.”
Olympia’s face lights up. She is already into him, I can tell.
“Where are you girls from?” Warris asks.
“We’re international,” Olympia replies, sipping her champagne.
I can see Warris thinking. He knows we’re young, and he must be wondering how come we’re on the loose in Cannes. He has to be at least thirty—old, like Marco. Only Marco is deliciously dark and sexy and Warris is so not. I wish I was with Marco now.
“I’m starving,” Olympia announces. “Can we order food?”
“Great idea,” I say, happily joining in.
Warris leans closer to Olympia and whispers something in her ear. I strain to hear. He’s tempting her with grass instead of food. Bummer! I’ve tried pot a couple of times, and I’m not sure I enjoy feeling out of control.
“Where can we go?” Olympia asks, and I know she’s hoping that Warris has his own yacht or something along those lines. Olympia is all for luxury unlimited.
Warris shrugs and says, “Where are you staying? My hotel doesn’t encourage visitors.”
Huh?
Much to my annoyance, Olympia buys his bullshit. “We have a villa in the hills,” she says, like we haven’t vowed to keep our whereabouts a deep dark secret. “We can go there.”
Bad move. We don’t know anything about this lechy-looking guy, and now we’re taking him home with us. Not the coolest move in the world.
“Let’s go,” Warris says. “I’ll grab us a cab.”
“No need,” Olympia boasts. “I have a car.”
“Yeah?” Warris says, duly impressed. Even more so when he gets sight of the white Mercedes parked on the street.
Olympia flicks him the keys. “You drive,” she says, as if they’re an old married couple.
And off we go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
So here we are at the villa with Olympia’s soon-to-be new best friend, Warris Charters, a man I don’t trust at all—he of the shifty pale blue eyes and shallow expression. Warris is in possession of primo grass. Olympia is thrilled, especially when he starts paying her a ton of attention, which is exactly what she craves. Once again I am more or less ignored, because when it comes to me or a potential conquest, Olympia is all about the latest male presence. I’m beginning to realize loyalty is not her strong suit.
Warris is wandering from room to room, taking it all in. “Is this place yours?” he asks Olympia.
I can see dollar signs flicking in his beady eyes.
“It belongs to my family,” she replies airily, before leading him out to the pool.
I trail behind them, determined not to be left out. Why, I don’t know—it’s not as if I’m even remotely interested in this Warris Charters person. Maybe it’s ’cause I don’t trust him, therefore I don’t think I should leave Olympia alone with him. When it comes to men it’s obvious that Olympia is totally gullible.
The outside pool lights don’t work, so Olympia runs back inside and returns with candles and a bottle of wine.
Warris fires up a joint, and after taking a long drag hands it on to Olympia, who then passes it to me.
Like I said, I’ve tried pot twice before, both times with Olympia. Now, what the hell—here I go again …
After what seems like hours or possibly only a few minutes, Olympia jumps up from her lounge chair, strips off all her clothes, flashes her boobs at Warris, and leaps into the pool stark naked. Talk about not waiting around for the getting-to-know-you period!
A delighted Warris is not slow to follow. Off come his pants and shirt and he immediately dives in after her.
By this time I am totally stoned, which is why I feel relaxed enough to whip off my jeans and top. Then I realize there is no point, because Olympia and Warris are already at it in the pool, and not wishing to be a third wheel I wander back into the house and begin searching for something to eat.
Tuna, anyone?
I devour an entire can of the oily fish, then stagger off to bed. Apparently nobody is about to miss me.
Maybe life on the run is not all it’s cracked up to be.
* * *
In the morning Olympia is once again on the missing list. She is not in the bedroom we decided to share. I suspect she is somewhere with Warris.
My stomach drops. Is this to be a repeat of our motel stop? Is Warris next in line after French Pierre?
I am verging on furious, because this is supposed to be me and her against the world, and I have a sinking feeling that Warris is a relentless hanger-on. He will not be as easy to get rid of as French Pierre.
I set off to find them, and there they are in the master bedroom sprawled nude and fast asleep on the big bed.
So much for fun times in the sun, just me and Olympia, two best friends enjoying a big adventure. I don’t think so. I have a nasty hunch that Warris is here to stay.
I make it to the kitchen, where I locate coffee and a percolator. No food. Gotta hit a market today before I starve to death.
The two of them do not emerge until noon. Is this a pattern? Olympia, bleary-eyed with a stupid smile on her face. Warris, looking mighty pleased with himself, his yellow hair flopping on his forehead, baggy shorts covering something large that I do not wish to see. Ugh! Gross! He has skinny white legs with flabby calf muscles. Double gross!
At least the boys I’ve chosen to have fun with have been major hot.
For a moment I reflect on my conquests. Not a bad list. First the boys we liaised with on our nighttime sojourns from L’Evier—especially Ursi, whom I guess I should call my first real adventure. Then Brad—not my favorite memory. And of course Brandon, followed closely by Jack—the Kissing King—then English Chad, the reason I got kicked out of school. And finally Lopez, the gardener’s son, quite the stud. Not a bad list.
Once again I consider the fact that I am a woman of experience, even though I have not gone all the way with any of them. I am truly beginning to understand men. Keep ’em wanting more, that’s the secret.
“Hey,” Olympia says with a vague note of surprise. “You’re up.”
Where the hell does she expect me to be? Still
sleeping in my lonely bed?
This is such crap. I throw her one of my willful glares. She ignores it and clings to Warris.
There are times I feel like I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are moments I cannot stand Olympia and the way she flirts, sticks out her boobs, and expects every man to fall at her feet.
I hate being a year younger than her—I cannot wait to be sixteen, because sixteen is a magical age. You’re no longer a kid, and therefore cannot be treated like one.
I have plans, big plans. I refuse to live my life through boys as Olympia does. Oh yes, they can be fun and challenging—but as a full-time occupation, I think not. I want so much more. I want to build hotels like Gino, run big businesses, I want to be a force of nature, a leader, a woman who counts in this world. My name is Lucky Santangelo, not Lucky Saint. I want to be heard! And you can bet on it—I will be.
“Wassup?” Olympia says, yawning. “You look pissed.”
I shake my head. Never give anyone the satisfaction of knowing how you truly feel—I heard Gino say that once and I reckon he’s right.
“We should stock up on food,” I say, keeping it in neutral.
“Great plan,” Warris says. “Let’s go get supplies, then maybe I’ll ask some of my friends over.”
Olympia nods. I can see she’s still half stoned. She looks like crap, with mussed-up hair and yesterday’s makeup caked on her face.
“Is there a market near here?” I ask.
“We’ll find one,” Warris says. “D’you drive?”
“Yes,” I boldly reply.
Olympia shoots me a look as if to say “Really?”
Last night she told Warris that she’s nineteen and I’m eighteen. I don’t think he’d be psyched to find out that he’s moved in on two underage girls—runaways at that. I can just imagine how Gino would deal with him. He’d cut off his balls and put ’em in a blender.
I stifle a giggle and wonder what Dimitri, Olympia’s dad, would do. Probably ban him from whichever country he felt like banning him from. Dimitiri Stanislopoulos exudes power—a different kind of power than Gino, but power all the same.
Warris wanders off to take a shower and for a moment I have Olympia to myself.
“Tell me the deal,” I demand. “Is he staying with us or what?”
A beatific smile crosses Olympia’s face. “For as long as I want,” she says, twirling a strand of blonde hair.
And apparently she wants.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There is no market in the vicinity—only a twisting narrow street full of small neighborhood shops specializing in various cheeses, crusty loaves of bread, pâté, ham, and nothing much else. Warris of course finds a wine store and proceeds to stock up. When it comes time to pay he feigns dismay at not having his credit card with him. What an a-hole. Surely Olympia will catch on?
She doesn’t. She pays up with a stupid smile still plastered all over her face. Then she manages to whisper to me in a reverent tone, “Oh my God! He’s such a stud in bed!” Which makes me want to barf.
I realize that I am trapped with the two of them. The American hustler (oh yes, I’ve got his number) and the Greek heiress, for Olympia has informed me on numerous occasions that one day she will inherit the Stanislopoulos fortune—or at least her share. If only Warris knew, he would probably propose on the spot.
I wonder how I can escape from the two of them, at least get to spend the day by myself. I do not fancy watching them make out by the pool again—it’s not what I ran away to do.
After we get back to the villa and stuff our faces, I casually suggest that I take the Mercedes out for a drive.
Olympia, who has taken to walking around topless—her huge boobs in everyone’s faces—seems to think it’s a great idea.
Sure she does. Let’s get rid of the annoying friend who’s getting in my way.
Knowing Olympia, I get that’s what she’s thinking.
Warris, however, does not condone me taking the car unless I can have it back within a couple of hours. “I might have to go into town for an important movie meeting,” he explains to Olympia, all puffed up with his own importance.
I hate his smug face with its pale eyelashes and wormlike lips. But I, too, know how to play the game. “Sure,” I say with an agreeable nod. “I’ll be back soon.”
And so I make my escape. Phew! A shaky mistake ’cause I’ve never driven a Mercedes before—just one of the family cars, and that was only a few times.
I feel powerful and slightly terrified at the same time.
I proceed slowly, like a snail, with no idea where I’m headed.
Another adventure. All mine.
Eventually I make it down to the coastal road, cleverly missing a Renault and a Citroën. Both drivers scream obscenities at me. I ignore them and make a sharp left, then I keep going until I reach a resort town with the sign Juan-les-Pins.
Seems like a good place to stop, so I find a parking place and gingerly wedge the Mercedes between two cars. It’s snug, but at least I haven’t hit anything.
I am triumphant. Marco should only see me now, driving around the South of France by myself.
Actually, I wish I wasn’t by myself. Aren’t adventures supposed to be shared? Wasn’t that the plan? Me and Olympia out on our own discovering life.
Too bad Olympia’s a raving nympho.
Juan-les-Pins is a small, active beach community—lots of little shops and plenty of young people milling around. I stop at an open-air café located across from a book and magazine stand, and bag a table. A hot young waiter asks me in French what I want. I order a croissant and coffee. He winks and compliments my T-shirt, which happens to feature my favorite Rolling Stones.
I am so glad that Miss Bossy insisted I take language courses; it certainly helps to speak the lingo.
I sit there for a while, allowing my mind to wander.
What’s going to happen next? If Warris is about to become a permanent fixture, I want out. But how does that come about? Nobody knows where I am. I have hardly any money—certainly not enough for a ticket home. Not to mention the fact that Gino will be double pissed when he discovers I dumped school and took off. Seems as if I’m trapped.
Young hot waiter keeps on refilling my coffee cup. He’s definitely a babe, with dirty blond sticking-up hair and a cheeky grin. He’s also my height, which is not exactly my type, but right now I’ll settle for a friendly face.
“Are you English?” he asks after a while.
“American,” I reply, surprised that he has no accent. “And you?”
“Half French, half Scottish, and I’m off in an hour, so maybe I can show you around.”
Oh yeah, you can certainly show me around. Sounds like a fine plan. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do.
“I’m Jon,” he offers.
“I’m Lucky,” I say.
Jon winks at me. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he says with a crooked grin.
We’ll see …
* * *
We stroll all around Juan-les-Pins. Jon is funny and interesting and about as unlike slimy Warris as anyone could be. He tells me that he’s studying economics in Paris, and spending his summer making money to support himself.
“The tourists tip well,” he explains. “Especially when I turn on the charm.”
“Is that what you did with me?” I ask jokingly.
“A little bit,” he says with a sly grin. “Only you didn’t tip me.”
“That’s ’cause you refused to give me a check,” I counter. “How could I?”
“You’re too beautiful for me to charge you.”
Beautiful! Nobody has ever called me that before. For once I am speechless and kind of caught off guard. Jon has way too much charm and I’m eating it up.
We end up on the beach making out. Why not?
I like the way he kisses—every boy seems to have a different technique, and Jon’s is pretty good.
Am I becoming an expert at kissing? I haven’
t had any complaints.
Ah, Marco, by the time we get together I will be an experienced woman of the world. How does that grab you?
After a while I decide that if Olympia can have slimy Warris at the villa, then I can certainly invite Jon over. So I do.
“I’m working tonight,” he says with a rueful shrug. “How about tomorrow? I’m off all day.”
“Yes,” I say, as he walks me to my car. “This doesn’t belong to me,” I add quickly as I note his reaction to the Mercedes. “It belongs to my friend’s dad.”
“And he lets you drive it?” Jon asks, sounding surprised.
“Why wouldn’t he?” I respond, feeling a bit defensive.
“It’s an expensive car,” Jon remarks, circling it.
“That it is,” I agree.
He leans me against the side of the car and kisses me hard. “Tomorrow, beautiful. What time?”
I catch my breath. “Anytime,” I say vaguely. “We can swim, there’s a pool.”
Jon nods. “Bonne nuit, Lucky,” he says, and before I know it I am driving confidently back to the villa.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Where the fuck have you been?” Warris explodes, red in the face. I take a quick peek at my watch and realize that it’s almost seven P.M. Too bad, Warris, I was out having fun.
“Ran into some friends,” I say casually.
“You fuckin’ what?” Warris screams, his face getting redder by the minute. I glance around to see what Olympia is up to and if she’s going to allow her newfound boyfriend to speak to me like this.
Olympia is draped on a couch smoking yet another joint. Olympia never does anything by halves. She is oblivious to what is going on.
“I missed an important meeting because of you,” Warris steams. “I told you I needed the fucking car.”
“Does your mom get to kiss you on that dirty mouth?” I say sharply.
“What did you say, bitch?” Warris demands.
I lose it. Nobody calls me a bitch and gets away with it. “You’re an asshole,” I snap. “And I’d sooner be a bitch than an asshole.”
“I knew you were trouble,” Warris yells. “It’s written all over your wop face.”
Confessions of a Wild Child Page 7
