Confessions of a Wild Child

by Jackie Collins

  “Better to be trouble than an asshole,” I taunt.

  “Jesus Christ!” he says, steps close to me, and raises his arm as if to strike me.

  I move quickly, faster than him. Uncle Costa taught me a few key moves when I was a kid, and I’ve never forgotten them. I grab Warris’s arm, twist it back, and give him a swift kick in the balls.

  He yells like a stuck pig and crumples to the ground. Talk about a wimp!

  “Sorry,” I say innocently. “Did I hurt you?”

  Oh wow, I’m getting good at this—I recall Pierre and his demise. Maybe I should run a self-defense class. Go for the balls, it works every time!

  Warris staggers to his feet and glares at me. “Your little friend is a raging psycho,” he informs Olympia, who doesn’t stir. She is in a world of her own—stoned and happy. “Fuckin’ bitch!” Warris mutters, and I’m not sure if he’s referring to me or Olympia. I guess he means me, ’cause he wouldn’t risk alienating Olympia.

  I make it to what I now consider my room, since Olympia has taken up residence with Warris in the main bedroom. I lie down on the bed and stare at the old-fashioned ceiling fan. I think about Jon, he is kind of cute. I think about Marco and wonder what he’s up to back in L.A. Does he ever think about me? Does my image even cross his mind?

  I wish I was older. If I was older I could make money and start doing what I want to do. I wouldn’t be trapped with Olympia in a house in the South of France with no clue about what happens next. Eventually Gino will get word that I’m on the run. He will not be pleased. One way or the other he will hunt me down.

  I must’ve fallen asleep, ’cause it’s dark when Olympia awakens me by shaking my shoulder.

  “Wassup?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

  “Get up and get dressed,” Olympia insists. “Warris is taking us for a night on the town.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I say, still not thinking straight.

  “Not kidding,” Olympia assures me. “He’s taking us to the casino.”

  I digest this news. Aren’t we too young to gain entry to a casino?

  I don’t voice my opinion, because I’m quite into the idea of getting out of the house, even if it is with Warris.

  * * *

  An hour later we’re sitting on the terrace of the Blue Bar, sipping Campari while all dressed up in Olympia’s aunt’s clothes. I have chosen a black sequinned tank top and palazzo pants. Olympia is wearing something extremely low cut—of course. She’s never happy unless her boobs are on display.

  Warris has decided to deposit us there while he runs over to his hotel and changes clothes. Olympia suggests we go with him, but he demurs.

  “Well,” she threatens, sticking out her boobs, “if I see a better-looking dude, do not expect me to be here when you get back.”

  Warris shoots her a confident smirk. He knows she likes him.

  “Watch her,” he says briskly. “I’ll be no more than ten minutes.”

  It’s obvious that he has decided I’m more use to him as a friend than as an enemy. Smarter than I thought.

  It’s kind of interesting sitting at a table observing a ton of old men with way younger girlfriends passing by. According to Warris, this is the height of the Cannes Film Festival, so there are lots of important movie people in town.

  Who cares? I certainly don’t.

  After a good half hour Warris returns all dressed up in a white dinner jacket. He kisses Olympia on the mouth, and announces that he’s checked out of his hotel and stashed his suitcase in the back of the Mercedes.

  Olympia is unfazed.

  I am pissed. The asshole is taking up permanent residence. No slouch when it comes to nailing the deal.

  We finish our drinks and set off for the casino, whereupon we get stopped at the entrance by two burly French dudes in suits.

  “Excuse me, monsieur,” burly French dude one says to Warris, “I shall be needing identification for the two young ladies.”

  Warris bristles. “They’re both over twenty-one,” he says sharply.

  “I am sure they are,” the French dude replies with an implacable expression. “However, there are rules, and unless the young ladies can provide their passports I cannot allow them into the casino.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Warris snarls, his face reddening.

  “I am sorry, monsieur, these are the rules we must follow. There are no exceptions.”

  Warris suddenly loses it. “Fucking frogs!” he screams. “What the fuck do you know about anything?”

  “Oh God!” Olympia sighs. “It’s not important. Let’s go.”

  Warris is on a roll, screaming insults as two security guards materialize and, arms under his elbows, escort him off the premises.

  “Wonderful!” I mutter as we reach the sidewalk, and as we do, a white Rolls-Royce pulls up, and out steps a fiery dark-haired Latina in an even tighter and more revealing dress than Olympia’s. She is older, but quite a beauty.

  “Warris!” the woman says accusingly, jabbing him with her be-ringed finger. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

  Warris stops shouting, shakes off the two security guards, adjusts his jacket, and gives the woman a sheepish look. “Pippa,” he mumbles. “I was going to call you.”

  “Sure,” she replies sarcastically. “And the president took a shit in Washington Square.”

  Ha! I like this woman’s style—she has a mouth on her. And I so enjoy seeing Warris crumble.

  Olympia doesn’t. She clings to Warris’s arm in a proprietary fashion and demands to know who the dark-haired woman is.

  “Pippa Sanchez,” the woman says, looking Olympia up and down before turning back to Warris and drawling—“I didn’t know juvenile pussy was your style. I guess all the big girls must’ve found out what a crap artist you are.”

  I am loving this. Totally loving it!

  “Pippa,” Warris says stiffly, “I’d like you to meet Olympia Stanislopoulos of the Stanislopoulos family.”

  “Oh!” Pippa says. I realize she gets it. Like Warris, she is no slouch.

  “And Olympia,” Warris continues, “I’d like you to meet Pippa Sanchez, a business associate of mine.”

  Business associate my left foot, I think, stifling a giggle.

  Naturally Olympia falls for it, just as Pippa’s escort steps forward. He is the driver of the Rolls, a gray-haired older man.

  “Ah,” the man says. “If these people are your friends, Pippa, we should all go have a drink together.”

  Pippa nods, flashes Warris a scathing look, and once again we are off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The gray-haired man, whose name I soon discover is March Holtz, insists that we all pile into his Rolls, and since Warris obviously thinks the man might be someone important, he doesn’t hesitate before hustling me and Olympia into the car. Warris crams in the back between me and Olympia. Pippa sits in the front passenger seat next to March. We leave the Mercedes parked in Cannes while March roars off down the narrow coastal road, announcing we are meeting up with more people at a club in Juan-les-Pins.

  Juan-les-Pins again? Really? I wonder if I’ll bump into Jon.

  “I’ve been to Juan-les-Pins,” I remark.

  “When?” Olympia demands, bountiful boobs almost popping out of her aunt’s low-cut purple dress.

  “This afternoon,” I say casually, and I want to add, While you were lying around stoned with your new boyfriend when you should’ve been with me, having fun and enjoying our newfound freedom. But I don’t, ’cause there’s no endgame to getting in a fight with Olympia.

  Warris is sitting too close to me. I can feel his bony thigh rubbing against my leg, and the smell of his cheap aftershave is making me want to throw up. What the hell does Olympia see in him? He’s not exactly sex on a stick.

  Pippa announces to everyone that she is a famous actress.

  Seriously? Who announces that kind of thing?

  She follows this up with
a speech about how she and Warris are teaming up for a very important movie project—a project that will blow everyone’s mind. A project so huge that it will catapult her to the top of all the Latina actresses.

  Is she kidding?

  I think not.

  March, it turns out, is a man with money who could be an investor. He’s a jeweler, originally from Bolivia, who now resides in Cannes. Pippa has her eyes set firmly on his pocketbook.

  “Warris is like my brother,” Pippa purrs, making sure that March doesn’t think she’s sleeping with Warris. “We are pure soul mates,” she adds, just in case he doesn’t get it.

  Idly I wonder what kind of name March is, and where he and Pippa met. Are they old friends? Or did she latch on to him the moment she spotted the Rolls?

  I kind of figure the Rolls did it.

  Soon we are crowding into a cavernlike club—the Vieux Colombier—where musicians are up on a small stage playing live jazz, and a ton of people are gyrating on the spacious dance floor.

  March’s friends turn out to be three underdressed blondes and another older man with a beard, a bald head, and probably plenty of money.

  Lovely! If Gino could only see me now!

  Pippa and Warris slip into a double act of trying to charm the crap out of everyone, or should I say con, ’cause I’ve already figured out that’s what they are—a couple of con artists on the prowl.

  Ah, Gino would be so proud of me. I have his eye, I can spot a phony a mile away.

  I wish that my father could see the potential in me. School has taught me absolutely nothing—I need to be out in the real world working next to him. Gino should be grooming me to take over his business one day, not trying to force me to stay in school. I can do it. And one day I will do it. Surely he must realize that there is no stopping me?

  Olympia is not thrilled with the extra blondes—she is used to being front and center, and these three seasoned girls are not to her liking. Two of them are Swedish, and one is English. They are in their twenties and they are busily draping themselves all over the bald man and March.

  Pippa doesn’t appreciate the action. She flashes her expressive eyes before grabbing March and whisking him onto the dance floor away from temptation.

  Olympia mutters “hookers” under her breath.

  Unfortunately the English girl hears and fixes her with a baleful glare. “What’s your problem, luvvie?” she questions belligerently.

  Olympia backs down for once—the pot is making her mellower than usual. “No problem,” she murmurs quietly. “Wanna dance?”

  And there we have it. Is Olympia turning lezzie before my very eyes?

  I can’t believe it as the two of them head for the dance floor arm in arm, a mass of blonde hair and big boobs, all over each other.

  The bald man salivates as he imagines what might happen later.

  Not!

  I am hardly in the blonde-with-big-boobs category—me with my wild mass of jet curls, dark eyes, and olive skin. I have my own look, thank goodness. Jon called me beautiful, that’s all I need to feed my ego.

  Thinking of Jon, I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Working hard as a waiter, I presume. Making money to see him through the summer.

  I think I like him more than I should, even though physically he’s not my type. He’s too scrappy, too short, too cute.

  This gets me thinking about types. Do we all have one?

  Well, I know I do. Marco. Tall, dark, and handsome, what a cliché!

  Where are you, Marco? What are you doing?

  And then I start thinking about home and L.A. and my younger brother, Dario. How is he managing without me around? He must miss me like crazy. I am forced to admit that I have neglected him and suddenly I’m suffused with guilt. I need to contact him, tell him that I still love him and that I’ll always be there for him.

  But how can I do that? I’m on the run, an ocean away.

  Oh crap, when Gino tracks me down—and I know that day is inevitable—there will be consequences, enormous ones.

  “Let’s dance,” Warris says, unexpectedly grabbing my arm.

  Me and Warris on the dance floor together. No thankyouverymuch. But Warris has had it with watching the blondes put their moves on the bald man, so I am his only option.

  We hit the dance floor together just in time to see Pippa tongue Mr. Holtz’s ear like she was giving him an unexpected ear job.

  I can’t help giggling. Is this the way she expects to raise money? Or at least raise something …

  Warris scowls, then decides to ignore Pippa and concentrate on me. “Where you from, Lucky?” he asks, and I realize it’s the first time he’s called me by my name.

  “L.A.,” I mutter, having no desire to make conversation with Mister Sleazy.

  “L.A. My kinda town,” Warris says, raising his voice to be heard over the loud jazz music. “A place I’m very familiar with. I was a child star, y’know.”

  Yes, I do know, ’cause you’ve mentioned it several times.

  “Really?” I try to sound as if I’m even remotely interested, which I’m not.

  And because he wants me on his side, he adds—“I’m not sleeping with Pippa. You can tell that to Olympia. In fact you should.”

  Should I now? I don’t think so, because I don’t believe him. Besides, it’s Olympia’s problem, not mine. If she wants to keep this annoying dude around, then that’s her deal.

  Warris’s moves on the dance floor are ridiculous, so after a few minutes I make my escape and scope out more of the crowded club.

  And who do I find busying himself behind the bar? Jon.

  “What’re you doing here?” I exclaim in surprise.

  “More like what are you doing here?” he counters.

  And of course I can see that he’s working as a barman, mixing drinks and handing them out.

  “This is my nighttime job,” he says, throwing me one of his cheeky crooked grins. “Three nights a week. Major tips.”

  “You didn’t tell me,” I say, immediately realizing how dumb I sound. After all, I’ve only known him for a day—why would I know?

  “Who’re you here with?” he asks.

  “Old people,” I reply, keeping it vague. “Friends of Olympia’s.”

  Earlier I’d told him about my rich schoolfriend, Olympia, and that we were staying at her aunt’s villa. No mention of our ages or that we are runaways. Didn’t want to put him off, and if he knew I was only fifteen I’m sure he’d back away like an express train on a collision course with a juggernaut.

  “Sorry I can’t spend time with you,” Jon says, juggling a couple of martini glasses, which are whisked out of his hands by a waitress type in a skimpy leather dress. “Thanks, Marlene,” he says.

  Marlene scowls at me. I scowl back.

  “Take no notice of her,” Jon says as Marlene vanishes into the depths of the club with the drinks. “She hates everyone, especially Americans.”

  “Nice,” I mutter.

  A man pushes past me and demands three beers and a vodka on the rocks.

  I can see Jon is busy, so I decide to play it cool and return to my cozy group of misfits.

  “Okay,” I say, kind of reluctantly. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You got it,” Jon says.

  And that is that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Gino Santangelo was burning up with a deep-seated dark fury. His daughter, Lucky, had been on the missing list for several days and he had no idea where she could be. Costa had received the bad news from the school, whereupon Gino had immediately gotten on a plane, and with Costa in tow, gone straight to the school in Connecticut and interrogated the headmistress. The woman was as furious as they were—losing a student was not the right image to project for an exclusive private school’s reputation. The headmistress suggested they call the police. Gino responded with a flat no; he wanted no outside interference. Instead he insisted on questioning the girls in Lucky’s class and found out abso
lutely nothing. Then, after getting nowhere, he remembered the friend she’d spent the previous summer with, Olympia Stanislopoulos, and he contacted her mother in London, who assured him that Olympia was at the family residence in Paris taking a Russian language course.

  “Double-check on her,” Gino insisted.

  “I don’t have to,” Mrs. Stanislopoulos responded in a frosty voice. “My daughter is a good girl.”

  Screw good girls, Gino thought. Where the hell is my good girl—not—because he was well aware that Lucky was a wild one, she always had been. He’d never been able to totally control her—she was always giving him lip, answering back, informing him that she wanted to work in the family business next to him.

  Doing what, for chrissake? Didn’t she get it? She was a girl, and girls got married, stayed home, and raised a family.

  Oh yeah, right, so she didn’t have a mother. But he’d always made sure to have a female presence in the house—tutors, housekeepers, and then there was Costa’s wife, Jen. Lucky loved Jen, she was like a second mother to her.

  Son of a bitch! Where was his errant daughter?

  His imagination began running riot. Had she been kidnapped? Raped? Tortured? Held captive by one of his many enemies?

  So many business rivals. So much shit to deal with.

  He pictured Lucky tied up and alone. He had visions of her hitching a ride to California, clad in her tight faded jeans and clinging T-shirt. He imagined some asshole of a truck driver stopping to pick her up. Then he imagined the struggle, the rape, and finally his precious daughter’s body being tossed from the truck.

  His anger knew no bounds. He holed up in his New York apartment with Jen and Costa for company. “Lucky’s a smart girl, she can look after herself,” Jen kept on assuring him. “She’s just like you, Gino, she’ll turn up, safe and sound.”

  Fine for her to say. What did she know?

  He called Dario at his boarding school and informed him what was going on.

  Dario sounded shocked. “Sorry, Dad … uh, Gino … haven’t heard from her.”

  “You’re sure?” Gino insisted. He knew the two of them were tight and that Dario would do anything to protect his sister.

  “Not a word,” Dario replied.