Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Paige nodded, made notes, showed her swatches of material, and suggested certain ideas.

  Eden agreed with most things. She was just as anxious to leave her apartment as Santino was to install her in the house. As long as the place looked sensational in People and Us layouts, what did she care? It would probably only be home for a short while anyway, because when stardom hit she was moving on. She had no intention of sleeping with Santino Bonnatti for the rest of her life. Just as long as it took.

  For a moment she thought of Lennie and their love-making. Oh, Lennie . . . he certainly hadn’t lost his touch. The guy was a great lay. A really great lay. And she should know . . . many men had made the trip to heaven and left without credentials.

  It was a pity he was a loser. Always had been, always would be. Working at some dump on Hollywood Boulevard. Didn’t he know Hollywood Boulevard was out of town for crissakes? Nowhere city. Just like all the nothing gigs he had played in New York.

  Nobody could say she hadn’t given Lennie a chance. Three years’ worth of a chance. But in the sex stakes he was still something, and after Santino’s ape-like attentions she needed a respite. So. She was glad he’d called. Glad she’d seen him. Just hoped that he’d go away quietly.

  ‘Peach wallpaper will look most effective in the bedroom,’ Paige said briskly. ‘Perhaps we could incorporate it into the total concept.’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ Eden agreed. ‘And I’d like a fur bedspread. Something wild and sexy . . . Something . . . movie-starish.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ nodded Paige, exchanging an amused glance with her assistant.

  ‘Good,’ said Eden. ‘Are we finished?’ She had an appointment to have her nails done, and she was already twenty minutes late.

  * * *

  There was no getting rid of Matt Traynor. There he was again, hanging around her table, asking her how she felt, asking her out again. Jess couldn’t stand him, and yet . . . at least he was there, and in his own peculiar way he seemed to care.

  ‘I guess I made an idiot of myself last night,’ she mumbled.

  She didn’t know! Relief rushed through him. He had another chance. ‘Not at all. You told me about your mother. It did you good getting drunk.’

  ‘Anything would do me good lately.’

  ‘Let’s do it again tonight.’

  ‘What, get drunk?’

  ‘Just talk.’

  She had decided to tell Wayland to go. Why didn’t she delay it just one more night until she felt more able to deal with it? Maybe she should ask Matt’s advice. There were always legalities involved in things like this. Getting Wayland out might not be as easy as she had assumed.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, surprising both of them. ‘As long as it’s not dinner for two at Chez Traynor.’

  * * *

  At three o’clock Lennie was paged beside the Chateau Marmont pool where he was working on a suntan. Well, not exactly paged Beverly Hills Hotel style, more like the pool-side phone ringing and a pony-tailed blonde yelling, ‘Anybody named Golden here?’

  He thought it was Eden and jumped.

  It was not Eden. It was a researcher from the Merv Griffin Show who said one of the producers had seen him at Foxie’s the previous night, and that they had a spot open in three days’ time, and if he wanted it, it was his.

  If he wanted it. Did Barbara Walters give Special? Was Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry? If he wanted it. Ha!

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think that fits into my schedule.’ And he gave them his agent’s number.

  Eden was going to love this. She would come with him to the taping, hold his hand, maybe slide to her knees in the dressing room and give him a little bit of her special luck. At last he was on a roll.

  Frantically he started thinking about what he could and could not use. Television was different from playing clubs. Television demanded great visuals, clean material, no bad language, and fresh original routines. Not that all his routines weren’t fresh and original. He wrote his own material, nobody fucked with what Lennie Golden wanted to say.

  He didn’t know whether to work on his suntan or hurry to his room. Eden had said he looked pale. ‘Like a New Yorker,’ she had husked.

  So what was wrong with looking like a New Yorker?

  Fuck it. He hurried inside. There was work to do.

  * * *

  ‘You went out last night,’ said Santino softly.

  ‘I did not,’ lied Eden indignantly. She had no intention of answering to Santino. ‘I watched television all night, and it was extremely boring.’

  His voice was a cobra’s whisper. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Nowhere. I told you. I—’

  His slap jerked her head back and left the red angry imprint of his hand on her face.

  She was shocked and stunned. ‘How dare y—’ she began.

  A second slap stopped her. ‘Never lie to me, Eden,’ he said mildly. ‘Never. This time I’m gonna overlook it, but believe me – don’t you ever do it again.’

  Santino strode from her apartment muttering to himself.

  Blackie said, ‘Everything all right, boss?’ as they rode down in the elevator.

  Santino did not bother to reply. He spoke when he wanted to speak, and only then.

  He flexed his knuckles, and studied the pointed toes of his hand-made Italian shoes.

  Women. Teach ’em up front who ran the show. The same applied to the people he employed.

  Demonstrate strength and there would be no revolution.

  * * *

  Matt took Jess to an Italian restaurant. She found she was ravenous and ate her way through a pasta salad, a veal cutlet with a side order of spaghetti and clams, and a healthy piece of raspberry cheesecake. Tension and worry always affected her appetite, and she went on great eating binges.

  She patted her lips with a napkin, stared piercingly at Matt, causing him to nearly choke on his salad, and said, ‘So go ahead, shoot.’

  ‘I thought you were a vegetarian,’ he stuttered, groping for something to say.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she replied vaguely, and reached for her wine glass. It was empty.

  He ordered another bottle, wondering if tonight was to be a repeat performance, and regretted the fact that they were not dining at the Magiriano where he could have signed the cheque. But who knew the non-drinking vegetarian would change course with such a vengeance?

  ‘Come on,’ she persisted. ‘Tell me about Lennie. It’s time you opened up. If you didn’t want to fire him, who did?’

  He decided there was no harm in the truth. And there was also no reason why he should take the blame. He owed her something – he would give her information. Perhaps she would be grateful enough to consummate their relationship properly.

  ‘Lucky Santangelo wanted him out,’ he said smoothly. ‘Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. She rousted me out of bed at two in the morning to fire him.’

  ‘Lucky Santangelo,’ Jess repeated slowly. ‘Why would she want to fire Lennie? I hear he opened great.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t think she even got involved in things like that. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I. I’ll tell you this though – I have all the clout in the world, but honey, if either of the Santangelos want something, I jump, just like everyone else.’ He toyed with one of his gold chains. Why was he telling her all this? He should be building himself up, not putting himself down.

  Jess’s mind was racing. Lucky Santangelo. The Lady Boss as she was known. What possible reason could she have to dump Lennie?

  ‘Now you know the story,’ Matt continued. ‘And I don’t think I have to tell you that it’s strictly confidential.’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do – put an ad in the trades?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just don’t want to be quoted on it, that’s all.’

  She nodded. Why hadn’t Lennie called? She really missed him. And she needed him. And now she had something to tell him. ‘Matt,’ she said slowly. ‘Do you have a lawyer?
I think I want some advice.’

  ‘What kind of advice?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘The divorce kind.’

  She started to tell him about Wayland, and once she started she couldn’t seem to stop – the drugs, and the weird friends and the sleeping all the time. Everything came pouring out.

  ‘I pay all the bills,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t contributed one dollar since we’ve been married. If I tell him to go, will he?’

  Matt listened carefully. And he didn’t like what he heard. She was hooked up with some spaced-out drug addict, and they were always bad news, they never went quietly. He remembered one girl, a singer, who was living with a heroin user. When she told him to get out he had slit her throat with a razor. She lived, but her voice didn’t.

  ‘Is he violent?’ Matt asked, questioning his own sanity in getting involved in this.

  ‘No. Not at all. In fact he’s quite gentle, especially with the baby.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not going to be easy telling him to go. He’s like a big kid. In a way I feel sorry for him.’

  ‘You have to see a lawyer,’ Matt urged. ‘I’ll set you up an appointment. Why don’t I get my man to fit you in tomorrow morning? He’ll do me a favour. Call me at ten o’clock and I’ll let you know what time.’

  She squeezed his hand gratefully. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re really a very nice man.’ In spite of your silly hair, and your gold chains, and your dumb apartment, she wanted to add, but she didn’t. Slowly she was changing her opinion of Matt Traynor. He wasn’t as bad as he looked.

  * * *

  The girl on the answering service was getting snippy. ‘Yes, Mr Golden. I have passed on your four messages. And no, Mr Golden, it is not my fault that Miss Antonio has not returned your calls.’

  ‘I’m at another number now,’ Lennie said edgily, giving her the number at Foxie’s. ‘So this is message number five, and please tell her it’s urgent.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do that, Mr Golden.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He hung up, hating the operator more each time.

  Why was Eden playing games? Why was she acting like a bitch before they were even back in gear? Goddamn her. Who needed it?

  He went on stage and for the first time felt lousy.

  Foxie gave him the benefit of a stream of insults.

  Isaac was there, and announced it was a good job the Griffin Show hadn’t been in tonight.

  Rainbow smiled. ‘Got your period, honey?’

  He tried Eden’s number again and again. The answering service picked up on all calls. They refused to supply him with her address. Joey Firello, who might have known it, was out of town. Suna and Shirlee were away for the week. Tomorrow he would find it. And he would also find out what kind of a game she thought she was playing.

  He refused to fuck up his life because of Eden Antonio one more time.

  * * *

  At exactly ten in the morning Jess called Matt. He had kept his promise and arranged a twelve-thirty appointment with his lawyer. She was suitably grateful, and for once did not attempt to wake Wayland, who sprawled on the broken couch in the living room, out cold.

  She fed Simon an early lunch and settled him for a nap. Then she crept quietly from the house.

  Wayland awoke fifteen minutes later. He was groggy, still stoned. He looked around for Jess, and when he could not find her, realized she had gone to work early without leaving him any money.

  He needed money. Edge was coming by the house later with some good dope, and he had promised him a hundred and fifty bucks. Jess would scream when he asked for money. If only she would get with it, she could sell some of the stuff he scored in the Casino, and make them a solid profit. Had to talk to her about getting her act together. Had to—

  He forgot what he was thinking, unzipped his pants and pissed against the living room wall. Then he popped a few assorted pills, the last of his stash, and remembered he needed money to replenish his supply. Jess was not treating him right. She shouldn’t have sneaked off to work without leaving him money.

  Sometimes she hid it.

  He started a slapdash search, knocking things over, tipping coffee and sugar and flour out of their containers in the kitchen.

  Sometimes she—

  He couldn’t quite grasp the thought. But he did know Edge was coming by soon and he needed to get connected.

  In the bedroom the baby started to cry.

  Sometimes she hid it . . .

  He had the thought again.

  Once she had hidden fifteen hundred dollars under the baby’s mattress.

  He staggered into the bedroom. Last night he had speed-balled with a few friends. They had come to the house. What else was he expected to do? He couldn’t go anywhere when he was babysitting.

  He lifted the kid from the crib and placed him carefully on the floor. It immediately started to crawl toward the open patio doors, but Wayland was too stoned to notice.

  Frantically he began pulling at the sheets and covers. Then he lifted the small mattress and hurled it across the room.

  Nothing.

  Not a dime.

  Not a dollar.

  Not a cent.

  Tiredness overcame him. He flopped across the bed and immediately fell into another deep sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Snoopy watch did not bring peace. Brigette screamed like a stuck pig when she discovered Olympia was not returning to Paris with her. It was almost as if the child sensed Olympia’s withdrawal, and wanted nothing to do with it.

  ‘I want my mommy!’ she yelled, jerking away from Nanny Mabel who was trying to secure her in a vice-like grip – all the better to drag her into the limousine.

  ‘Mama will follow you,’ Olympia sighed, hating the scene. ‘In a day or two.’

  ‘No you won’t!’ screamed Brigette. ‘You won’t! You won’t!’

  ‘I will,’ Olympia insisted.

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Dimitri appeared, glaring thunder. ‘Why did you make this last minute decision not to come, Olympia? It is irresponsible of you telling the child now.’ He shifted his stern gaze to Brigette, who immediately shut up. ‘We will go now,’ he said. ‘Your mother will follow us in a few days. In the meantime you will stay with me.’

  Brigette’s face brightened. As long as she wasn’t left alone with Nanny Mabel.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ sighed Olympia, touching her blonde curls.

  He frowned. ‘No longer than a week,’ he said. ‘I have meetings in London and Rome, and I have no intention of taking Brigette with me.’

  ‘Certainly not, Father.’

  They exchanged dutiful kisses and at last Dimitri, Brigette and Nanny Mabel were on their way.

  Olympia threw herself into a soothing tub, ordered two bottles of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne and a healthy supply of caviar to be put out, then she summoned Vitos to spend the night.

  He arrived with news of a party being given by a seedy English rock group called The Layabouts, contemporaries of the Beatles and the Stones.

  Olympia decided she wanted to meet them as the lead singer had always intrigued her. His name was Flash.

  Vitos flashed his perfect blank smile. ‘We shall go,’ he said, after she had told him that is exactly what they would do.

  The limousine transported them to a huge loft in the Village where two burly security guards checked them out. This is what Olympia was learning to love about New York, there was always something unexpected going on.

  Once inside she smiled her way through the crush while Vitos guided her past the mass of seething freaks into the inner sanctum where she set eyes on Flash for the first time. He looked like a refugee from a gypsy encampment. Long dark curls, pock-marked skin, thin cruel lips, rotting teeth, dangerous yellow eyes, and a stringy body.

  She had seen him on television and in magazines for years. He was a cult figure, up there with Andy Warhol and Mick Jagger. He was also a reformed heroin addi
ct, a dedicated cocksman, and possibly the best rock guitarist in the world. Meeting a passably pretty, plump Greek shipping heiress did nothing for his libido. He had no idea who she was. “Ello darlin’,’ he said. ‘Wanna snort?’

  Olympia fell in love instantly.

  Nobody had ever accused her of having perfect taste.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Now that she had made her decision, Lucky had no desire to spend any more time than was necessary with Gino. She didn’t want to risk his trying to change her mind, because she knew what she was doing was right.

  He was back in Vegas alone. No Susan. The Widow Perfect had remained in Los Angeles arranging the nuptials.

  ‘You’re comin’ to the wedding, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  She did not want to attend his wedding. Why should she be present when he committed an insane act?

  ‘Well . . .’ she began, searching for an excuse.

  ‘I want you there,’ he said. An order, not a request.

  ‘Sure,’ she agreed reluctantly, wondering why she still jumped.

  There was no need for her to hang around while all the involved paperwork went ahead, so she planned to leave in one week’s time. First she wanted to visit Costa, in Miami, and then on to New York, which she had decided would be her base. Leaving the Vegas hotel business was going to be a wrench, no use kidding herself.

  And leaving Gino . . .

  They dined together one night. Conversation was stilted. Things just weren’t the same. She told him when she was going, and he nodded resignedly.

  Tell me it’s all off between you and Susan and I won’t budge, she thought.

  He didn’t say a word.

  * * *

  Matt heard about the tragedy on the early evening news. Another backyard drowning. This time an eleven-month-old baby boy who had crawled out of an open patio door and fallen into the family swimming pool. The newscaster, a woman who looked like she had just come from the Miss America contest, assumed a grave expression, and informed her audience that although foul play was not suspected, the parents, Jess and Wayland Dolby, had been taken to the police station for further questioning.