Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Jess giggled. Old Foxie certainly knew how to turn a phrase. ‘Teach me,’ she begged.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ he replied. ‘An’ you got the right goods t’sell. Lennie’s gonna be big. I picked it when he first auditioned.’

  Within a week she had re-booked Lennie on the Griffin Show.

  He was delighted. ‘How’d you do it, babe?’

  She grinned. ‘Moxy and no mortgage.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  And so his climb began. Jess was dedicated, and there was nothing else on her mind. She went for it, just as Foxie had taught her to do. And Lennie was good, so everything she got him paid off and led to other things.

  Isaac was pissed at first, but he soon got used to it. Especially when Jess proved she knew what she was doing better than anyone else.

  The Griffin Show first. A repeat performance two weeks later because Merv liked him. A third shot a month after that because audience reaction was strong. Two guest appearances on Joey Firello’s comedy hour. And then the offer of a weekly TV show in which he got to play a crazy doctor in charge of a health spa. The programme, called The Springs, was a cross between Soap, and Hill Street Blues. It started off with hardly any ratings at all, until gradually it built up a small cult following, then a large cult following, and suddenly it busted right to the top of the ratings and became a hit halfway through its second season. Lennie and the rest of the virtually unknown cast developed sensational TVQs overnight.

  That had taken place six weeks ago. To say that Lennie was now hot was putting it mildly.

  Jess steered the Datsun into the slow-moving afternoon traffic. There was so much going on, and hardly time to handle it all. She honked at an erratic driver who promptly gave her the V sign.

  ‘Shove it up your ass, sailor,’ she mouthed, and shot past him.

  The first thing she had to do was get Lennie straight. Rumour had it he was drinking, although not in front of her. But then, since the success of the show, she had hardly seen him. He was either doing interviews, working, or socializing with a series of willowy blondes who passed through his life like a dose of salts.

  That was all they needed. A drinking problem just when he was on the brink.

  The erratic driver cut in front of her, forcing her to brake abruptly. She tried to control her temper but couldn’t resist a massive blast of the horn.

  Stay calm, she warned herself. She was on her way to lunch with Lennie and she didn’t want to arrive flustered. It was important to maintain a cool, collected exterior. All the better to find out what he had been up to.

  * * *

  The blonde had said she was nineteen but Lennie wasn’t betting on it. Seventeen more like. A sexually experienced seventeen-year-old whom he couldn’t wait to get rid of. One evening of lust was enough. He wished they didn’t always want to stay the night.

  She was dressing. Slowly. White pants, a cutaway top, lace-up shoes, dozens of bangles.

  ‘Can you drop me in Westwood?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not going that way. But I’ll call you a cab.’

  ‘I don’t have any cash.’

  ‘I’ll pay the driver.’

  She tuned into a soap opera on television while he phoned the taxi company and told them to send someone over fast. He wanted her out of his apartment. Not that there was anything wrong with her. She was pretty, with a Californian body, and a pleasant enough personality. But she was his third blonde this week, and he was overdosing on available pussy, and not liking himself for it.

  When the cab buzzed from downstairs he pressed twenty dollars into her hand, promised he would call soon, and shut the door behind her with a sigh of relief.

  Immediately she was gone he stripped the sheets off the bed, dumped them on the floor, opened all the windows, and fixed himself a refreshing vodka and orange juice. It was eleven in the morning. Not too bad. His one day off and nothing to do until a one o’clock lunch with Jess at Scandia.

  He had been working non-stop. Not only was he rewriting his dialogue on The Springs as well as performing on the show most days, but he was putting together some new material for his act, and also trying to work on a screenplay. Plus there was constant publicity to do, and a different party every night.

  Well, why not? Didn’t he deserve it at long last?

  The phone rang. It was his mother. Dear old Alice had re-entered his life with a vengeance. Amazing what a touch of fame could do.

  ‘Lennie, dear,’ she said.

  He reached for the vodka and gave himself a refill. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why can’t you get me on the Merv Griffin Show?’

  He was incredulous. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. I’d be marvellous.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Doing what I do better than anyone. Telling about my life. Telling stories.’

  ‘What stories?’

  ‘About Las Vegas. Your father. Me. I’ve had the most interesting life of anyone I know. Someone should write a book about me . . . would they have a bestseller! I shiver to think.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Don’t be rude.’

  ‘Who’s rude?’

  ‘Since you got on television every week you’re rude. I never hear from you, never see you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m your mother, Lennie, and you’ve thrown me aside like old clothes.’

  All of a sudden Alice the swinger was his mother, a fact she would not have admitted six months ago. After his second Merv Griffin appearance she had written him a letter care of the show. He had called and listened to her complain. It seemed she was put out because he hadn’t invited her to the taping. Shortly after that he made the trek to Marina del Rey and spent a day in her company. She had fixed him a bacon sandwich, confided all about her new boyfriend – a twenty-six-year-old musician who was ‘out on the road’. And embarrassed him with an exhibition of six new exercises she claimed kept her fit, young and sexually active.

  He hadn’t seen her since, but she phoned him regularly – very regularly since The Springs had zoomed in the ratings.

  He sent her money which she never mentioned, and put up with her phone calls. What else could he do? She was his mother.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Alice.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Very well.’

  There was a frosty silence while Alice considered what to say next. She came up with a humdinger. ‘I’m thinking of getting an agent.’

  Lennie reached for the vodka. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Ha! You think you’re the only one should have a career. If you cared about me at all you’d give me your agent. I sing, dance, tell funny stories. Why can’t you get me a guest spot on your show?’

  The thought of going to Isaac Luther and offering Alice as a client was too hilarious to contemplate. Lennie choked back laughter. ‘Gotta go. I’m running late.’

  ‘Think about introducing me to your agent. You won’t be sorry. It’s never too late to make it, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, ma.’

  ‘Call me Alice – it sounds better. And lie about your age. Stick to twenty-five, you don’t look any older. You can get away with it.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  He hung up still laughing. If nothing else she was a character.

  Harriet, the maid, arrived shortly after. She was extremely old and had trouble walking. Her cleaning left plenty to be desired, but he had inherited her when he rented the apartment – a one-bedroom penthouse in a service building on Doheny.

  ‘Morning, Mr Gold,’ she said.

  ‘Golden,’ he corrected. She had only been working for him a year. She nodded absentmindedly and went into the kitchen where she took off her shoes and switched on the television.

  Lennie returned to the bathroom. He stripped off his robe and stepped under a cold shower. He looked forward t
o lunch with Jess, and then at three o’clock he had an interview with People magazine. He hated giving interviews, they were an intrusion on his privacy, and he had nothing to say about his personal life.

  What personal life?

  Was getting laid a lot personal? He doubted it.

  Towelling himself dry he wondered what to wear. Most of his clothes rested in a heap on the floor waiting for someone to take them to the cleaners. From the pile he extracted black pants and a black shirt. Jess would probably complain. ‘You need to buy new clothes,’ she would say.

  Now he had the money he didn’t have the time.

  What did he have time for?

  Working.

  Screwing.

  Drinking.

  Working.

  Little Jess had really done it for him. She was a dynamo. She had taken over his static career and shoved him up the public’s ass like a rocket. And not a moment too soon. She had saved both their lives. And now he was really on his way. TV series. Good money, Christ, if People magazine wanted him it meant he was somebody. They were going to take photos – a day in the life of Lennie Golden. He wondered if Eden would see them, and stepped on the thought.

  Eden Antonio was old news.

  Eden Antonio meant nothing to him.

  He reviewed their relationship. Three years together in New York. Fought like tigers. She went west. He followed. One meeting. Great sex. And that was it. She had used him because she probably felt horny, and dumped him with about as much feeling as a sphinx. Christ, how he hated her.

  Bull . . . shit.

  What?

  Bull . . . shit. If she came to you now you’d grab her.

  Maybe.

  Don’t give me that maybe crap.

  He loathed the conversations which took place in the privacy of his head because they were true. He knew things about her.

  She was living with some married hood. The guy had bought her a house, clothes, jewellery.

  The twins gave him fragments. He tried to appear uninterested.

  He knew where her house was. He knew her private phone number. He had driven past the house a few times. Phoned and hung up more than once.

  But he refused to contact her. If she wanted him let her come running.

  And if she ever did . . .

  Dressed in black he prepared to leave the apartment.

  Harriet lolled in the kitchen, varicose-veined legs stretched before her, a game show blaring on the television. ‘Just taking a lunch break, Mr Gould,’ she said contentedly.

  ‘Put clean sheets on the bed,’ he instructed, knowing she wouldn’t and that he would have to do it himself. Feeling sorry for the old bag was one thing, but he needed a maid desperately.

  In the underground garage he collected his new black BMW. What a car! He had walked into the showroom and bought it off the floor six weeks ago. His first extravagance. It felt good. He wished he had someone to share his success with. Jess was terrific, but she wasn’t around when he really needed her in the cold empty hours of the early morning when he desired the warmth of a lover, a companion, a soulmate.

  Sometimes he would reach for the blonde asleep beside him, wake her gently and make love.

  No. Not love. Sex. Just sex.

  Success was great. Money was great. Recognition was great.

  It just wasn’t enough.

  Something was missing in his life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Driving back to New York, Steven Berkeley tried to decide how the meeting with his mother, Carrie, had gone.

  She had been thrilled to see him, overly attentive. She had wanted him to stay the weekend, but he had declined, anxious to get to the point and out of there.

  ‘Look,’ he had finally said, ‘I can’t lie to you, and I don’t intend to. I need to get my life straight, and to do that I have to know who my father is.’

  There had been a long pause, while she got up, paced the room, sat down again, and finally looked him in the eye. ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘You gave me two names,’ he said harshly. ‘Two names, and that’s supposed to satisfy me? Well, it doesn’t. Not by a long way. I have to know which one is my father. And you have to help me.’

  It had not been easy. She didn’t want to cooperate. She had no desire to sift through the ashes of her past. But gradually he convinced her that if she ever wanted to see him again she had no choice. Finally she had agreed to the plan he set before her.

  Now, driving along the half-empty freeway, he wondered if he was doing right. Jerry Myerson had advised him against doing anything. ‘What do you think’s going to happen?’ Jerry had questioned. ‘You drag Carrie to see some guy who might – and I emphasize the might – just be your old man. Then you tell him the facts – like forty-two years ago he went to bed with Carrie – and then you ask him to take a blood test. Are you kidding? If you were white they’d kick your ass out the door. But when they take a look at you they’re going to laugh you out. Why put yourself through it? And why humiliate Carrie?’

  Jerry didn’t understand. There are some things in life that had to be done.

  He knew where Gino Santangelo was. Still alive. Seventy-four years old. Married to Tiny Martino’s widow and living in Beverly Hills. There was no doubt he was the same Gino Santangelo Carrie had had a one-night affair with back in 1938 when he owned a night club in New York called ‘Clemmies’.

  Tracking Freddy Lester had not been so easy. The only information Carrie could provide was that he was from a New York society family, his best friend was named Mel, and at the time she met him he had recently left college.

  Steven had found three candidates. One a judge. One a publisher. And the third a retired doctor. All three were about the right age, lived in or near New York, and shared different versions of the same name. Judge Frederick Lester. Fred E. Lester. And Fredd Lesster, M.D.

  Of the three Carrie would have to pick the right one.

  Jerry Myerson was correct. It was not going to be simple. But as a former D.A., Steven had tenacity and determination, and even more important – he knew he could do it.

  With a little help from Carrie. She at least owed him that.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Olympia had suspected for some time her father had a secret mistress. Not that she cared. Dimitri could do what he liked, and so could she. But her curiosity was aroused. Who was the mystery woman? And why the secrecy?

  She ran into Francesca Fern in New York at ‘21’.

  ‘Dahling!’ they both exclaimed. ‘You look divine! We must have lunch.’ Kisses brushed cheeks.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ Olympia added, interested to find out if Francesca knew what was going on.

  Francesca, who had no particular desire to lunch with Dimitri’s petulant daughter, could think of no quick excuse.

  ‘The Russian Tea Room, one o’clock,’ Olympia stated firmly.

  Francesca nodded vaguely, planning to cancel at the last minute. But in the morning Horace annoyed her. She had a screaming argument with her agent on the phone, and lunch with Olympia seemed a welcome excuse to storm from the house.

  Olympia awoke late in her luxurious Fifth Avenue apartment overlooking Central Park. Flash was in the south of France working on a new album with The Layabouts. She planned to join him in a few days, but quite frankly she was enjoying the peace and quiet. Life with Flash was a series of parties, and peculiar people, late-night drug trips and kinky sex. Not that she minded any of it – but the break would do him good – make him appreciate her. Sometimes she felt he took her too much for granted. He had money, but never spent a dime. He always expected her to pay for everything – which she did. ‘The rich bint’ll get it,’ he’d say to anyone who asked. ‘She’s got more loot than the friggin’ Queen of bleedin’ Blighty.’

  Olympia, remembering her lunch appointment with Francesca, hurried to dress. She put on a cream leather mini skirt which refused to zip. She discarded
that and wriggled into a silk Chloe dress which made her look fat. She finally settled on a blue linen suit which hid a multitude of sins. Lately Flash had taken to calling her Tubs, which infuriated her. She, in turn, had nicknamed him Bones, which made him snigger.

  Tubs and Bones. The darlings of the gossip columns. Oh, if the public only knew!

  The two women arrived simultaneously, kissed each other vaguely on the cheek, and settled into a left-hand booth, whereupon Olympia ordered a Bloody Mary, and Francesca decided on Perrier. Olympia immediately regretted her decision to invite Francesca to lunch. What were they going to talk about for two hours? They had nothing in common except Dimitri, and five minutes would dispose of him.

  ‘I have a two o’clock appointment with my couturier’, Francesca announced briskly, as if thinking the same thoughts.

  ‘Good’, replied Olympia swiftly. ‘I have a manicure at two.’

  Francesca reached into her purse and produced a thin black cheroot. She placed it between brightly carmined lips, and two waiters leapt forward. She accepted their attentions with the attitude of a star, and tossed her flame-red hair. ‘I leave for Paris in the morning’, she announced. ‘I never stop travelling.’

  Olympia plunged right in. ‘Have you seen Dimitri recently?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t he in Greece?’ Francesca replied off-handedly.

  ‘Yes’, Olympia paused mysteriously. ‘Again.’

  Francesca did not jump to the bait. Her hooded eyes surveyed the room, and her husky voice summoned a waiter. ‘Menu’, she commanded. She looked bored.

  Olympia persevered. ‘This is his third trip to the island this year.’

  Francesca turned toward her. ‘So?’

  ‘So . . . don’t you think it’s a little . . . strange?’

  Francesca shrugged, snatched the menu from a hovering Captain, and studied it intently. ‘Nothing strange. It’s his island.’

  ‘Hmm’, said Olympia. ‘I think it’s strange that he hands out explicit instructions nobody is to visit while he’s there. And that includes me. I wanted to send my daughter and I was informed I couldn’t.’