Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  They ate at Elaine’s, one of the great New York restaurants for seeing people and having fun. Elaine, a dark and interesting woman – who knew everyone – escorted them personally to a table in the back.

  Paige waved at some writer friends, while Bobby Zarem – the legendary PR whiz – stopped by their table to say hello.

  It turned out to be one of those evenings where helpless laughter is only a breath away, and everyone had a wonderful time.

  ‘Who is she?’ Lucky asked Gino, when Paige vanished to the ladies’ room.

  ‘Kinda Susan’s best friend,’ he answered sheepishly.

  ‘Can you do a swap?’

  He almost grinned. ‘Don’t get smart ass, kid.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s smart ass, I think it’s one of the best suggestions I’ve ever come up with! What do you think, Uncle Costa?’

  Costa nodded, enjoying the game.

  They stayed at Elaine’s until 1.30 a.m. and then it was time for home and bed.

  Lucky observed her father’s hand on Paige’s thigh before they all rose from the table. He was still going strong. She loved him for it. She loved the whole week in New York. Things were signed and sealed in Atlantic City. Meetings were arranged with architects and builders. She was back in business with a vengeance, and it was a sensational feeling.

  Waiting at the apartment were three messages from Lennie, written out in the butler’s spidery script, PLEASE RETURN MR GOLDEN’S CALL, the message read, and there was a number in L.A.

  She crumpled the pieces of paper and dropped them in the waste basket. Olympia had found him first, she was not about to become involved.

  You are involved.

  I am not.

  Really? What do you call it?

  A transient lay.

  Bullshit.

  She pulled the crumpled messages from the basket and smoothed them out. Just as her hand hovered over the phone, it rang.

  She knew it was him, and hesitated before picking up the receiver.

  You are involved.

  I am not.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Don’t give me that “who is this” crap. I’m in L.A. I’m doing the Carson show tomorrow. Can you fly out?’

  She reached for a cigarette, and noticed her hand was trembling ever so slightly. ‘Stop living in a dream world, Lennie. What we had was . . .’ she searched for the right word, couldn’t find it and settled for ‘. . . momentarily exciting. Now it’s over. Just forget it. I have.’

  He ignored her speech ‘I’m contacting a lawyer. If Olympia agrees I’ll go for an annulment.’

  Lucky thought for a moment of Olympia . . . there was no way they could ever be friends again.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he demanded.

  She sighed. ‘Do what you have to do . . .’

  ‘I intend to. How about you?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Right now I am embarking on a project. I’m building a hotel in Atlantic City. It’s going to take all my time and energy.’

  ‘You’re not answering my question.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d asked one.’

  ‘Let me spell it out. Are you going to divorce Dimitri?’

  She didn’t want to be in this position. Who was he to question her?

  ‘Why don’t you leave me alone,’ she said wearily. ‘You’re a complication I don’t need in my life right now . . . just leave me alone . . .’

  She put the phone down, drew deeply on her cigarette, and took no notice as it began to ring again.

  * * *

  Back at The Pierre, Gino and Paige were getting reacquainted.

  ‘Higher,’ instructed Paige.

  Gino raised his tongue a fraction.

  ‘Softer,’ she begged.

  He relaxed the pressure.

  ‘More,’ she pleaded.

  He buried his face in her juices and felt thoroughly at home.

  * * *

  Lennie had no new material to use on The Tonight Show, much to Jess’s and Isaac’s disgust.

  ‘What the hell were you doing on that goddamn boat?’ Jess complained. Then she remembered the name of his latest passion, and shut up. Lucky Santangelo. Holy shit! Lucky Santangelo. The Lady Boss. Lennie might be a star, but he was way out of his league with that one. Way way out.

  ‘She’s the girl I met in the casino that time,’ he confided. ‘Remember? I told you about her. She stood me up.’

  ‘And had you fired.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Jess screeched. ‘You went ape-shit about being canned.’

  ‘It didn’t do me any harm, did it?’

  Jess shook her head. ‘Jesus! What can I tell you. Lucky Santangelo is . . . connected. She plays games with the big boys. Her father is notorious. He’s Gino Santangelo – one of the mob.’

  ‘How many years ago?’

  ‘Who gives a shit?’

  ‘No, come on,’ he persisted. ‘You’re such an expert on the Santangelos. How many years ago? Cos right now he’s just a feisty old guy married to a movie star’s widow.’

  Jess was sullen. ‘Believe me, Lennie. Trust me. A few years ago Lucky Santangelo was involved in a shooting.’

  ‘What kind of shooting?’

  ‘Oh, it was all hushed up. The rumour was she’d shot this man who was her Godfather.’

  ‘Don’t give me rumours, give me facts.’

  ‘She shot him in the balls with his own gun, if you really want to know – something like that. The story was he tried to rape her – but the gossip around town was that it was a revenge move. He’d had her brother killed and her boyfriend.’

  ‘What boyfriend?’

  ‘Another Charmer. Marco. He looked like he walked straight out of a gangster movie.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He got his head blown off in the parking lot of the Magiriano. I remember it well. I’d only been working there six months. It was frightening – like everyone was talking about some big gang war taking place, but it never happened. Lucky took off for a while, and everything quieted down. Enzio Bonnatti came in to run the hotel – he’s the guy she shot.’

  Lennie was silent while he digested the information. He wasn’t sure whether he believed Jess or not, she had a vivid imagination.

  ‘Matt knows the real story,’ Jess added. ‘Not that he’s likely to tell it. The whole mob scene in Vegas is a grey area – nobody talks.’

  ‘Thanks for the guided tour of Lucky Santangelo’s life. It doesn’t make any difference – I still feel the same way about her.’

  ‘Christ! You sound like some naive jerk up from the sticks. What is it with you and these dumb stupid obsessions you get? I can remember the Lennie Golden who could get laid without giving a damn. What happened?’

  ‘You know something, Jess? You’re my manager, not my fucking keeper.’

  They glared at each other, neither giving an inch.

  The Tonight Show came and went. He was good, not as good as he could have been, but Johnny seemed to like him – in fact he asked him to sit with the other guests after he’d done his bit, and they chatted, and Johnny was charming, and when it was over he got invited back.

  ‘You were great. They loved you,’ Jess enthused in the limo on the way home. ‘When Johnny asks you over, you know you’ve got it made.’

  He wasn’t really listening, he was wondering if Lucky had watched the show, and hoped she had.

  They were only hours apart, but he missed her.

  * * *

  Lucky utilized Dimitri’s desk and worked on ideas for the Santangelo. She put on her Sony earphones and listened to Isaac Hayes – one of her favourite soul singers. He really let it all hang out – his deep sensuous voice expressing everything she felt.

  At eleven-thirty she glanced at the television, and automatically switched it on.

  ‘Heeeeere’s Johnny!’ said the familiar voice of Ed McMa
hon introducing Johnny Carson.

  The most famous man on American television strolled in front of the camera and indulged in light banter with his excited audience.

  Lucky fixed herself a drink and stared at the set. Halfway through Johnny’s monologue she turned it off.

  Five minutes later she switched it on again.

  Why watch Lennie Golden?

  Why not?

  When he finally appeared he received a wild ovation from the audience. Obviously, as Alice had said, he was hot.

  And he was. His cutting ironic wit hit home with everyone. And he looked great too.

  She lit a cigarette and blew contemplative smoke rings.

  Lennie Golden.

  More than just a casual encounter.

  * * *

  The day after the Carson show, Lennie cancelled a club engagement – much to Jess’s fury – and flew to New York. He checked into the Regency Hotel and called Lucky. ‘I’m here, and we have to talk,’ he announced.

  ‘Forget it. Nothing’s going to happen,’ she replied.

  ‘Don’t give me a hard time. Just have dinner with me.’

  ‘What for? It won’t do any good.’

  ‘Because I want you to tell me nothing more can happen between us when we’re face to face, and then I’ll leave you alone. That’s a promise.’

  She hesitated.

  He persisted. ‘Is it a deal?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Hey, you want to get left alone, don’t you? I mean I can really drive you nuts with phone calls and letters and flowers. I can hang around outside your apartment, complicate your life – you know what I mean?’ He paused, then, ‘If I was you, lady, I would grab this magnificent offer and run like crazy.’ He waited a beat, giving her just enough time to make a decision. ‘So – what time shall I pick you up?’

  ‘It won’t do—’

  ‘. . . any good,’ he finished the sentence for her. ‘Expect me at eight-thirty.’

  She started to object, but he hung up before she could argue further.

  Lucky Santangelo was going to be his, and nothing was going to stop him.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Francesca Fern considered Dimitri Stanislopoulos marrying again a direct insult. She brought the subject up at every opportunity, becoming progressively agitated as the cruise drew to an end.

  ‘It is humiliating!’ she complained, as they faced each other over the ever-present backgammon board. ‘The world knows it is me you love. And now you have married this . . . this . . . person. How do you think I feel? You have made a public fool of me.’

  He leaned over and touched her coarse red hair. Then he let his hand stray down the neckline of her low-cut dress, reaching for her prominent nipples. ‘Magnificent!’ he murmured. The jut of her breasts reminded him of a native African woman he had once seen pictured in National Geographic, and to chew on her nipples was the greatest aphrodisiac a man could know.

  She slapped his hand away. ‘Good God, Dimitri!’ She glared at him, full of passion. ‘Wasn’t my love enough?’

  Quickly he defended himself. ‘I married Lucky because of the boy,’ he explained for the hundredth time.

  ‘Yes. And now you must divorce her,’ Francesca replied imperiously, her tone brooking no argument.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dimitri said. ‘She doesn’t bother us. She’s very independent, and quite frankly, my dear, when you are not around I need a woman by my side.’

  ‘She’s no woman!’ Francesca spat viciously. ‘She’s a slut! I don’t know how you can have touched her in the first place. She’s a Romany – a gypsy. She looks dirty to me.’

  Francesca was not happy when denied her own way.

  ‘Enough!’ said Dimitri sharply. ‘I never criticize that miserable dog you’re married to.’

  ‘Why should you? Horace has been very . . . understanding over the years.’

  ‘Understanding indeed! He’s nothing but a cuckold with no balls. A joke, my dear, hardly worth mentioning.’

  She pursed her thin lips, slashed with carmine. ‘Goddamn you to hell,’ she hissed. ‘All you want is my body. You use me. You care nothing for my feelings.’

  Dimitri laughed harshly. ‘Nobody uses you, Francesca.’

  She rose from the table, tall, big-boned and sinewy. ‘True,’ she said haughtily. ‘Nobody uses Francesca Fern – not even the big bad Greek.’ Her voice began to mock. ‘Dimitri Stanislopoulos, with all his money and power. Dimitri Stanislopoulos, who would die to be near me, but who refuses to obey my one tiny request.’

  ‘And what about my request?’ he bellowed loudly. ‘For too many years I have been asking you to free yourself from Horace and marry me. I have begged and threatened, done everything a man can possibly do. You dare to talk of humiliation. I’m the one who has been humiliated. That you should choose to stay with such a pathetic creature when you could have been Mrs Stanislopoulos. My God, Francesca!’

  ‘Divorce the gypsy, and we shall see,’ she murmured mysteriously.

  ‘No,’ Dimitri replied, pushing the backgammon board away and getting up. ‘You divorce Horace and we shall see.’

  ‘Don’t blackmail me,’ she raged. ‘Don’t you dare to blackmail Francesca Fern!’

  ‘This is not blackmail, this is survival,’ he countered sternly.

  She swept her lover with a look. ‘Very well,’ she decided dramatically. ‘The time has come.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For us to be together as you have always wished.’

  ‘You will divorce Horace?’

  ‘I will think about it.’

  Dimitri thumped the table with his fist. ‘Goddamn you, woman. Make up your mind.’

  Her eyes flashed as she tossed back her mane of red hair. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will do it!’

  * * *

  The Contessa clasped Susan’s hand. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she said. ‘Or should I say au revoir, for surely we shall meet again.’

  The Contessa smelt of Chanel. She had leathery skin and a downturned, discontented mouth. Her beauty must have been exceptional when she was young. Now she was merely chic. She made Susan feel like a naive girl, a feeling she hadn’t had for thirty-five years.

  ‘Please phone if you ever get to Beverly Hills,’ Susan urged politely, and hoped she wouldn’t.

  ‘Beverly Hills,’ the Contessa said with an amused smile. ‘Rodeo Drive and film people.’ She made both sound like dirty words.

  ‘And Arabs,’ Susan added tartly. The Contessa was a snob. And as far as Susan was concerned she was also a pervert. After their first delicious sexual encounter the Contessa had suggested that her oily Arab boyfriend join in the fun. Susan had been appalled. ‘Certainly not,’ she had said, and the Contessa had treated her with irritating condescension ever since.

  Susan thought about Paige. She couldn’t wait to see her. Paige would never dare suggest a threesome.

  * * *

  Olympia returned to the yacht, happy and coked up to the eyeballs. Dimitri was too busy to notice. Francesca had agreed to visit his lawyer in Paris and work out the details of getting rid of Horace. Then they would tell him. Together.

  Olympia kissed Brigette on the cheek and counted the days before the child returned to boarding school in England. Having a daughter was such a burdensome responsibility – if it wasn’t for Brigette, she would be free to do whatever she wanted. It never occurred to her that she did do exactly what she wanted at all times.

  Flash had flown off to Germany for a recording session. They were to meet in her New York apartment in a week’s time. Life would be normal again. Sex, drugs and rock and roll.

  Olympia was pleased with the way things had worked out. Flash never mentioned his teenage wife except to wave his hand airily and say, ‘A mistake, gel. She’ll never bother us.’

  Olympia felt the same way about Lennie. A mistake also. Now she had Flash back she would get rid of him. He was in California, far far away. No problem.
>
  ‘Francesca’s going to Paris for the day later in the week,’ Dimitri announced casually over dinner. ‘My plane will take her.’ Horace busied himself with his cracked crab, determined to ignore the fact that his world was about to crumble. There were only the Ferns and Olympia left on the cruise, and the two children and their respective nannies.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Olympia exclaimed. ‘I’ll go too. I need a day’s shopping.’

  ‘Can I come, Mama?’ begged Brigette, who had been allowed to eat with the grown-ups as a special treat.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, darling,’ trilled Olympia.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Brigette.

  ‘Because . . .’ replied Olympia vaguely.

  Brigette chewed on her thumb. ‘Please, mama!’ she whined.

  ‘No’, snapped Olympia. ‘Absolutely not.’

  Brigette glared. ‘I hate you!’ she yelled suddenly, taking everyone by surprise. ‘I really hate you. You’re a big fat cow!’

  ‘Brigette!’ thundered Dimitri. ‘How dare you talk to your mother like that. Go to your room immediately.’

  Brigette weighed the chances of taking on her grandfather and decided against it. ‘But grandpoppa, it’s just that I never see Mama,’ she whined pathetically. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. But why can’t I go?’

  Dimitri turned to his daughter.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ sniffed Olympia. ‘I am not dragging a child with me.’

  Brigette decided a few sobs might come in handy. She began to snivel.

  ‘God!’ huffed Olympia, and rang for Nanny Mabel, who removed the crying child immediately.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  A date. Lucky didn’t go on dates – it had never been part of her lifestyle. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,’ Lennie had said. She hadn’t agreed. He had merely stated what he was going to do and she had accepted it.

  Now she wished she hadn’t. What good would it do? Theirs was a relationship headed nowhere. She realized it. Why didn’t he?

  At seven o’clock she instructed the butler to say she was out of town. Then she spent the next half hour worrying what Lennie would do. Maybe it was best to see him, and sort things out once and for all.