‘What a cosy little get together that must have been,’ replied Paige, unimpressed.
‘It was wonderful,’ Susan sighed. She had enjoyed the trip. She just wished she hadn’t succumbed to the Contessa’s perverted advances. ‘I wish you had been there,’ she added, fixing Paige with an intimate look.
Paige wolfed a sandwich. Hadn’t she told Susan it was all over before her trip? Surely the woman had understood her?
‘I missed you,’ Susan said, drawing closer on the pale beige damask couch. She put her hand on Paige’s shoulder. ‘Very much.’
The sound of a bee droning broke the afternoon silence. Paige shifted uncomfortably. Why were affairs so difficult to end? Male, female, there was always the final struggle.
She took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Susan, dear,’ she said, facing her perfectly groomed blonde friend. ‘I know we had something good together – once.’ She emphasized the once. ‘But time passes, and things change. I told you the last time we saw each other that Ryder and I were giving our marriage a second chance.’
Susan’s clear blue eyes, beautifully tucked and stitched, filled with tears. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, trying to control herself. ‘But I need you, Paige. You mean so much to me. We’ve meant so much to each other.’
Paige glanced anxiously at the door. It wouldn’t do to have the housekeeper eavesdrop on this little scene.
Susan followed her glance, and rose from the couch. ‘I gave the couple the rest of the day off,’ she said. ‘They won’t be back until late. And Gemma has gone to San Francisco. We are quite alone,’ she added meaningfully.
Paige nodded. One more time with Susan. A proper goodbye.
It wasn’t the way she wanted it, but it would work.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Reality invaded. Lennie had a career on hold. And commitments.
He called Jess in L.A. and listened to her yell like a deranged Indian. ‘Where are you?’ she screamed. ‘You told me you’d be back in twenty-four hours for crissakes. And then you fucking vanish! You start taping the new series in two days! The network is going bananas, and so am I. Where are you, Lennie? Christ, don’t you have any sense of responsibility?’
‘Calm down,’ he admonished. ‘You’ll have a heart attack.’
‘I’m too young for a heart attack,’ she replied dourly. ‘And you’re too young to screw up your career on account of the fact that your dick is out of control again. What happened to the stud I once knew and loved?’
‘You’re a princess with words.’
‘And you’re a major asshole.’
‘Now that we both know what we are, I called to tell you I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Great. Marvellous,’ she snorted her disgust. ‘What’ll you do? Go straight to the studio from the airport?’
‘I thought you said I had two days.’
‘That’s right. Today and tomorrow. There’s a script waiting at your hotel, read it on the plane. Your call is eight a.m. on Monday.’ She paused, then said, ‘Lennie.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I just want you to know that I hate you.’
He laughed. ‘And I love you.’
‘Big fuckin’ deal,’ she said grudgingly.
He hung up. Lucky sat cross-legged on the bed beside him clad in a huge sweat shirt, with knee socks and her hair in braids. Without make-up she looked like a glowingly beautiful sixteen.
‘I guess the world is creeping up on us,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It had to happen.’
He held her with his eyes. ‘I wish you could come with me.’
She nodded, seriously, wishing the same thing, but they both knew it was impossible. Dimitri was due back with Roberto, and there was much to sort out before they could be together for the rest of their lives. They had spent hours discussing their future, and a short separation was the only way to handle it. She was going to tell Dimitri it was over. And he would contact Olympia.
‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said, stroking her leg.
‘You think I want you to go?’ she replied. And she meant it.
He took her in his arms and cradled her gently.
She breathed his special smell and was content.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said with concern.
She snuggled closer. ‘I’m cold.’
‘We won’t be apart too long.’
‘I know that.’
‘I can fly back Friday after taping. I’ll take the Red Eye – meet you here – we’ll have all day Saturday and most of Sunday.’
She laughed softly. ‘Then I shall cook you great meals.’
‘Yeah. Stock up on cans. Your potato soup wins prizes!’
‘Wait until you taste my wild mushroom. Mister, you ain’t had nothin’ yet!’
‘Hey – lady – I’ve had the best time of my life. I want you to know that.’
She touched his cheek lightly. ‘I do know.’
They made love again, and it was more tender, more caring, than either of them had ever experienced before.
Lucky slept the night wrapped in the protection of his arms, and in the morning they awoke early and drove silently back to New York.
The idyll was over.
Marco had left her once . . .
She had never seen him alive again . . .
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Gino did not like getting older. He didn’t mind it in one way because only the fortunate were still around to tell their tale. But – on the other hand – getting older sucked. Suddenly, at seventy-four, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it seemed to be coming closer every day.
Unlike Costa, he was not falling to pieces. He still had his hair – mostly grey now – but thick and strong. And his teeth – all his own. And since the heart attack, no real problems. Indigestion sometimes, a recurring ulcer, an aching shoulder now and then – but nothing to get alarmed about.
While he was in New York he went to his doctor for a full check up.
‘You’re in marvellous shape,’ his physician assured him. ‘You’ve got the heart and lungs of a man of fifty.’
Screw fifty. He wanted the heart and lungs of a twenty-year-old. One’s own mortality was a frightening thing.
He flirted with the stewardess on the flight back to L.A. She had copper hair – which reminded him of Paige, and a pertly pretty face – which reminded him of Cindy – his treacherous first wife all those years ago.
She responded nicely. He didn’t know if it was because she found him irresistibly attractive, or because she sensed he was rich. It was not difficult to know. His suit was custom tailored, his shirts silk. His gold Rolex watch cost six thousand dollars. He knew if he invited her out she’d say yes in a minute. Women. Easy. The story of his life.
But he didn’t come on to her. He felt a certain sense of loyalty to Paige. Right now she had his full attention. Every inch. And there were still plenty of inches in that department. Plenty.
Susan had disappointed him. Underneath all the grooming she was a cold one, and somehow he had never gotten through to her.
At the airport he took a cab into Beverly Hills. He should have phoned Susan and told her to send the car and driver, but he had left in a hurry due to Lucky’s unavailability, and besides, he liked the idea of surprising Susan. She wanted every move plotted and planned – a little unexpectedness would do her good.
The cab driver was foreign. He talked non-stop in broken English about every subject that took his fancy. Gino just grunted occasionally and told him to slow down when he jumped two red lights.
The man grinned and waved stubby fingers in the air. ‘I no kill you, meester!’ he joked, just missing a poor old lady who was crossing the street. ‘Jaywalker!’ the cabbie screeched from his window.
‘Prick!’ the old lady yelled back, giving both Gino and the driver pause for thought.
Beverly Hills was manicured, peaceful and perfect. Just like my wife, Gino thought, as he paid the dri
ver, adding a hefty tip.
‘You a real gentlemans!’ the cabbie said, screeching off.
Two squirrels ran across the front lawn as Gino approached the house. Susan’s Rolls was parked in the front drive, and behind it was Paige’s gold Porsche.
Two for the price of one. He would get to see Paige sooner than expected.
He quickened his step and reached for his keys.
* * *
Once rid of Francesca, whom Olympia decided was the pain of the century – even worse than Lucky if that was possible – Olympia settled down to some serious shopping. She wished to return to New York with an entire new wardrobe, and Flash on her arm. The party season began in September, and she did not plan to miss one of them.
Lennie never even entered her thoughts. He was old news. As good as divorced. The moment she returned to New York she would instruct her lawyer to terminate the marriage.
* * *
Susan lay naked and aquiver. Her smooth alabaster skin had not been exposed to the southern sun of France. She was pale perfection, with just a small appendix scar marring the fleshscape.
Paige had stripped to aubergine bikini panties, and a lacy matching bra from which her generous bosom bulged. She gazed down at Susan, and felt no stirring passion whatsoever. The thrill is gone, she thought.
Susan’s breasts were flaccid, the nipples inverted, waiting to be brought to attention. She always had expected Paige to do all the work. Once the challenge had been enjoyable, now Paige didn’t know where to start. A tweak here, a feel there. It did not take much to turn Susan on.
Paige gritted her teeth and bent to the task ahead.
* * *
Dimitri’s lawyer in Paris ushered Francesca Fern into his office with great solicitousness. He had been warned, by the man himself, to handle her with great care. ‘Whatever she wants – do it,’ Dimitri had commanded. ‘Her divorce must be expedited immediately. No hold ups. When it is done I shall decide what to do about my present wife.’
‘Dimitri,’ his lawyer groaned. ‘If you are thinking of divorcing Lucky it will cost you a fortune.’
‘Are you forgetting she signed a marriage contract?’ Dimitri reminded.
‘No. But you also put your signature to a paper allowing her to build a hotel in Atlantic City at your expense. It could cost you many millions.’
‘She’ll never do it,’ Dimitri said dismissively. ‘And if she doesn’t handle it personally, the document becomes null and void. There is also a time limit involved. I am not a fool.’
His lawyer said, ‘No, you are not.’ But privately he thought any man who would prefer Francesca Fern to Lucky Santangelo had to be racing toward senility.
Francesca sat before him in a short silk dress, black stockings, and very high-heeled shoes. She smelt of Calèche, smoked disgusting cheroots, and every so often indulged in a coughing fit. Her legs were heavy, and when she crossed and uncrossed them, which was often, he couldn’t help noticing she wore no panties.
‘If I do decide to divorce my husband, Horace, at Mr Stanislopoulos’ request,’ she said huskily, ‘Horace is to be compensated handsomely, from Mr Stanislopoulos’ pocket, not from mine. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Madame Fern,’ the lawyer agreed pleasantly. ‘Dimitri made that clear to me on the telephone yesterday.’
She ignored his use of Dimitri’s first name, signalling a closer relationship than she wished to acknowledge. To Francesca, anyone you paid was an employee, and that’s the way she treated them.
‘Should I proceed with this divorce,’ she mused, ‘papers must be prepared for both myself and Mr Stanislopoulos to sign.’
‘Naturally,’ replied the lawyer. A marriage between these two without a financial contract was unthinkable.
‘I have many needs,’ continued Francesca, blowing smoke in his face, and crossing her heavy legs yet again.
‘I’m sure that you have, Madame Fern,’ soothed the lawyer, hating this horse-faced woman who talked down to him as if he was an office boy.
And then she told him of her needs, and he loathed her even more. Not only was she a bitch. She was a calculating one. Her requirements were outrageous. When he relayed them to Dimitri he hoped he would be equally affronted.
She wanted a huge cash settlement on the day of her divorce. A further fortune when she and Dimitri were married. More lump sums of money for each year they were together. A massive monthly expense allowance. An apartment in Paris, and a duplex in New York. A weekly clothes budget which would feed a family of four for a lifetime. And, a special clause which stipulated that over the period of a year she and Dimitri only had to spend six months in each other’s company. The rest of the time they were free to travel wherever they so desired.
The lawyer tried to remain expressionless as she relayed her requests, but a nerve in his cheek began to jump uncontrollably.
‘I hope you have made a full list of my requirements,’ she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt.
The lawyer rose also. ‘Yes, madame,’ he said politely.
‘Good,’ she replied haughtily. And without so much as a goodbye she stalked from his office.
Immediately he reached for the phone.
* * *
The Beverly Hills house was hardly a welcoming place to return to. It was less home than showplace.
Late afternoon, and the only sound was a bee buzzing.
Gino walked into the living room and found a half-eaten English tea set out on the coffee table. He helped himself to a cucumber sandwich and wandered into the kitchen which was also deserted. Then he made his way upstairs, prepared to find Susan showing Paige some new couturier creation. Women and clothes. The two went together like money and power. They spent fortunes on various expensive outfits – and then wore them only once. Who could figure it?
He smelled Paige’s perfume in the air. Musk oil. She drenched herself in it. Better than the sickly sweet ‘Joy’ which Susan favoured.
He smiled to himself. Gino Santangelo – the scent expert. The street kid with a nose!
He threw open the bedroom door and stood quite still. A tableau greeted him. Two women frozen in shock.
The blonde, not so young but well preserved. Whiter than white skin and unexciting breasts.
The copperhead. Buxom and raunchy.
They were playing games. You show me yours . . . I’ll show you mine.
The only sound in the entire house was the roaring in his head.
Chapter Ninety
Lucky tried to concentrate. It was not easy. She kept on thinking of Lennie, and when she did a stupid grin would spread itself across her face and she felt a complete fool.
‘What’s the joke?’ one of the architects she was meeting with repeatedly asked. He was an attractive guy in his early thirties. Once she might have whiled away an evening with him – but things were different now.
‘No joke,’ she said, still grinning.
He flirted with his eyes. ‘In that case you’ve got a great disposition.’
She didn’t want to encourage him, obviously her permanent smile was doing so. ‘Try telling that to my husband,’ she said offhandedly, and turned away.
Dimitri. What was she going to do about him? Since she had left the yacht a series of pictures had cropped up in various publications taken by lurking paparazzi. All were of Dimitri with Francesca. Getting on the yacht . . . off the yacht . . . running from a nightclub . . . entering a restaurant. Arms around each other, teeth flashing. The irrepressible pair. Dimitri Stanislopoulos and Francesca Fern.
How the newspapers and magazines loved them! The aging billionaire and the prima-donna actress. Both married, flam-boyant, and great newspaper copy.
Lucky was thrilled his interest in Francesca seemed not to have been dimmed by their marriage. It would make it all the easier for her to tell him it was over. The perfect excuse. She wished she could drop him a short note, Dear Dimitri. I am releasing you from our marriage for obvious reasons. Let’s stay
friends. Lucky.
How clean and simple it could be.
Instinctively she knew it would not turn out to be that civilized.
* * *
Olympia had purchased three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of clothes in Paris. Plus a new sable coat, and a selection of extravagant jewellery. She had also scored an excellent supply of top grade cocaine, a substance she now needed daily if she was to function at all. How fortunate she had been born an heiress. There was no way she could imagine a man spending that kind of money on her. Men were cheap, however much they had. She had observed her father over the years, he rarely dipped into his pocket unless it was for himself or Francesca.
She glanced at the aging actress sitting across the aisle of Dimitri’s private plane. What did he see in the old cow? And why hadn’t he done something about it after all these years?
She wondered why Francesca had made the sudden trip to Paris. Maybe she would ask Dimitri upon their return. He might tell her, then again he might not.
She leaned across the aisle. ‘Did you do any shopping?’ she asked.
Francesca favoured her with a look. Deep-set brooding eyes decorated with sweeping fake lashes. ‘Shopping bores me,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t bore me,’ Olympia replied, flashing a gaudy ruby and diamond bracelet. ‘Beautiful things turn me on.’
Francesca smiled condescendingly. ‘Perhaps if you had worked a day in your life you would realize that shopping is merely mind fodder for the idle rich,’ she commented.
‘What utter balls!’ Olympia responded. She would have said more, but the plane was entering a summer storm, and the sudden turbulence shut her up.
* * *
And in the south of France Dimitri waited patiently for the return of his mistress. He watched Roberto and Brigette splash and play in the pool. He tried to ignore tentative conversation from Horace. He listened to his lawyer on the telephone from Paris, and roared with laughter when he heard Francesca’s demands. ‘Give her whatever she wants,’ he boomed. And he meant it.
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