Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Francesca was finally going to belong to him. He didn’t care what it cost.

  * * *

  Lennie flew back to L.A., an angry Jess, and an empty apartment. The producers of The Springs were not exactly wild with happiness either. Especially when he complained about the script he had been sent in New York, and read on the plane.

  ‘It’s shit,’ said Lennie.

  ‘Fuck you,’ said the producers. ‘We start shooting tomorrow. You want changes – you should have been here.’

  Lennie sat up all night rewriting, trying to keep his concentration, thinking of Lucky.

  He called her every hour until she said, ‘This is ridiculous.’ And still they continued talking.

  ‘I’ve got to get some sleep,’ she finally said. ‘Dimitri’s coming in tomorrow and I have to be clear-headed.’

  ‘You’ll call me,’ Lennie instructed. ‘I’ll be back from the studio around eight, LA. time.’

  They had planned the scenario. Lucky wasn’t going to hesitate. She was to tell Dimitri it was over as soon as possible. Then she was to move out of the New York apartment with Roberto and CeeCee, and resume residence in her East Hampton house. Lawyers would then take over.

  It all sounded trouble free. With acute intuition Lucky knew it would not be.

  * * *

  Olympia sensed something was wrong immediately. She had flown long enough and far enough to observe trouble when it happened. They had been preparing to land for far too long.

  The Swedish stewardess was pale beneath her tan, and it was nothing to do with the storm and the turbulence they had travelled through.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Olympia demanded, grabbing her arm as she attempted to rush past.

  The woman gave a sickly smile. ‘Nothing,’ she said, falsely jovial.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ replied Olympia, strangely calm.

  ‘Just a problem with the landing gear.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘It’s stuck.’

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’

  ‘Nice Airport has been alerted. But the captain feels it will right itself before we have to use emergency procedures.’

  For a moment Olympia felt panic, but only for a moment. She glanced at Francesca – the prima donna slept. ‘Don’t wake her until you have to,’ she ordered.

  The stewardness nodded, visibly shaking beneath her Swedish cool.

  ‘How long before we have to land?’ Olympia asked.

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  Twenty minutes to get the landing gear to work.

  And if it didn’t?

  Olympia reached for her stash.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Dimitri Stanislopoulos’ private plane crash-landed at 7.45 p.m. on Friday evening.

  There were nine people aboard. Seven crew and two passengers.

  Upon landing on a sea of foam, the plane careened down the runway and burst into flames. Two members of the crew managed to escape the fiery furnace and one of the passengers. All three were severely burned. The rest of the people aboard perished.

  Book Three

  *

  The Summer of 1983

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Carrie Berkeley smiled at Bryant Gumbel as the two of them entertained America on The Today Show. It was early in the morning and a steaming heat wave was searing the streets of New York. Inside the air-conditioned NBC studio in Rockefeller Centre, Carrie Berkeley, a very well preserved and stylish sixty-nine, and Bryant Gumbel, one of the best interviewers on television, exchanged words, looks, and created an easygoing banter.

  Carrie was promoting the paperback of her book, written in conjunction with Anna Robb entitled, The Carrie Berkeley Book of Beauty and Style. Already the book was climbing the best-seller lists. The hard cover had hovered on the New York Times list for seven weeks.

  Bryant Gumbel grinned – he had an irresistible grin – and concluded the interview.

  He is a most attractive young man, Carrie decided, the kind of man she would like to have introduced to her daughter – if she had ever had one.

  In the Green Room she rejoined the skinny publicity man assigned her by her publishers. He was admittedly gay, with carrot-coloured hair and an engaging smile. ‘You were dandy!’ he enthused. ‘You always are.’

  ‘You’d say that, whatever I did,’ she teased him.

  ‘Naturally. I’m no fool.’

  He took her arm and they left the building.

  Outside there were a few autograph hunters. One of them presented a dog-eared copy of her book to be signed. She did so with a flourish.

  A limousine waited curbside to take her on to her next appointment. She sank back into luxurious leather, and marvelled, as she did several times a day, at what her life had become. She, Carrie Berkeley, was a published author! With a lot of help from Anna Robb. The two women had become close friends. So close in fact that Carrie had allowed Anna to pry the secrets of her life from her. And for the last year they had been collaborating on Carrie’s biography, an explosive manuscript, recently completed, and now ready to show to a publisher.

  ‘We could be looking at a half-million dollar advance,’ Anna had said calmly at their last meeting. ‘Your story is dynamite.’

  Carrie wondered if it was worth revealing her life for half a million dollars. But then again, she had not become involved with the book for monetary gain. It was a story Anna had convinced her should be told. And reading the pages, at times so painful she could hardly keep going, she realized Anna was right.

  So far, nobody knew about the book. Not Steven, not even Fred Lester. It was a project the two women had kept to themselves.

  ‘We have to show the manuscript to Fred first,’ Anna fretted. ‘I don’t think he’ll pay the price, but he has the option and besides, he deserves first look.’

  Carrie agreed. She knew of Anna’s and Fred Lester’s relationship. For months Anna had kept it to herself, but one day she had let it slip. ‘You’re very lucky,’ Carrie said. ‘He seems like a nice man.’

  ‘He is,’ Anna agreed.

  ‘Do you think you’ll marry?’ Carrie asked, wondering why she felt so let down.

  ‘No,’ said Anna, and never discussed their relationship again.

  Carrie was nervous about anyone reading the thousand page manuscript. It was all there in neat typescript. Her life, her shame, every innermost secret.

  Ah, but the relief of letting it all out. It had been a cathartic experience.

  She worried about Steven’s reaction. Anna, quite rightly, pointed out that Steven was a big boy. ‘You must do what you think is right,’ she said. ‘And Steven has to accept your decision.’

  Carrie knew this was so. However, it didn’t stop her from worrying.

  * * *

  ‘I’m ready,’ Mary-Lou Moore said, her large brown eyes wide and determined. ‘I’ll go in fighting and I’ll come out a winner!’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ Steven Berkeley asked. ‘It won’t be easy. They’re really out to get you.’

  ‘I’m more than sure’, Mary-Lou replied fiercely.

  ‘Then we shall have our day in court,’ Steven said evenly, satisfied she could handle it. ‘The date is set. No more postponements.’

  ‘And no more depositions either,’ Mary-Lou sighed with relief. ‘I hate those things. All those crummy lawyers digging into your past like dirty little maggots.’

  Steven laughed. ‘You turn an interesting phrase.’

  She caught his eye. ‘And so do you, counsellor.’

  He glanced away and busied himself with a stack of papers on his desk. Lately Mary-Lou had been throwing some very hot looks in his direction. He didn’t want to read anything into them. They were lawyer and client, that was all. Even though he did find her extremely attractive. In three years he had watched her grow from gauche teenager to a warm young woman. It had been an interesting transition. When they first met she wouldn’t move without her mother, her manager, and a series
of spaced-out boyfriends. Now she was on her own, with a legitimate agent and manager and no visible entanglements. She came to his office unaccompanied, and had conducted herself throughout the long and tedious steps needed to get them to court with dignity.

  ‘How about lunch?’ Mary-Lou asked brightly. ‘We should celebrate now that we’re finally going to court, shouldn’t we?’

  He found her very appealing, but she was so young – just twenty. Besides, he never had believed in mixing business with pleasure. ‘I have a lunch appointment with a client,’ he lied apologetically.

  ‘I’m a client,’ she pointed out, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘I know. And we’ll be having plenty of lunches together when we’re in court.’

  ‘Can’t wait!’

  When she left his office he sat silently for a moment. Would it be wrong to take her out?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because she’s still a baby.

  He was forty-five, old enough to be her father. And she was an actress, a television star.

  So what?

  Maybe when the case was over he would take her out.

  Maybe when the case was over she wouldn’t want to go out with him.

  He thought about her case for a moment. They had started off suing some half-assed magazine publisher. Vista Publications. But during the course of depositions and discovery, it had come to light that the publishing company was actually owned by Bonnatti Publications, and although the offending magazine had been distributed by Ravier Distribution, Inc., it turned out that Ravier was merely a subsidiary of Bonnatti. So, their case was against Bonnatti Publications and Bonnatti Distribution. And the main shareholder of both companies was a man named Santino Bonnatti. And Steven knew plenty about Santino Bonnatti. He was the son of the notorious Enzio Bonnatti, whom Steven had once almost arrested and brought before a Grand Jury. Until fate intervened, and Lucky Santangelo had killed the sonofabitch. Supposedly in self-defence.

  Now he had a crack at the son. He wouldn’t be able to put him away – even though he was a known dealer in prostitution, drugs, and pornography on the West Coast. But he could hit him where it hurt. In the wallet.

  Mary-Lou was suing for ten million dollars. And Steven planned to collect every penny.

  Jerry Myerson entered his office. ‘What’s happening, Steven? I just had a cancellation. Are you free for lunch?’

  ‘If you’re paying, I’m free.’

  They went to The Four Seasons, because Jerry felt like it. And there they bumped into Carrie, lunching with Anna Robb and Fred Lester. She radiated style and chic.

  ‘Your mother is something else,’ Jerry said admiringly, after they were seated. ‘What she’s done with her life is quite remarkable.’

  Steven had to agree. And he was glad that three years ago he had dropped his quest to find out who his father was and concentrated on getting his own life back on track. He was doing extremely well. So well Jerry wished to make him a full partner, and that was something to think about.

  He was living in his own house again, and dating several interesting women. Things were good.

  So why wasn’t he happy?

  Because deep down he still needed to know who his father was.

  And one day he would have to find out.

  One day.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  ‘Lennie!’ A sharp whining command. Then louder. ‘Leenniel’

  He was in his study but he heard her. Christ! He could be at the beach and he’d still hear her.

  He picked up the phone and pressed the intercom. His voice conveyed irritation. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m lonely.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘I know. But I’m still lonely. Come and talk to me.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  He put down the phone and stared out the window. There was an incredible view. Lush man-made waterfalls, tropical foliage, palm trees, and greenery as far as the eye could see.

  His study was leather panelled, with the latest state of the art stereo equipment, video recorders, and a TV set which could tune in all over the world.

  The mansion he lived in was high up in Bel Air. It had fourteen bedrooms, fourteen matching bathrooms, and living rooms that went on forever. There were indoor and outdoor swimming pools, two tennis courts, a cosy jacuzzi which seated twelve, and a roller-skating rink.

  In the basement there was a large mirrored discotheque complete with flashing strobe lights and a rare collection of classic rock albums. Another room housed two pool tables. And there was also a private cinema which seated thirty people.

  Not that they ever had anyone over. Olympia was paranoid about being seen – even though her burn scars were long healed, and the wonders of plastic surgery had restored her face to its former prettiness. She didn’t want people over because of her weight. Once pleasantly plump, Olympia Stanislopoulos now weighed over two hundred pounds. She was a fat, blonde, bad-tempered rich heiress, who hid her blubber beneath voluminous caftans, promised Lennie she was dieting, and had one of the maids smuggle in Twinkies, chocolate cakes, and candies – in fact anything sweet she could lay her hands on.

  ‘Lennie!’ She screeched for him again.

  He stood up, and reluctantly went to find her.

  She was in the large kitchen gazing mournfully into a well-stocked restaurant-style fridge. A nervous maid hovered nearby.

  ‘There’s never anything decent to eat here,’ she complained.

  ‘We had lunch an hour ago,’ he commented.

  ‘You call carrots and celery lunch,’ she sneered. ‘I’ve heard of dieting, but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘You should go to a clinic,’ he remarked. ‘It would make it a lot easier for you.’

  Her blue eyes were vindictive pinpoints, ‘And for you, huh? Send the wife off to a fat farm while the star gets laid.’

  Here it came. The usual argument. How long could he take this shit?

  ‘I don’t know why you keep on fighting it,’ he said evenly. ‘The only way you’ll get rid of the weight is with professional help.’

  ‘Screw you,’ she spat. ‘All you’re interested in is getting rid of me so you can turn this house into bimbette city.’

  She had never caught him. But she suspected every move he made. Quite rightly so. He was hardly celibate. Getting laid was one way of killing the pain.

  What was he supposed to do? The news of the plane crash three years ago still reverberated in his head. An urgent phone call. A distressed voice. Fragments of what had taken place. Your wife . . . terrible inferno . . . Francesca Fern dead . . . a tragedy . . .’

  At first he had thought Olympia had been killed too. But no. She was alive and in a coma. Severely burned. Hanging on in intensive care. A flight was arranged for him immediately. Before he knew it he was back in Europe, standing beside her hospital bed.

  Olympia. Her blonde hair shaved. One side of her face and her right arm a mass of horrifying burns.

  ‘She’ll live,’ one of the doctors assured him. ‘But she has to be given the desire to live.’

  Dimitri appeared at the hospital with Lucky. He was white and drawn with a strange expression on his face – a kind of pent-up madness waiting to explode.

  Lucky hid behind huge black shades, preventing any glimpse of her eyes. While Dimitri stood by Olympia’s bed, Lennie managed to take her to one side. ‘We have to talk,’ he said urgently, gripping her arm.

  She did not remove her shades. In an expressionless voice she said, ‘Things are different now.’

  ‘Just a temporary setback—’ he began to say.

  She cut him off sharply. ‘No. It’s fate. We weren’t meant to be together. I knew what we had was too special to last.’

  ‘When Olympia gets out of the hospital—’

  Her voice was devoid of emotion. ‘She’ll need you,’ she said flatly. ‘And you must be there for her.’

  ‘Lucky—’

  ‘It�
��s not just Olympia,’ she continued, calmly. ‘Dimitri needs me too. In fact,’ an imperceptible pause, ‘he won’t let me go.’

  They were unable to speak any further, and shortly after, she and Dimitri departed. The concerned father obviously did not plan to hang around.

  Lennie was angry. It seemed Dimitri’s visit was merely a courtesy call. Didn’t he care about his only daughter?

  As for the situation with Lucky . . . well, it was early days . . . Once Olympia was out of the hospital . . . And Dimitri was over his shock . . . Everything would work out.

  Reluctantly Lennie decided he had to stay with Olympia – at least for a while. He had married the girl; he could hardly desert her now.

  He spent every day at the hospital, a witness to her unbearable agony. In America, the producers of his television show demanded his immediate return or a law suit. ‘Forget it,’ he told Jess long distance. ‘There’s no way I can leave her now.’

  Jess flew in to convince him he was committing professional suicide. She was brutally frank. ‘You don’t love her,’ she pointed out. ‘And you don’t need her money. So what the hell are you hanging around for?’

  He looked at her long and hard. ‘Because she’s in a coma, and she doesn’t have anyone else,’ he explained. ‘I’m not going to run out on her. Don’t expect me to.’

  Jess nodded. She understood. Show Lennie someone in trouble and he was there. It had always been that way.

  Dimitri did not return to visit his daughter. According to one of his minions he had gone into seclusion on his island, mourning Francesca Fern.

  ‘Where’s Lucky?’ Lennie had asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

  ‘She’s with him,’ the man had said.

  She’s with him.

  The words haunted Lennie.

  Was she with him in every way? Were their lips touching? Their bodies entwining? Were they making love? She’s with him.

  And why not? He was with Olympia.