Lucky

  ‘What’s the matter with you? I just told you you’re going to be a daddy and you’re worried about the time!’

  He didn’t know what to say. So he said what he always did when in doubt. ‘Do you want money?’

  ‘Huh?’

  He missed the ice which crept into her voice and plunged ahead. ‘Call my secretary at a decent hour. She’ll send you a cheque for an abortion and your expenses.’

  ‘You aaaaasshole!’ Lucky screamed. ‘Do you honestly think I called you for money? You fucking creep. Drop dead.’ And she slammed the phone down in a fury.

  Who did the man think he was? How dare he speak to her as if she was some little hooker looking to score. How dare he! Screw Dimitri Stanislopoulos. And his stupid millions. She hadn’t phoned wanting anything except his joy.

  Several months passed, during which time Lucky moved into the East Hampton house. Now she was pregnant she didn’t feel ready to conquer New York. And yet, sitting around for months on end was not for her either. She saw a top gynaecologist who assured her the early morning nausea and constant exhaustion would only last a short while. He prescribed vitamins, a healthy diet, and rest.

  She was fed up with rest. She needed action.

  In the mail one morning she received an invitation to Gino’s wedding. Immediately she called Costa. They talked it over and decided to go together. Not that she wished to attend. And yet she knew that she must. She refused to give Susan Martino the satisfaction of not being there.

  The wedding was a circus. Layer upon layer of movie stars, studio executives, showbiz lawyers, agents, directors and producers. Gino’s Vegas friends were lost in the shuffle.

  Lucky felt like an outsider. Why did she feel she was at Gino’s funeral, not his wedding? She exchanged only a few words with him, and sat quietly at a table with Costa, observing Beverly Hills social intercourse. She wore a simple white silk suit and emeralds she had bought for herself. Her four month pregnancy did not show yet, but the constant tiredness was causing faint circles beneath her eyes and she was still exhausted.

  Gino did not comment on her appearance, but Costa was immediately concerned. He wanted to know what she was doing, and when she shrugged and said ‘nothing’, he frowned, because knowing Lucky as well as he did, he was aware something was wrong. She did not have the temperament for just sitting around. He put it down to the fact that Gino’s marriage was upsetting her more than she cared to admit.

  When Lucky met Susan’s two offspring she loathed them immediately. A couple of snobbish rich kids with inflated ideas of their own importance.

  And then she observed the entrance of English prima donna Francesca Fern, with her entourage. Five minutes later Dimitri Stanislopoulos appeared.

  ‘Oh no!’ Lucky muttered.

  ‘What?’ asked Costa.

  ‘Nothing.’ She slouched in her seat on the tented patio, hoping he wouldn’t see her. Better still, wouldn’t remember her. Their baby was not for sharing. He’d had his chance and blown it.

  He did notice her. Later. Fortunately they were surrounded by people when he came over to the table, kissed her hand, and mouthed a few inane sentences. She noticed that his eyes flicked over her, looking for a sign, wondering if he had imagined their Paris conversation.

  She was coolly polite. Screw him.

  A week later he turned up at the door of her East Hampton house. It was fall, and the trees were golden brown, the leaves scattered on the ground in studied confusion. She wore a white track suit, tennis shoes and no make-up. Her hair was piled untidily on top of her head.

  ‘You look very young,’ he said, standing on the doorstep, his limousine and driver waiting in the driveway.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked flatly.

  His eyes dropped to the slight bulge around her waist she hadn’t bothered to conceal. ‘I want to know if it’s true. Are you having my baby?’

  Voice like ice. ‘No.’

  He was very tall. A big man. Powerful looking with his shock of white hair and piercing eyes. ‘I think you’re lying.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you think.’

  ‘If that’s the case why did you phone me?’

  ‘That was months ago,’ she said coldly. ‘I was testing you. You failed.’

  His eyes scorched hers. World-weary eyes filled with Greek fire. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said.

  And he was. There was no getting rid of him. As if to make up for his initial reaction he pursued her relentlessly. Silver purple roses every day. Crates of champagne. Jars of caviar. Baskets of exotic fruits.

  She finally allowed him to take her to dinner. He sent his helicopter to collect her, and they dined aboard a private yacht which circled Manhattan as they feasted on p âté and lobster.

  Later they made love. His large hands traced her stomach gently. ‘I want a boy,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be such a chauvinist,’ she replied.

  On July the second, 1979, in a private nursing home in Connecticut, Lucky gave birth to a son. Dimitri was present at the birth.

  They named the child Roberto Stavros Gino Santangelo Stanislopoulos. He was their secret. And had remained so.

  * * *

  Lucky floated on her back and held her arms invitingly toward Dimitri. ‘Come on in,’ she called. ‘It’s wonderful.’

  He did not need asking twice. He pulled off his white La Coste tennis shirt. Unbuckled his black snakeskin belt. Kicked off his shoes and removed his white linen pants. Dimitri Stanislopoulos did not believe in underwear. He had a firm strong body. An excellent physique for a man of his age. He was a big man in every way, and took great pride in his physical strength and robust health. With a roar he jumped into the water, trying to grab Lucky, who wriggled from his grasp and kicked off down the pool.

  He followed her with a powerful crawl until he cornered her in the deep end. A shadow lay over this end of the pool, and a rock-hewn waterfall took up one corner. Lucky swam to the waterfall and tried to shelter behind it out of his reach.

  Dimitri pressed through the falling water and crushed her against the rough side. With one hand he tore the bottom of her bikini off and thrust himself upon her.

  ‘You sneaky sonofabitch,’ she objected, half jokingly, as they began to sink beneath the cool green water.

  He didn’t relinquish his hold, merely gripped her firmly, his thighs like steel as they rocked together beneath the water. When they surfaced she was gasping for air, but her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist and her face flushed with pleasure. Silently they finished the act, exploding with satisfaction at the same moment.

  Dimitri let go of her. ‘I think it’s time for lunch,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus!’ Lucky exclaimed. ‘Sex. Food. You certainly believe in catering to your appetites!’

  ‘Why not? Life is for living good. I worked hard for what I’ve got today. Now I enjoy myself. Surely you agree?’ He hauled himself from the pool and wrapped himself in a terry cloth robe.

  She swam to the side. ‘I hope our son doesn’t take after you.’

  Dimitri reached down to help her out. ‘I hope he does.’

  ‘Yeh. He’ll be a fat stud. Great! Can’t wait.’ Dimitri roared with laughter. ‘Am I fat, Lucky? Am I a stud?’

  ‘Given half a chance,’ she teased.

  He smiled and passed her a robe. Then he scanned the horizon and said, ‘Let’s hope there are no paparazzi hiding anywhere today. I don’t enjoy giving exhibitions.’

  Lucky followed his gaze. The pool overlooked the sea. There were no craft in sight. Sometimes small vessels disguised as fishing boats bobbed about in the distance with hidden cameramen using long-lens cameras aboard. Dimitri’s island was considered fair game. Today all was clear.

  ‘Lunch,’ Dimitri said firmly.

  ‘You go on up. I’ll follow in five minutes.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  She was glad she had relented and allowed Dimitri to share their son. He was a great father when she let him b
e. But keeping their secret was becoming more complicated each day. She was sure the servants in the Greek villa knew. And CeeCee, the pretty black girl who looked after Roberto. And the elderly couple who took care of the East Hampton house. And Dimitri’s lawyer.

  A secret is no longer a secret when shared by more than two people. Lucky sighed. Dimitri kept on mentioning marriage, but she shied away from the idea. She had tried it once and hated every moment.

  Dimitri was becoming more insistent every day. He wanted to tell the world about his son. He wanted to be sure everyone knew Roberto was his rightful heir. ‘If anything happens to me,’ he warned Lucky constantly, ‘there will be nothing but problems.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘You told me you’ve changed your will.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ he worried. ‘Olympia will want everything. She’ll fight my instructions. I know her.’

  Lucky had not renewed her friendship with Olympia. Dimitri thought it best they did not meet. She also had not mentioned to Gino that he was a grandfather. He had married Susan and settled in Beverly Hills like a senile old fart. She heard he had people running the Vegas hotels and had liquidated a lot of his other business concerns. She had received more than her fair share of the Magiriano, banked it, and forgotten it. Her career was on hold while she enjoyed her son. Why should she share him with Gino? He hardly ever called her. She hadn’t seen him since his wedding.

  Sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night and missed him. He was old. He had already suffered one heart attack. Why didn’t she go to him, show him his grandson, mend broken bridges?

  Because he didn’t care about her.

  Because he had chosen Susan Martino over her.

  Lunch was served on a magnificent terrace overlooking the sea. Lucky could remember visiting Dimitri’s private island as a teenager with Olympia. She had never imagined she would be back as the mother of his child. Some of the servants remained the same. She wondered what they thought. Did they remember her? Would they tell Olympia?

  ‘Olympia rarely comes here,’ Dimitri said dourly, when she mentioned it.

  Lucky knew he did not approve of his daughter’s high-profile romance with a drugged-out English rock star. They were constantly making headlines. It infuriated Dimitri. ‘The girl is a fool,’ he had commented. ‘She’s married three fortune hunters. Now she’s living with this . . . this . . . degenerate.’

  Lucky stifled a laugh. Sometimes Dimitri acted his age.

  Not in bed. In bed he was a master. Sometimes too controlled and technically perfect. He knew everything there was to know, and used his skills accordingly.

  She once asked him how many women he’d had. ‘Thousands,’ he’d replied, without a trace of embarrassment.

  Thousands. Hmmm . . . No wonder he knew every move to make.

  She wondered if Gino had had thousands.

  Probably. The two shared much in common.

  After lunch CeeCee appeared carrying Roberto. He looked like Lucky – dark haired and black eyed, with an infectious grin. He also looked like Gino. She knew she was being unfair keeping them apart.

  Dimitri’s face lit up. They had been on the island with him for a week, and he never tired of spending time with his son. Usually he only saw him when he visited Lucky’s East Hampton house.

  When CeeCee took the baby for his afternoon nap, Dimitri strode restlessly back and forth across the terrace. ‘Lucky,’ he said impatiently, cracking his knuckles irritatingly. ‘Enough is enough. My son has to have my name. Legally. I insist. We must marry.’

  ‘How romantic,’ she murmured.

  ‘For God’s sake. You know I adore you.’

  Did he? They had been together on and off for a year and a half. During that time she knew he had seen Francesca Fern. She hadn’t questioned him. It was not her style to cling.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she began.

  ‘What can I do to persuade you?’

  What could he do? She had been thinking about Atlantic City again. She missed the hotel business. The excitement, the power . . .

  She had money of her own, but not nearly enough. As Mrs Dimitri Stanislopoulos she would be able to do whatever she wanted.

  And Dimitri was right. Roberto deserved the protection of bearing his father’s name legally.

  ‘I want to build a hotel,’ she began slowly.

  He nodded encouragingly. ‘Whatever you want, Lucky, you can have. Just tell me, and it will be yours.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘No,’ said Jess into the phone cradled next to her ear. ‘Lennie Golden is booked solid for months. There’s no way he can even read the script.’

  ‘Please,’ the person on the other end begged. ‘If he reads it, he’ll love it, and then he’ll want to do it.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She replaced the receiver and yelled out, ‘Vickie. Where the hell are you?’

  Vickie teetered into the room on dangerously high stiletto heels. She wore them with black fish-net tights, spandex shorts, and a lurex boob tube. Her fine brown hair was teased to the limit, and her outstandingly ugly face was carefully made up. She looked like your friendly neighbourhood hooker, not a personal secretary, which is what she was supposed to be. Jess wanted to fire her, but Lennie wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Sorry, Jess,’ Vickie squeaked. ‘I was in the John. I got a little bathroom problem this week.’

  ‘You’ve always got a little bathroom problem,’ Jess complained and stood up from behind the old worn desk where she had been sitting. ‘I do not expect to have to answer phones. That’s what we pay you for.’

  Vickie lowered two sets of false eyelashes. ‘Sorry, Jess.’

  Where did Lennie find them? The last one he had hired looked like a man in drag, but at least she/he answered phones. This one was always in the bathroom.

  ‘I gotta go out,’ Jess said, reluctant to leave her in charge. ‘Can you hack it?’

  Vickie grinned. She had never managed the money for a capping job, and her teeth were a mess. ‘Can I hack it? What a question!’

  ‘Take messages,’ Jess admonished sternly.

  Vickie nodded.

  Jess left the small office in an unassuming building on Sunset, and knew without a doubt they needed larger space and two decent secretaries. Lennie was becoming big business and they were running a penny ante operation. Okay for six months ago, but not now. Not with Lennie rising like a meteor.

  Jess rode the elevator to the underground garage and collected her car – a used Datsun. She kept on meaning to trade it in for something better, but who had the time? So much had happened, so many good things. Thank God she had listened to Lennie and left Vegas for L.A. At first it had been awful. She had sat in the hotel room Lennie put her in and stared at television day and night. He had allowed her to do that for a few weeks, and then one day he had said, ‘Okay, kid. That’s it. You’re out on the road again.’ And from that moment on he hadn’t left her alone – he dragged her everywhere he went. She met all his friends – Suna, Shirlee, Joey Firello, Foxie and the statuesque Rainbow, Isaac and his pretty wife. They all accepted her immediately and went out of their way to rally round. The twins took her to the gym with them. Joey insisted she sit in on several tapings of his TV show. Rainbow escorted her to Frederick’s – an outrageous lingerie shop on Hollywood Boulevard, and encouraged her to buy a slit up the side purple satin nightgown. Isaac and his wife invited her to their house in the valley for Sunday Bar-B-Qs. And Foxie, whose rudeness was legendary, developed a fast crush – and whenever she was around spent his entire time regaling her with stories of his colourful life. Since he was now eighty-six years old, they never ran out of conversation.

  Lennie, of course, was always there for her. Supportive and understanding. A true friend. Without him she knew she would have fallen to pieces. But he pulled her through it, and she owed him plenty.

  Eventually the time had come for her to stop depending on other people. She was running out of money, and she had no int
ention of sponging off Lennie. But what to do? There was no way she was returning to Vegas, and jobs for croupiers were not exactly heavy on the ground in L.A. She turned to Foxie for advice.

  He bit off the end of a stinking old stogie, spat on the floor, and suggested something she had never even thought of. ‘Go into personal management,’ he said. ‘You’re a smart little broad with a lotta moxy. Use it.’

  ‘Personal management of what?’

  ‘Lennie, of course.’

  ‘Lennie’s got an agent.’

  ‘Who’s talkin’ agenting?’ He waved his cigar wildly in the air.

  ‘If he has Isaac, why would he need a manager?’

  Foxie shook his head in disbelief. ‘An’ I thought you was smart. For a girl grew up in Vegas you don’t know a lot.’

  ‘Sure I do,’ Jess bristled. ‘Stars have agents and managers. When they can afford them.’

  ‘An’ how do you think they got to be stars in the first place? You think some agent with thirty clients an’ a mortgage to pay got ’em there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Foxie nodded wisely. ‘Then listen.’ He talked fast, a jumble of words. And what he said made sense. Sure Lennie had an agent, and Isaac was okay, he had a stable of young comedians and did his best for all of them. But his best, split among all his clients, just wasn’t good enough. Foxie cited the Merv Griffin Show as an example. ‘Lennie walked on account of wanting to be with you at your kid’s funeral. You think Isaac’s bin back to ‘em with the name Lennie Golden? Naw. He’s shit scared . . . thinks it might affect his other clients an’ their shots on the show. That’s an agent for you. Now, a personal manager would be in there hustlin’. Get the difference?’

  She got it. And it made sense. She also heard for the first time that Lennie had given up his chance of appearing on the Griffin Show to be with her. She owed him more than she’d thought, and she was determined to pay him back.

  ‘How do you become a manager?’ she asked.

  ‘You understand deals. You believe in your client two hundred percent. An’ you go for it no holds barred. I coulda bin the best manager in the business if I’d wanted to. I coulda sold shit to a stable of horses with dysentery!’