‘Did you honestly expect me to come?’
‘Why not? You said you was comin’.’
‘I didn’t come,’ she said icily, ‘because I don’t think your wife would have liked it.’
‘Aw shit? Is that what you’re on about?’
‘Your wife, Flash. Your wife whom you somehow neglected to mention to me. Your pregnant teenage wife. God, you’re a prick!’
He gave a whisky-soaked laugh. ‘You bin readin’ those supermarket rags? Didn’t think rich bints like you ever went near a bleedin’ supermarket.’
‘Real life does have a habit of catching up with one – rich or not. I’ve had all your things from the New York apartment packed up and sent to the Goodwill.’
Outrage. ‘Yer what?’
‘You heard.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘And talking of newspapers, have you read yours today?’
‘You’re a really stupid cow.’
‘To put up with you, I must have been.’
‘Get your fat arse over here an’ I’ll explain everything.’
‘Shall I bring my husband?’
‘Yer what?’
‘Read the papers.’
‘Aw, c’mon – yer silly bitch. You didn’t go an’ do it?’
‘It seemed to be all the fashion.’
‘Who’d you do it with? Not that Spanish asshole with the wig.’
‘I resisted the temptation.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘I married Lennie Golden.’
‘Who’s he?’
This conversation was not proceeding as Olympia had hoped. First of all she had confidently expected Flash to know all about her wedding. And she had certainly expected him to know who Lennie was.
‘I really hate you,’ she snapped irrationally.
‘Are you comin’ or not?’
‘Haven’t you been listening to me? I’m married – just like you. It’s over.’
He was clearly bored. ‘Suit yerself, Tubs.’
She could almost see him twitch his skinny shoulders, the way he did when he was aggravated or fed up. He didn’t give a damn! Furiously she slammed the phone down. Her father had been right all along. Flash was a selfish, depraved user and she was well rid of him.
So why did she feel so blue? She was a bride again. She should be singing and laughing. At least have a smile on her face.
She visited her stash and snorted some coke. Who was Lennie Golden anyway? And why had she married him? To spite Flash? Kind of a dumb reason to tie oneself up.
God! What had she done? Lennie seemed nice enough, and he was attractive and great in bed – but nice guys had never been her scene. She had made another mistake. In a few weeks, after the cruise, she would instruct her lawyer to get her out of it. No big deal. Another pay off. She could afford it. There had to be some compensations for being rich.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Lucky planned to take only sports clothes on the cruise, but Dimitri informed her – rather late in the day, that dinner each evening was a formal affair.
‘You dress for dinner?’ she asked, amazed.
‘Tradition,’ he replied.
‘Whose tradition?’
‘Mine.’
She searched his granite face for any sign of humour. There was none. Now that she was his wife she realized she didn’t know him very well at all. In the eighteen months they had been together it had been an intermittent affair – with short blocks of time spent on his island – where they had been alone and wonderfully relaxed. Now a new Dimitri seemed to be emerging. A stuffy man with rigid tastes and a strict code of behaviour. She wasn’t sure she liked the new Dimitri at all. She was sure she should have kept the relationship the way it was before. Why had she given in to his pressure?
The property deal in Atlantic City was almost set, and she was elated about that. But she dreaded the cruise. Hopefully she would be able to find a quiet corner and flake out.
Dimitri had decided that this year it would take place in the south of France. He didn’t mention to anyone – especially Lucky – that this was to accommodate Francesca who had a gala dinner being given for her in Monte Carlo she did not wish to miss.
They flew by Concorde from New York to Paris, and from there a private Lear jet transported them to Nice airport, where a chauffered Rolls waited to take them to The Greek, as Dimitri had modestly named his yacht.
Roberto took the journey well. He was an extremely active, happy child, nothing seemed to upset him, and Lucky felt fortunate to have found someone like CeeCee to look after him. She was a pretty black girl of twenty, with a double helping of large white teeth, a ready grin, and tightly corn-rowed hair. Lucky had discovered her working as a waitress in a hamburger joint six weeks before she gave birth.
‘I’m sooo envious!’ the smiling girl had remarked, gazing at Lucky’s huge stomach while she served her forbidden french fries, a milk shake, and a large juicy burger. ‘I just love babies. I’ve got six younger brothers and sisters back in Jamaica, and I miss the little ones so.’
They got to talking, and before she knew it, Lucky had offered her the job and CeeCee accepted immediately.
Dimitri had been disapproving. He wanted a trained English nanny for his son, not some inexperienced Jamaican waitress. But Lucky always went with her gut instinct, and CeeCee had turned out to be a gem. She loved Roberto almost as much as they did.
It was Lucky’s first visit to The Greek, and it was huge. She had expected luxury, but the sheer opulence of it surpassed her expectations. A three-hundred-foot white palace with a full crew, eight magnificent staterooms each decorated by a different famous designer, an Art Deco cinema with black silk walls and state of the art equipment to show either videos or the latest movies, a gold and white mosaic swimming pool, numerous entertaining decks and areas.
The captain greeted them. An Englishman with a ruddy complexion, handle-bar moustache, and a jovial attitude. His wife stood by his side. She was in charge of the kitchen. A horse-faced woman with skin like leather. They had worked for Dimitri for fifteen years, and regarded Lucky with ill-concealed suspicion. Captain and Mrs Pratt ran riot with creative financing – they did not wish the interfering presence of a wife.
‘Have any of my guests arrived?’ Dimitri boomed.
‘Not yet, Mr Stanislopoulos,’ replied Captain Pratt, welcoming them aboard. ‘But we’re all ready and prepared.’ His flat eyes stripped the clothes from Lucky as he pumped her by the hand and said how delighted and happy they all were that the boss had found himself a wife.
I’ll bet, she thought. She knew automatically they were on the take. Years running a hotel in Las Vegas had taught her many things about human nature. She had a nose for the swindlers and cheaters of the world. Automatically she smiled. How good she was getting at displaying social graces. She hoped she could keep it up throughout the cruise. And then she would be off. Atlantic City beckoned.
Dimitri took her arm and escorted her to their living quarters. A very masculine stateroom awaited her – all dark browns and earth tones. The king-size bed featured a leather headboard and polished leather and brass bedside tables. The walls were padded with leather. On one wall hung a large portrait of a nude woman.
‘Piccasso,’ Dimitri pointed out, noticing her staring at it.
She moved through to the bathroom. Caviar marble. Cold and impersonal.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s . . . severe,’ she replied.
‘I think you mean clean cut. I commissioned it three years ago from one of the finest designers in Italy.’
‘It’s still severe. I would have preferred something more relaxing.’ She looked around again. ‘Where are the books? The magazines? Even more important – where is the music?’
‘What music?’ he asked, frowning slightly.
He had yet to discover her passion for soul music. She felt lost without an available stereo. How could anyone d
esign a bedroom without incorporating a great sound system?
Robert and CeeCee’s quarters were certainly more cheerful. Planned originally for Brigette and her nanny, there were nursery animals climbing the walls, a mural on the ceiling depicting sky and sun, and a sunny yellow bathroom. Lucky knew she would be spending more time there than in Dimitri’s austere sanctuary.
* * *
‘God!’ screamed Francesca Fern. ‘Be careful with my luggage – you dolts.’
The French porters exchanged looks. They didn’t understand what she said, but she was English or American – no difference – and all English-speaking tourists were to be looked down upon and treated with as much insolence as they could muster on this hot and windy day. By accident on purpose one of her Vuitton suitcases (there were twelve in varying sizes) fell from the top of the cart on which they were being wheeled to a waiting car.
‘Horace!’ Francesca yelled. ‘How dare you allow this to happen!’
Horace, who was certainly not to blame for the fall, said, ‘I’m sorry, dear. It won’t happen again.’
‘I should think not,’ snorted Francesca, as she marched regally toward the car, ignoring the gawking tourists who all recognized her, and the waiting chauffeur who knew who she was and bowed respectfully.
Horace thrust some money at the two disdainful porters. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘More careful. Yes?’
The men pocketed the money and ignored his plea, allowing the suitcases to slide from the cart onto the dusty sidewalk as soon as they reached the car. They had already been tipped, so they did not bother to help the elderly chauffeur load them into the trunk, but merely slouched away searching for their next victim.
Fortunately Francesca was in the limousine by that time, fanning herself and complaining about the heat. She always had something to complain about, and Horace was always around to take the blast. He loved his large volatile wife desperately, and knew – that as a great talent – she had to have someone to vent her frustrations on. Through eighteen years of marriage he had been the perfect target for her whiplash tongue. Mopping his brow he got into the back seat beside her.
‘Hmmm,’ sighed Francesca, in her famous deep mahogany voice. ‘I am utterly exhausted. I could sleep for a week.’
Horace agreed with her. He always agreed with her. He thought she was the most striking woman he had ever set eyes on, and it never failed to astound him that she had chosen him to be her husband.
‘Perhaps that’s what you’ll do, dearest,’ he said, knowing full well it wasn’t what she would do at all. When she and Dimitri Stanislopoulos were in each other’s company, they were up all night, drinking, laughing, dancing. Horace did not allow his mind to wonder what else they might be doing, and he didn’t venture to ask. Once he had attempted an inquiry. ‘How dare you spy on me?’ Francesca had raged. ‘Dimitri is my best friend in the world, and I will not be questioned by you.’
After that, Horace shut up. The cruise was a yearly event, and even if Francesca did sometimes slip into bed at six in the morning, he knew it was only a temporary aberration, and soon she would be all his again.
This year, anyway, things might be different. Dimitri had taken another wife. ‘A Las Vegas slut,’ Francesca had exclaimed in disgust when she heard. Horace had visions of a busty blonde showgirl.
‘Driver.’ Francesca leaned forward and tapped sharply on the glass partition. ‘Slow down, for God’s sake. You drive like a maniac.’
The chauffeur, overexerted from his bout with her suitcases (six had had to be put in a following taxi) and driving no more than forty miles an hour, said a stoic, ‘Oui, madame,’ and wished he was home with his new young wife who kept him up far too late every night.
The journey toward Cannes progressed uneventfully for ten more minutes, until, for no apparent reason, the car started to weave back and forth crazily across the highway – missing other shrieking motorists by inches.
‘My God!’ screamed Francesca in horror. ‘Horace! Do something!’
With a shuddering lurch the car turned inwards toward the sidewalk, smashed into a lamppost, and came to an abrupt halt. Francesca was hurled to the floor, and Horace fell on top of her. Miraculously neither of them were hurt.
‘Get off me, you fool!’ shrieked Francesca, removing a spiked-heel shoe and hitting him randomly.
Horace raised his voice to her – the first time he had ever done so. ‘Stop that,’ he barked.
‘Don’t you tell me to stop anything,’ she shouted, incensed, as she continued to hit him.
The cab driver, who had been following them, ripped open the back door, and with the help of several passers-by pulled them from the car. French curse words abounded. ‘Mon dieu!’ ‘Merde!’ and other such phrases were bandied about.
The driver was dragged from his seat. He had a small cut to his forehead, other than that he was quite dead.
‘Horace!’ screamed Francesca. ‘This is all your fault! You’ll do anything to ruin my holiday!’
Chapter Sixty-Six
A week in Vegas was hardly the right setting to embark on married life. Especially with ‘good time’ Alice along for the ride. In the great tradition of mothers and daughters-in-law – Alice loathed Olympia, and Olympia returned the compliment.
‘She’s fat,’ Alice said.
‘She’s a witch,’ Olympia said.
‘She’s rude,’ Alice said.
‘She’s embarrassing,’ Olympia said.
And so it went. Lennie received a litany of complaints from both of them. And to tell the truth he didn’t much care. Olympia was a little overweight – he made her promise to lose ten pounds. Alice could be a witch. He told her to behave herself or ship out. Olympia treated staff badly – Lennie noticed and called her on it. Alice was always an embarrassment. He couldn’t do anything about that. She had been that way all her life.
The big surprise was Alice and Brigette. They loved each other! The blonde child took one look at the faded stripper and a bond was formed. Brigette had never liked a grown-up in her life. Alice had always hated kids. Together they were the odd couple – chatting about television programmes, food, and clothes – as if they were equals. Neither Olympia nor Lennie could believe it. Secretly, Lennie had always suspected his mother’s mentality was in the low teenage range – but Brigette was only eleven – yet you would think she and Alice had been lifelong friends. Their relationship saved the day. Olympia accepted Alice because of it. Suddenly Brigette was behaving like a human being – a new phenomenon.
Marriage, Lennie found, had certain advantages. No more one-night stands was one of them.
He certainly did not kid himself that he and Olympia were madly in love, but they had plenty of time. They’d done it, and he, for one, was prepared to give it his best shot.
He pushed Eden to the back of his mind.
Olympia, too, found that marriage (for the fourth time) was advantageous. Especially to someone like Lennie. He was not like her other three husbands, she knew that immediately. He was smarter and sexier and not obsessed with her money as the others had been. In fact, he didn’t seem to even care about money. When she thrust the pre-nuptial agreement at him three days into their marriage he had signed the backdated document with hardly a glance. ‘I didn’t marry that part of you,’ he said dismissively.
He had electric eyes, persistent lips, gentle hands, and an awe-inspiring cock.
He wasn’t Flash. But he was something.
She put Flash on hold. He could wait.
* * *
Jess was well aware she was hardly witnessing love’s young dream, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be after her initial encounter with the Greek Princess – as she had christened Olympia – even though she looked more Californian than Greek.
‘Lennie,’ she commented. ‘I don’t know what you said to her, but whatever it was – keep repeating it – she’s almost bearable.’
He laughed. ‘You’ve got to understand Olympia,’
he stated patiently. ‘Sure she’s spoilt, wouldn’t you be if your old man owned half the world and you grew up expecting to own the other half?’
Jess tried to put herself in that position, couldn’t quite make it.
‘Olympia is very insecure,’ Lennie the analyst continued. ‘That’s why she treats people the way she does.’
Oh yeah? Insecure about what? Now the picture was coming clear. Lennie Golden. Champion of the underdog. He had married the richest girl in the world to save her from herself. Hah!
‘When you get to know her’, he added, ‘you’ll really like her.’
An acquired taste, like eels on toast. ‘If you say so’, Jess agreed amiably. She didn’t feel like arguing. He would learn in his own sweet time.
Meanwhile, Matt was driving her nuts. Now that she had decided she really liked him – a lot – he had become ‘Mister Best Friend who will never lay a hand on you’. She wanted more than his hand, and she hinted this to him.
‘You were always right about us, Jess,’ he said, not getting the hint at all. ‘I must have seemed like a real jerk to you when I wouldn’t leave you alone.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ she replied hopefully.
‘Yes. I was a jerk,’ he repeated. And he had no intention of making a fool of himself again.
* * *
Olympia had discussed Dimitri’s upcoming cruise with Lennie. He consulted Jess, and found he would be able to make it for a week, after that he had a firm commitment to do The Tonight Show, his first shot and he was looking forward to it. Although he was also nervous. Appearing with Carson was like receiving an audience with the Pope.
‘They’ve promised you a seven minute spot,’ Jess said eagerly. ‘Freddie de Cordova said he couldn’t understand why you haven’t been on before. I didn’t want to tell him we’ve been bombarding them for two years!’
Lennie decided he and Olympia would leave immediately after the last show on Saturday night, take a car to L.A., the polar flight to London where they would stay overnight, and then another plane the next day to the south of France. He was enthusiastic about the trip, having never been abroad, although fortunately he had acquired a passport years before when he and Eden once planned a trip to Venice – which never came off because she ran away to L.A. with her actor boyfriend. Whatever happened to him?