Oh God! Both he and Lucky were busy doing the right thing when they should have been together. It wasn’t fair.
After several weeks Olympia came out of the coma. The first thing she did was ask for a mirror. When she got it her screams could be heard throughout the hospital. Lennie attempted to reassure her. Only one side of her face was burned, the other was perfect. ‘I’ve talked to the doctors,’ he said confidently. ‘With plastic surgery and skin grafts you’re going to look as good as new.’
‘You stupid fool,’ she yelled, tears streaming down her face. ‘What do you know?’
He contemplated leaving. But she was his wife, and it seemed she had nobody – only him.
‘Get me some coke,’ she demanded, the next day.
‘Are you crazy?’ he replied. ‘You’re on all kinds of medication. Do you want to kill yourself?’
‘I don’t care’, she replied blankly. ‘Maybe that’s what I should do.’
Dimitri still did not come back to visit, although he sent flowers daily, and one of his personal secretaries arrived to report on Olympia’s progress to him.
‘Where is Dimitri?’ Lennie demanded angrily.
‘Mr Stanislopoulos is not well,’ the secretary replied in hushed tones. ‘He’s unable to leave his island.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I’m not allowed to divulge that information,’ she replied primly. But she did divulge that his wife and child were still with him.
Lucky was back with Dimitri with a vengeance.
Lennie slumped into a depression. He tried to phone the island, but Lucky was always unreachable and never returned his calls.
Another week passed. Olympia’s mother, Charlotte, turned up, slightly late in the day. She arrived from New York, a tense woman, well dressed and tight-lipped. ‘I would have come before,’ she explained airily. ‘But it was impossible.’
Why? Lennie wanted to ask. It’s your daughter lying there, you cold bitch. Why was it impossible?
Charlotte stayed twenty-four hours.
‘I want to see Flash’, Olympia mumbled one day. ‘Has he sent flowers? Has he called?’
There were banks of flowers, too many to deal with. The cards were kept in a box, and Dimitri’s secretary typed neat thank you notes. Lennie asked the woman if Flash had sent anything. He was not jealous, merely relieved that there might be a way out.
‘No,’ she replied, consulting a file of names in a leather book.
Lennie tracked the rock star to London and phoned him. ‘Olympia wants to see you,’ he said, hoping Flash would jump at the opportunity, thereby taking him off the hook.
‘Listen, man,’ Flash confided, ‘that was over long ago – she’s too effing rich for my blood. I hope she’s awright an’ everyfing – but it was never any big deal.’
Olympia swore that Lennie was keeping them apart.
Eventually the day came when she was ready to leave the hospital. A series of operations were planned, but they could not take place immediately, as her skin had to heal first.
‘I’ll take you to your father’s island,’ Lennie suggested, with the thought of seeing Lucky.
‘No,’ Olympia replied quickly, well aware of Dimitri’s lack of concern. ‘I want to go to California.’ She had just read that Flash had bought a house there, and she was determined to see him. Without Lennie’s knowledge she purchased the Bel Air mansion for ten million dollars over the phone. She didn’t tell him until they arrived.
Once back in America he had no idea what to do. He had planned to stay with her only until she left the hospital, dumping her now seemed cruel. At times she was okay, it wasn’t all screaming and name calling. So, much as he wanted to tell her it was over, timing was everything, and the moment was not right. Maybe after the first operation, when she began to look normal again and regain her confidence.
The producers of his TV series were suing him for millions.
Rolling Stone ran the cover story they had been working on. It made him look like egomaniac of the year.
Jess finally quit bugging him about when he was going back to work.
Alice was giving eccentric interviews to anyone who asked.
Add asshole of the year to his list of credits, for that’s what she was making him look like.
Olympia and he moved into the house with an army of servants in attendance. Shortly after, Brigette and Nanny Mabel arrived for the Christmas vacation.
‘Mama, you are so ugly!’ Brigette crowed. ‘I can’t stand to look at you!’
The moment Christmas was over she was sent to stay with her grandfather, still closeted on his island.
‘I hate that child,’ Olympia complained bitterly. ‘I plan to see as little of her as possible.’
Early one morning, a few days after Brigette left, Olympia ordered the car and chauffeur, and mysteriously went out, her face shrouded by a long scarf.
When Lennie heard he was delighted. It was the first time she had left the house. He was not so delighted when she returned an hour later, hysterical. She never told him, but he soon found out she had been to see Flash, and the rock star had taken one look at her and said, ‘Cor blimey! No offence, love. But I can’t take fucking disfigurement. Makes me sick to me stomach, know what I mean?’
Lennie got the news from Flash’s manager, who phoned to request that she stay out of his client’s life.
‘Tell your shithead client to go fuck himself,’ Lennie fumed, and slammed down the phone.
Shortly after that Olympia began to cling, something she had never done before. And she wanted sex. A subject which had not come up since the accident.
Lennie tried, but his desire level was zero.
Olympia was surprisingly understanding. Matter of factly she blamed it on the way she looked.
He had no excuse except the one he couldn’t tell her. Lucky was in his head, his heart, his whole being. She was the only woman he ever wanted. And now, because of a tragic set of circumstances, they were apart.
Once again he tried to contact her, but to no avail. It was clear she was avoiding him. He was angry and rejected. He was also trapped. And going crazy.
The time had come to get back to work, but Jess informed him offers were sparse. Once so hot, he was now not even lukewarm. Bad publicity and a lawsuit did not help.
He had been toying with the idea of writing an original screenplay. ‘Maybe we can get the financing and produce it ourselves,’ he suggested to Jess.
‘Why not have your wife put up the money?’ she replied tartly. ‘She’s buying you everything else.’
It was true. Olympia sat in a chair all day and ordered things over the phone. So far she had bought him a Mercedes, a Porsche, a portable gym, legions of electronic equipment, a boat, tapes, books, clothes. She had turned into a catalogue freak. She ordered and ate, ate and ordered. And so her days passed.
The first operation on her face was a success. They flew to Brazil where she spent several weeks in a private clinic being attended to by the world’s finest plastic surgeons. Lennie stayed with her all the time. He worked on his screenplay and visited her daily. She needed all the support she could get.
Dimitri sent a flower shop of roses. It was nearly a year since she’d seen him.
It was nearly a year since Lennie had seen Lucky, although he still thought of her all the time. She obviously didn’t give a damn about him, otherwise she would have tried to contact him as he had her. He felt a heavy sadness, but he still refused to believe it was over.
By the time Olympia was allowed to go home her spirits had lifted considerably. She was starting to put on weight, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She spent hours studying her face in the mirror and waiting for the day when it would be completely healed.
Lennie finished his screenplay and turned it over to Jess. ‘This is what I want you to do,’ he said. ‘No more clubs or TV. And no, I am not asking my wife to put up the money.’
Jess raised a cynical eyebrow. Lennie was a comic,
a TV star. Nobody was running to finance him in a movie. After she had read the script she changed her mind. It was a hilarious comedy about crime called ‘Private Dick’ – with all the ingredients to become an excellent little sleeper.
She started looking into financing, and every studio turned her down. At a party she met a producer named Ryder Wheeler. He had recently scored a mild hit with a low budget movie starring the singer, Vitos Felicidade. She told him of Lennie’s project and he was interested. She sent him over the script, and within three weeks a deal was set.
The rest was history. Private Dick was the most financially successful film of 1981. And Lennie became an instant movie star – with a mega-bucks contract from one of the biggest studios to write, produce, and star in three more movies.
Now, professionally, he was the hottest property around.
Personally his life was a void.
For three years it had been that way.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Opening nights always scared the hell out of Lucky, and this was her second one. Her first was the Magiriano Hotel, 1975, eight years before. If she closed her eyes she could still summon back the feeling. Hot and cold anticipation. Crazy excitement. It was like having a tiger by the tail and waiting for it to take off. Ah . . . the trip . . . the incredible high . . .
And now the Santangelo Hotel, in Atlantic City, was ready to be launched. She couldn’t wait.
Slowly she went through the ritual of preparation. A long warm shower which she switched to icy at the end. The tingle of the cold water was almost a sexual thrill. And then the luxury of giant fluffy bath towels, towels made specially for the Santangelo Hotel in wonderful colours matching the particular bathrooms they were assigned to. Not for Lucky Santangelo boring white bathrobes. At her hotel the bathrobes were made of silk in Hong Kong, and were to be given to the guests as gifts, not added on to the bill.
After her shower, wearing a cinnamon silk chemise, she sat in front of her dressing-room mirror and applied glamour. Usually she did not wear a lot of make-up, but on a night such as this she felt the need to go all the way. Dark gold eyeshadow, black Kohl pencil, burnished bronze blusher, and sensual gloss.
She looked, at thirty-three, sensational. The years only heightened her darkly exotic beauty – made her more intriguing and mysterious. She was staggeringly beautiful in an erotic and unusual way.
She slipped off her chemise, and quite naked stepped into a long dress made of black satin, snakeskin, and lace. The dress fitted her like a second skin, skimming every curve of her supple body, and plunging daringly between her breasts.
Her hairstyle was always the same. Wild jet shoulder-length curls, thick and shiny.
Satisfied with her appearance, she added her favourite jewelled panther pin, drop diamond earrings, and matching cuff diamond bracelets. On the wedding finger of her right hand she wore a huge pear-shaped diamond. Dimitri showered her with gifts. It was his way of saying thank you.
Thank you for what?
Three years previously, Francesca Fern had perished in a plane crash. He had never recovered. He was thanking Lucky for staying with him, remaining his wife, and for giving him the only reason to stay alive – his son – Roberto.
Thoughtfully Lucky stared at her reflection in the mirrored wall of her penthouse apartment atop the Santangelo. She knew that when people looked at her they saw a strong, confi-dent, sexy woman. What they didn’t see was the heartbreak beneath the cool exterior. For she would never get over losing Lerinie. And she must never allow herself to be caught in the lethal clutches of love again.
First Marco . . .
Then Lennie . . . Both taken from her by circumstances beyond her control.
Often she wondered how he felt. In the beginning he had tried to reach her constantly. Phone calls, messages, even a letter insisting that they speak.
Didn’t he understand? The plane crash was a warning. If she ever saw him again something terrible would happen. She knew it.
One deep breath and she was ready to go. She licked her lips, threw back her head, and strode to her private elevator.
* * *
‘It’s really something,’ said Costa.
‘Stupendous!’ exclaimed Costa’s wife.
‘An achievement,’ allowed Gino.
The roles were reversed as they waited in the Art Deco bar for Lucky. Costa was now married, and Gino divorced.
Costa’s wife was a retired call girl of forty. Her name was Ria, and she was fond of gardening and bridge. They had met at a bridge club in Miami a year ago, and hit it off immediately – in spite of a thirty-five year age difference. Then they set up house together. Ria was truthful about her past, and Costa didn’t seem to mind. They lived together for a while, and then, very unexpectedly, Ria became pregnant. Naturally Costa did the right thing and married her – even though he wasn’t one hundred percent sure the baby was his. She had confessed to a short fling with an old love. Costa had experienced over thirty years of a wonderful marriage to his first wife, but it was sadly childless. He didn’t care who had fathered the baby. At seventy-five he was about to become a poppa for the first time, and he was the happiest man in the world.
At first Gino had been more than cynical. Lucky also. But once they met Ria, and got to know her, they both changed their minds. She seemed to adore Costa – and besides, she had faithfully promised him she would never play around again.
Gino glanced at his watch. ‘Where’s Lucky?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t fly in from Vegas to sit around waitin’.’
‘Be patient,’ Costa admonished. ‘It’s her big night.’ He sighed with nostalgia. ‘Ah . . . how I remember the opening of the Magiriano. What an evening!’
‘Yeh. With me stuck in Israel,’ Gino complained. ‘Schmuck of the year!’
He was now divorced.
Susan had demanded his balls.
And everything else she could lay her hands on.
California law.
You could stick California law up the Holland Tunnel and block both ends!
He had caught her – and she was the one with the million dollar demands.
Ladylike cunt.
Into broads all the time.
He would never forget the expression on both of their faces when he caught them in the act.
Susan and Paige.
His wife and his lover.
Two dumb tramps.
He would never admit it, but he missed Paige. She was the real disappointment. Naturally he had never spoken to her again.
‘Here she comes,’ said Costa, admiringly. ‘And look what she looks like!’
‘Stupendous,’ sighed Ria.
Yeh. Gino had to admit it. His daughter was an absolute stunner.
* * *
Brigette Stanislopoulos removed the heated rollers from her long blonde hair. She was fourteen years old, but she could easily pass for eighteen or nineteen. People told her that all the time. People who didn’t know, came on to her like crazy, and she loved every minute of it.
Brigette attended school in Switzerland. ‘L’Evier’, a strict private girls’ school which both her mother – boring fat Olympia – and her grandfather’s wife – Lucky, whom she had grown to adore – had been expelled from. Sometimes Brigette wondered why her mother had sent her there. And then she figured it out. It was far away and it was easy.
She also figured out – exactly like her mother before her – how to leave school after lights out. So simple. Hundreds of rich little schoolgirls had followed the path to freedom and the nearest village. The name of the game was not getting caught.
Brigette could play the game expertly. And she didn’t need any help. She had no desire to pal up with any of the other girls, they were all stupid babies, whereas Brigette liked to consider herself a woman of sophistication and experience. After all, she had been around. Her grandfather was one of the richest men in the world. Her mother was a famous (unfortunately fat) heiress. And her stepfather (she liked Lennie – e
ven though she rarely saw him; most of her vacations were spent on her grandfather’s island) was a movie star.
She had quite a pedigree, and didn’t mind boasting about it. And a temper – which is why nobody went out of their way to make friends with her.
Except the boys.
In the village.
For they didn’t care how bad-tempered she was as long as she allowed them liberties the other girls were not prepared to grant.
Brigette Stanislopoulos had never gone all the way.
But she planned to.
Soon. As soon as she found the right boy.
Brigette smiled to herself. She was remarkably pretty. She had all of her mother’s good features, and none of her bad ones. She had great boobs. Big ones. Boys loved big ones, and she loved having them. ‘Playing titty’ as she called being fondled, was her favourite part of sex. Sucking the boy’s ‘thing’ was her least favourite. Although she did it. Had to. They loved it soooo much. And once she had a boy in her mouth, she had him under her spell. This was a good thing to know in life.
Brigette smoothed down the bodice of the white dress Lucky had brought her specially for the opening of the Santangelo. It was an okay dress, not spectacular, but kind of funky in a youngish way. She would have preferred something black and slinky. Black was boss. Especially with blonde hair.
Boys loved her long blonde hair. They loved to run their hands through it, and drape it over their ‘things’. They loved to jerk off in her hair. Ugh! Sometimes boys were disgusting creatures.
Brigette often wondered what Lennie did to Olympia in bed.
Then she wondered what Dimitri did to Lucky.
He probably didn’t do anything. He was too old. His ‘thing’ must have withered and fallen off by now.
Was that what happened? She decided to ask someone. Although who would know? After all, it wasn’t exactly something you could look up in the reference books. What would one look under? Prick: The decline of.
She giggled aloud, and hoped Lucky wouldn’t complain about her make-up. She did have a lot on, but she looooved make-up so.
* * *