I’m outraged. Screw you, Marco. Is that all you’ve got to say to me?
I hate him. I really do.
* * *
“You look gruesome!” Dario shrieks the moment I enter the house.
“Thanks a lot,” I reply, furious because he obviously doesn’t get it, just like Marco, who didn’t say a word to me on the drive from the airport.
I am royally pissed and upset and disappointed. What is wrong with these creeps? Can’t they see I’m all grown up?
Dario trails me up to my bedroom, desperately trying to make amends for his stupid comment.
“I guess I’ll get used to you looking like one of those girls from Aunt Jen’s fashion mags,” he says. “It’s not so bad.”
A reluctant compliment if ever I heard one.
I decide to forgive him—after all, he is my brother and I have missed him. Sort of.
“Where’s Gino?” I ask.
“Vegas,” Dario says, plunking himself down on my bed.
“Nice of him to be here to welcome me home,” I complain, reaching for the pack of cigarettes I have stashed in my purse.
“When did you start smoking?” Dario inquires, obviously impressed.
“At school,” I reply, adding a mysterious “I learned a lot of things at school.”
Dario nods approvingly while I light up and offer him a drag. He eagerly accepts. We exchange smiles. I finally decide it’s good to be home with my little brother.
“Dad’s got himself a new girlfriend,” Dario reveals. “And she’s famous.”
I am still wondering why Marco hasn’t fallen at my feet and declared his undying love for me; however, Dario’s statement jolts me back to reality.
“Famous?” I question, frowning. “Who is she?”
“A movie star,” Dario says.
Could he be more vague?
“No shit,” I say irritably. “Does she have a name?”
“Marabelle Blue.”
I slowly digest this piece of unbelievable information. Marabelle Blue is a huge freaking star, kind of a major sex symbol. What the f—?
“You’re kidding,” I finally manage.
“It’s true,” Dario assures me.
“How do you know?” I press, eager for more information.
“He brings her here,” Dario says, savoring the moment. “I’ve seen them screwing.”
I almost choke on my cigarette. Actually, I’m not that into smoking, but hey, I’m well aware that it makes me look way cool.
“You haven’t,” I say, all kinds of images floating before my eyes.
“Oh yes I have,” Dario crows. “Watched ’em through the bedroom keyhole.”
“You sneaky little rat,” I exclaim.
Dario throws his blond head back and laughs. “It was major.”
“I bet.”
“And get this,” Dario adds.
“What?” I ask with a fed-up sigh.
“Gino’s flying back from Vegas and bringing her here for dinner tonight.”
“No way,” I say, totally alarmed.
“Way,” Dario says, confirming the bad news.
I realize I’d better get myself together if we’re having dinner with a movie star.
Will I like her?
Who cares? She won’t be around long enough for it to matter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
What is it with the male members of my so-called family? First Marco, then Dario, now Gino himself, all carrying on about how they hate my hair and makeup and clothes. What? Did they expect me to stay looking like a lanky teenager forever? I have moved on, thank you very much, and I don’t care what any of them have to say. Well, that’s not absolutely true, because I do care about Marco—not that he’s family, thank God, because if he was family, I couldn’t end up marrying him, and quite obviously that’s what’s going to happen. Eventually.
Is Daddy Dearest pleased to see me?
I don’t know. I can’t tell. He seems distant.
When I was younger—before my mom’s murder—he used to call me his little Italian princess, throw me in the air, and smother me with hugs and kisses.
Now all I get is criticism.
I don’t care.
Yes I do.
No. I don’t.
* * *
Marabelle Blue turns out to be a larger-than-life dreamy creature with big blue eyes, flowing platinum blonde hair, quivering red jammy lips, and huge breasts. She wears a pink chiffon dress cut down to Cuba, and sparkly diamond earrings that seem as if they might be the real thing. She looks as if she should be going to a movie premiere, not dinner at our house.
“Hi, Lucky,” she murmurs in a breathy, little-girl voice. “Your daddy’s told me all about you—it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Is it? Why?
I mumble a suitable greeting and throw Gino a killer glare. Is this to be my welcome-home celebration? Dinner with a big-deal movie star whom I automatically hate because she’s sleeping with my father?
I flash onto Ursi, thinking about the things I did with him, and wondering if Marabelle Fishface does the same things with Gino.
I shudder at the thought. Unthinkable!
“Y’know,” Gino says, giving me one of his major annoying looks, “Marabelle could take you to the studio, show you around an’ get you some makeup lessons so’s you don’t look like such a clown.”
My eyes fill with tears. A clown? Is he freaking kidding me? What is it with him and Marco? Why do they both say the same things?
“I’d be happy to,” Marabelle says, aiming to please. “Anytime you like, sweetie.”
I refuse to let them see me cry. Holding back my tears, I pick up a glass of water and pretend to semi-choke.
“An’ you should grow your hair back,” Gino growls. “Ya look like a goddamn boy.”
Ah, yes. Another fantastic dinner with my loving and sensitive father.
After the dinner ordeal is over I race up to my room, lock the door, and sob it out. I’m entitled. I only have one parent.
Where’s Mommy when I need her? Why did she have to go and get herself murdered? It isn’t fair. It’s all Gino’s fault. And what has he done about it?
Exactly nothing. Shouldn’t he be out tracking her killer? Not sleeping with vacuous movie stars.
Dario hammers on my door. I yell at him to go away. He keeps hammering. I shout at him to screw off.
I phone Liz. She isn’t home.
I wander into my bathroom and gaze intently at my reflection, leaning close to the mirror to get a better look. A river of tears has obliterated my carefully applied eye makeup. Gino’s right—now I look like a sad clown.
Unfortunate fact. I am a sad clown.
I was so happy about coming home and impressing everyone. Unfortunately, things haven’t played out the way I’d planned in my head, and I don’t know who to blame except myself.
But is it my fault?
No. It’s Gino’s and his raging libido. I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him. Same old story.
In the morning I call Olympia in Greece.
“Miss you,” she says.
Her words put a smile on my face. “You, too,” I respond.
“How is it there?” she asks.
“Horrible,” I reply. “Gino’s hooked up with some dumb movie star, and everyone’s being mean to me.”
“A movie star?” Olympia questions, far more interested in my movie star comment than the fact that everything else sucks. “What’s her name?”
“Marabelle Blue.”
“Holy knockers,” Olympia exclaims in awe. “Marabelle Blue is huge!”
“Huge knockers you mean,” I say with a wayward giggle. “She was at our house for dinner last night and they were like falling out of her dress. So gross!”
Olympia roars with laughter. “Good job my dad wasn’t there,” she says. “He’s such a letch, he’d have been all over that in a second.”
“I was thinking…” I say, thou
ghts forming.
“Like what are you thinking?”
“Well … I’m kind of desperate,” I venture. “Is there any chance I can come stay with you for the summer?”
“Now, that’s a fantastic idea!” Olympia squeals, sounding genuinely delighted. “You are so invited. We can have ourselves an incredible time.”
“Of course, I’ll have to get permission from Gino,” I say, warming to the idea. “That should be easy, though, ’cause he’s so preoccupied with Marabelle Fishface that I’m sure he’ll say yes.”
“Yippee! Can’t wait,” Olympia says, full of enthusiasm. “You gotta bring your sexiest bikinis—’cause it’s all sun, sea, and sand here. You’ll love it. And you can get an amazing tan.”
“Are you sure it’ll be okay with your family?”
“No prob.”
I wait for the right moment to ask Gino if I can go. He is on his way to his hotel in Vegas and seems quite preoccupied. “Who are these people you want to stay with?” he asks.
“It’s my best friend, Olympia Stanislopoulos,” I inform him. “Her parents have a big villa on an island in Greece. They have their own yacht and plenty of security in residence—just like us, so it’s perfectly safe.”
I fail to mention that Olympia’s parents are divorced and that Mrs. Stanislopoulos will not be around.
Gino nods. Exactly as I thought, he has Marabelle Fishface on his mind, and I’m sure he doesn’t want me hanging about getting in his way.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “I guess if that’s what you’ve made up your mind t’do. Call my secretary, have her make the arrangements an’ give her all the details ’bout where you’ll be an’ who’ll be watchin’ out for you. Oh, yeah … an’ Lucky—”
“Yes, Gino?”
“Make sure you behave yourself,” he adds, giving me a hard look. “No drinking. No boys. No screwin’ around. Got it?”
“Of course, Gino,” I say, obedient daughter to the hilt.
Oh! He should only know the things that I have already done. And the truth is I don’t regret one single minute of any of them!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Before I leave for the Greek islands, Liz and I spend a day together. Liz drives her dad’s Porsche. He’s in New York and her mom’s at a spa, so there is no one to stop her. Naturally she drives too fast; I don’t care, it’s kind of exciting. We hit Melrose, Robertson, and Third Street. We have lunch on the beach in Venice. We buy tops and jeans and shoes and all kinds of delicious stuff. We cruise the boardwalk and get into flirty conversations with random boys. Later we go back to her house in the Palisades, where we sit around smoking and trying on our new outfits.
Liz raids her dad’s study and reappears with a full bottle of vodka. She really does like her booze. Me, not so much. Getting wasted strikes me as rather stupid. I kind of like having a clear picture of what’s going on.
After a while Liz decides to invite a bunch of friends over. Before long it turns into a party.
Somehow or other I find myself on a couch with a tattooed guy called Brad, and before long it’s “almost” time.
Hmm … I am getting pretty sure of myself, but after a while Brad—who must be at least nineteen—wants more, and he’s becoming quite aggressive about it.
I manage to extract myself and go find Liz, who is now totally wasted. The girl shouldn’t drink—doesn’t she remember what happened to her last time?
I realize there’s no way she can leave her own party to take me home even if she is capable of driving—which she’s not, so I call a cab, although I feel a bit guilty about leaving Liz without a friend by her side, ’cause all the other girls seem to have paired off with guys. A lot of “almost” is taking place, and more besides.
This party is fast turning into a free-for-all and I want out. Besides, it’s verging on midnight and I have an eleven o’clock curfew. Not that it matters—Gino’s in Vegas. Apparently he couldn’t care less.
Liz is out of it by the pool, passed out on a lounger. I think that maybe she’ll sleep it off.
My cabdriver doesn’t speak a word of English; he drives along Sunset as if he’s in a to-the-death race. As soon as we hit Bel Air he gets lost, then when he finds our house, he gouges me on the fare.
Reluctantly I pay up, head up the stone stairs, throw open the front door, and there is Marco, standing in the front hall, furious.
“You know the rules,” he scolds, steaming and oh-so-handsome. “Home by eleven, an’ never—I repeat, never—put your dumb ass in an L.A. cab. They’re friggin’ death traps.”
I throw him a haughty look. “You’re not Gino,” I mutter. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
This infuriates him even more. “You got yourself one helluva smart mouth in Switzerland, huh?” he says, scowling, which only makes him look even more handsome.
“That’s not all I got,” I reply, hotfooting it up to the safety of my room before he can say anything more.
What am I supposed to do about Marco? It’s so obvious he has feelings for me. How come he can’t relax and admit it?
I smile to myself. Is he jealous that I’m out and about? Is he wondering what I am doing and with whom?
Too bad, Marco—you had your opportunity and you blew it.
* * *
The next morning I am up early, packed, and ready to go. Dario is skulking around with a pissed-off expression. I’d made a promise to spend the summer with him, only things have changed. Besides, Dario is still a kid. What would we do together? Play Scrabble and stare at the TV all day? I think not.
Olympia is waiting, and I’m on my way.
Marco drives me to the airport in stony silence.
I have so many questions I want to ask him, but I sense that now is not the time.
Do you have a girlfriend?
Do you want a girlfriend?
What do you really think of me?
And the biggest question of all—when will you finally acknowledge that we belong together?
I step out of the car at the airport. There is a VIP escort waiting to take me to the plane. Marco takes my luggage from the trunk, hands it over to a porter, gets back in the car, and drives off without so much as a good-bye.
Screw you, Marco! I scream in my head. I hate you, too!
* * *
On the plane I am seated next to an obese man with bad breath and an urge to flirt.
Ugh! He is major old and quite disgusting. I yearn for the voluptuous bimbo I was seated next to on my first trip to Europe.
The flight attendant walks down the aisle offering newspapers. I grab an LA Times and bury my nose in it. Maybe the old dude will take a hint and stop trying to hit on me.
I am not really reading the newspaper, merely trying to appear occupied, when the headline of a story catches my eye.
TEENAGE DAUGHTER OF STUDIO MOGUL DROWNS IN FAMILY POOL
For a second my heart stops. It can’t be … can it?
I am too nervous to read on. But then I do, and the story is all there in black and white.
Elizabeth Farrell, daughter of studio head Martin B. Farrell and philanthropist Lindsay Farrell, was discovered drowned in the family swimming pool by a caretaker at three o’clock this morning.
I choke back a scream. My eyes fill with tears.
I shouldn’t have left her. It’s all my fault.
I slump down in my seat and do not utter a word until the plane lands, whereupon I spy Olympia in the waiting area and fall into her arms, sobbing my heart out.
* * *
For the next few days we mourn together. Olympia is a true friend. She keeps on assuring me that it had nothing to do with me, that I wasn’t Liz’s keeper, and that what happened to her was a freak accident.
I am not convinced, but what the hell, I have to learn to move on. I moved on after my mom’s death even though I was just a child. I clearly remember Gino’s words: “Don’t ever forget you’re a Santangelo. Never let ’em see you crumble.”
Yes. I a
m a Santangelo, more like Gino than I care to admit.
Gradually I put what happened to Liz out of my mind and begin to enjoy the summer.
CHAPTER NINE
The Stanislopoulos villa, located on its own private island, is spectacular. It’s perched on a bluff overlooking the azure-blue Mediterranean, and there are endless terraces and incredible views. The Stanislopoulos luxury yacht rests in the bay. Olympia’s dad, Dimitri, is an imposing man with a deep suntan, craggy features, and a prominent nose. Handsome, I suppose, in an older-man kind of way. He greets me with a kiss on each cheek, then a third one for good luck, followed by an all-enveloping hug. He smells of very expensive aftershave, cigars, and strong liquor.
“Welcome, my dear,” he says in a loud booming voice. “Any friend of my Olympia’s will fit right in here. We are all one big happy family.”
After that he more or less ignores me, which is okay because Villa Stanislopoulos is teeming with people. Relatives and houseguests, attractive older women in designer beachwear, and a bunch of noisy kids. Apart from a sour-faced French girl, we are the only teenagers.
“Who are all these people?” I ask. “They seem to change daily.”
“I know,” Olympia agrees, with a nod of her blonde head. “All you gotta do is smile while attempting to avoid the old letches. They’ll try to grab your ass given half a chance, so move quickly. They’re ancient and not so nimble.”
She was right. The older the man, the more his hands seemed to be about to wander.
Gross! Ancient Greeks in mankinis exhibiting protruding bellies and pathetic packages while lying out by the infinity pool to further their leathered suntans.
This is not the vacation I had hoped for.
“Isn’t there anywhere else we can go?” I ask restlessly after a couple of days. “Y’know, like take off for the day? Explore somewhere different?”
Olympia gets the hint. “I was waiting for you to give me the word,” she says. “After what happened to Liz and all…” she trails off.
“I’m about ready for some fun,” I say, determined not to feel guilty about Liz forever. Unfortunately, Liz chose the path she wished to take, and as much as I’ll miss her, it’s time to move on. I refuse to keep blaming myself. Besides, I know how Gino would act, and sometimes I’m more like my father than I think.
Confessions of a Wild Child Page 3