Jackie Collins, page 57
"We're trying to find out what happened to Cyndra's mother," he said,
following her inside the house. "We heard she was working for the
Brownings again.
Meg looked blank. "Cyndra's mother?"
"Aretha Mae," Cyndra said.
"Oh, yes, of course, she's your mother. Well, as far as I know, Aretha
Mae went to live in Ripley, it must have been a year or so ago.
"Do you have an address for her?" Cyndra asked.
"No," Meg said. "I have no idea where she went." She turned to Nick
again-far more interested in speaking to him. "You look wonderful,"
she gushed. "We saw Night City twice. Stock loved it. He's such a
fan of Carlysle Mann. Is she nice? What's Hollywood like?
We're both so proud to be your friends-we always knew you'd make it."
He couldn't believe the crap that was coming out of her mouth.
Stock had hated his guts. And so had she. What a couple of major
phomes.
"Is Benjamin Browning here?" Cyndra asked.
"He's in the breakfast room. Do you wish to see him?"
"Yes, maybe he can help me with the information we need."
"This is so exciting," Meg said, leading them through the hall, tugging
at the back of her shorts, failing to hide ripples of cellulite.
"So you married Stock." Nick said, thinking to himself So you married
the asshole. Well, somebody had to get stuck with him-it may as well
be you.
"We have two adorable children," Meg announced proudly. "Miffy and
JoJo."
"We only just heard about the tornado," Nick said. "Must've been a
tough time here."
"It was terrible. You have no idea-the destruction was tragic."
"I heard about Lauren's parents.
"Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. She was devastated. Went to live
with her aunt and uncle in Philadelphia. We lost touch a long time
ago. I have no idea where she is now.
"You two were such good friends."
"We were children," Meg said.
They all trooped into the breakfast room. Benjamin was sitting at the
table drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He looked up,
startled.
Cyndra was satisfied to see that he was older, grayer and fatter.
"Remember me, Mr. Browning?" she said, standing in front of him,
hands on her hips. "Or should I call you Benjamin?"
He stumbled to his feet. She noticed he'd grown a thin Hitler-like
mustache.
He stared at her, his mouth twitching. "What are you doing here?" he
said.
"Looking for my mother. I thought you might be able to help me."
His shifty eyes darted this way and that, searching for an escape.
"You were always very close to my mother, weren't you?" Cyndra
continued, watching him squirm.
He cleared his throat and shot a filthy look at Meg for letting them
into his house. "Aretha Mae moved to Ripley," he said.
"Do you have an address for her?"
"I'll get it," he said.
"I recall coming to this house so many times," Cyndra called after him
as he left the room. "I have so many fine memories, Mr. Browning.
.
. Benjamin. Don't you?"
Meg, oblivious to the tension, said, "Stock is playing tennis, but I
know he'd adore to see you both. Can you come back later? We could
all go out and have a drink-wouldn't that be nice?"
"We gotta get back to L.A" Nick said. "We only came to see Cyndra's
mother and my dad."
"Oh, yes, your father," Meg said.
"What about him?"
She looked embarrassed. "I really don't want to be the one to tell
you.
"Tell me what?"
"He's . . . he's dead."
Nick felt absolutely nothing. He knew he should be upset, but the news
didn't affect him. "How did it happen?" he asked blankly.
"The tornado," Meg replied. "I'm so sorry."
Mr. Browning returned with Aretha Mae's address written on a piece of
paper.
"Why did she leave?" Cyndra wanted to know.
"I have no idea," he replied, his face an impassive mask.
"She wasn't hurt in the tornado?"
"No. Her trailer was destroyed, which is why Mrs. Browning and I took
her in out of the kindness of our hearts."
"What a prince you are," Cyndra said sarcastically. "And did you take
Harlan, my brother, in too?"
"He came here for a while and then went to Ripley. Your mother
followed him."
"Thank you so much . . . Benjamin. C'mon, Nick, let's go."
They sat in the Cadillac and contemplated the latest information.
"Are you upset about Primo?" she asked, squeezing his hand.
"I guess I'm supposed to be . .
"It doesn't matter if you're not. You don't have to feel guilty."
She was right. Primo had never given a shit about him-why should he
care?
But still, Primo was his father, and he couldn't help being affected.
"So many changes here," Cyndra murmured. "And we knew nothing.
"You know what this means," Nick said, starting the car. "Lauren never
got my letters. She must've thought I ran out on her."
"It was a long time ago.
"You don't understand. I was mad at her. I thought she didn't care.
A few months ago I saw her in New York."
"You never told me.
"I was at a dinner party with Carlysle. Lauren was catering it. She
was engaged to this old rich guy-one of the guests. I tried to contact
her the next day, but I was told she'd gone off to get married."
"Did you speak?"
"No, we made eye contact, an' you know what? It was like time stood
still."
All "Really?"
"I always loved her, and I guess I always will."
"Don't go getting romantic on me, Nick. I can't stand it."
"There'll never be another girl like Lauren."
"Listen to you-it's pure soap opera.
"Fuck you, Cyndra. I've got to find Lauren and explain what
happened."
"Didn't you tell me she got married?"
"It doesn't matter-I have to see her."
"I wouldn't mention this to Annie if I were you. She might not
appreciate it."
"Annie has nothing to do with this."
"I know, but be careful. Annie could rock our future."
"Don't worry. I'm more aware of it than you."
"I'm sorry, Nick."
"About what?"
"Vegas. What happened there."
"It's nothing. Everything's gonna work out just fine. Now let's go
find Aretha Mae and Harlan." pparently it did not concern Oliver one
little bit that Lorenzo Marcella was launching a kamikaze attack on his
wife.
"I'm going to tell him we're married," she informed Oliver.
"Do whatever you wish, my dear. But I can assure you, it won't make
any difference to the attention he pays you. Italian men are
incorrigible."
"Don't you care?"
"Naturally I care. However, I trust you. You know how to handle
yourself."
She didn't understand him. He refused to make love to her, and now a
much younger, attractive man was all over her and it didn't appear to
bother him. As a matter of fact, the more time she spent with Lorenzo
the more she enjoyed his company. He was outrageously phony, but his
charm was addictive. His latest plan was for her to come to Italy and
visit the big Marcella factory.
"Can my husband come too?" she asked.
They were in his office on Park Avenue, only it loked more like a
luxurious apartment. Sheepskin rugs on the floor, an enormous white
desk, oversized couches and leopard-skin throws.
"You mention this husband all the time," Lorenzo said. "And yet I have
never seen him. Who is he? Tell me and I will have him killed."
He smiled.
She smiled back. "You know my husband, Lorenzo."
"I do?"
"I thought somebody would have told you by now.
"Told me what?"
"My husband is Oliver Liberty."
Lorenzo looked at her with a quizzical expression. "You are not
serious?"
"Yes."
"I do not believe you.
"Why would I lie?"
"He's too old for you.
"That's rather a presumptuous thing to say.
"You are young, beautiful, vital. Oliver is-how do you say in
English?
Ah, yes, he is over the mountain."
"You don't have to be young in years to be vital. Oliver has a
tremendous amount of energy-probably more than you and me put
together."
"Ah, well," Lorenzo said, sighing. "I will simply have to steal you
away from him."
She laughed. "You're incorrigible."
"But you like it."
She had to admit that she did. Lorenzo made her smile. He made her
feel young and lighthearted. Living with Oliver had turned into all
business.
Pia gave birth to a baby girl, a golden child they named Rosemarie.
Lauren was appointed godmother. She loved going over to Pia's
apartment and cradling the baby in her arms, all her maternal instincts
sprung to life. The thought occurred to her-if Oliver never made love
to her, how was she going to get pregnant?
As the months passed she found herself drawing away from him. If he
didn't want to make love to her properly, she didn't want him to touch
her at all. Whenever she tried to discuss it he walked away as if it
didn't matter.
You made a mistake, Roberts.
I'm getting good at that.
One Saturday afternoon she went by herself to see Night City. She sat
in the dark movie theater and watched Nick up on the screen. He was so
good. His intensity worked for the camera. When he was in bed with
Carlysle Mann she closed her eyes-she couldn't bear to watch.
Their affair was long ago and far away-and yet it seemed like
yesterday. Maybe she should have taken his call the day after the
Georges' dinner party. Instead of speaking to him she'd run off to the
Bahamas and married Oliver. Foolish girl. She should have listened to
Nick.
Too late now. Nick Angelo was a movie star, and she was about to be
launched upon an unsuspecting public.
"Lorenzo wants us to go to Italy," she told Oliver.
"I can't go anywhere," he replied. "I'm in the middle of landing an
important client."
"What client?"
"Riviera Champagne."
"Surely you can get away for a few days?"
"No," he said abruptly. "The owner is coming to town. li's a personal
thing. Only I can talk him into switching his account to Liberty and
Charles."
"Can't Howard handle it?"
"Howard is not me, Lauren. I'm training him, but it will take time and
experience before he can pull an account from another agency the way I
do."
"Do you mind if I go with Lorenzo?"
"What is this trip for?"
"He wants me to meet the other Marcella executives and visit the
factory. He feels that if the campaign works in America they'll want
me to spearhead the whole European campaign. I've spoken to Samm, she
likes the idea and so do I. Of course, it will mean more money.
"Are you asking me what I think?"
"Yes."
"Then you should go-it's important."
"You wouldn't mind?"
"Of course not."
Screw Oliver. He honestly didn't care. He was sending her to Europe
with an eligible, devastatingly attractive Italian lech.
"It's settled then," she said.
The next morning she had coffee with Pia in her apartment.
"You're going to Rome with Lorenzo?" Pia said, almost spilling her
coffee.
"Oliver seems to think there's nothing wrong with it."
Pia leaped up. "Ha! Howard wouldn't let me exchange a handshake with
Lorenzo Marcella! Those Italian men are lethal-especially when they
look like him."
"Why?" Lauren asked casually. "Do you think he's attractive?"
"What a ridiculous question. The guy is devastating-he looks like a
movie star.
It wasn't his looks that attracted Lauren, it was his attitude.
"When do your ads start appearing?" Pia asked.
"They'll be in the Christmas issues, which means they'll hit the stands
at the end of November."
"Wow, that's exciting."
"Can I see the baby?" Lauren asked.
"She's sleeping."
"Why don't we wake her?"
Pia grinned. "Why not?"
The private jet was the most luxurious form of travel Lauren had ever
imagined.
"It's nothing," Lorenzo said, with a sweeping wave of his hand.
His idea of nothing was a state-of-the-art cabin fitted out with stereo
equipment, a kitchen, a marble bathroom and a bedroom in the back.
The interior of the plane was decorated as lavishly as any penthouse
apartment. It was the company plane, but Lorenzo had full use of it
whenever he wanted.
"I'm sorry your husband was unable to accompany us," he said, strapping
himself into the seat next to hers, not meaning a word he said.
"I'm sure you are.
"No, really, bellissima. I would never pay attention to another man's
wife."
He could have fooled her. "Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"No, my princess, I have yet to meet the woman of my dreams.
Besides, we have but one life to live-why confine oneself to the same
meal every day?"
She wrinkled her nose. "You're beginning to sound like a
chauvinist."
"What is a chauvinist?" he asked innocently.
"You know what I mean-comparing a woman to a meal. That's hardly very
nice."
Watching her closely he said, "You are the most beautiful woman in the
universe. I love it when you speak. The way your mouth moves, the way
your lips quiver. Everything about you is so so tempting."
"You're full of it, Lorenzo."
It was her first trip to Europe and she couldn't help being excited.
Lorenzo was amused. "I have crossed the Atlantic so many times that I
have lost count," he boasted.
"Lucky you," she replied, fastening her seatbelt and tensing for
takeoff. Every time she flew it made her nervous.
Lorenzo seemed totally at ease. He took her hand and turned it palm
up.
"Ah you, too, will be very lucky," he said, studying her palm.
"I see it here."
"What, Lorenzo?"
"Did I not tell you that my grandmother was a gypsy? I read palms, I
