times when she had to make the trip. And her mother’s third wedding was one of them.
She travelled by Concorde from Paris with her nine-year-old daughter, Brigette, and the girl’s English nanny, Mabel. Brigette was a pretty child. She had inherited her mother’s thick blonde hair and blue eyes, and her father’s patrician features and lithe body. She had also inherited Olympia’s wilful streak.
Nanny Mabel was a frustrated fifty-year-old woman, who after thirty-five years of ‘service’ considered she had wasted her life looking after other people’s children. Olympia was the latest in a long line of wealthy employers, and although she had only worked for her for six months, she had grown to loathe the capricious blonde heiress. The child was not much better. Spoilt, selfish and destructive. A miniature version of her mother. Fortunately, the money more than compensated, and Nanny Mabel also enjoyed the limousines, private planes, and first-class service. When in Paris, Olympia rarely visited what she referred to as the ‘nursery floor’ in her duplex apartment on the Avenue Foch, so Nanny Mabel hardly had to put up with her at all.
Olympia was more than a little aggravated that she had been forced to bring Brigette and Nanny with her. But her mother had insisted the child be flower girl at the wedding, and Olympia was unable to summon up a suitable excuse.
Her mother, Charlotte, was a chic American society matron. She had married Dimitri Stanislopoulos at the age of twenty against violent parental objection, given birth to Olympia nine months later, and divorced her husband after a year. Then she had returned to America, and within a year remarried, this time to a Wall Street banker with her parents’ full approval. For the first twelve years of her life Olympia had lived with them in America, but when puberty struck, she became unmanageable and screamed to be allowed to live with her father who flitted between his Greek island, his yacht, and his mansion in Paris. They compromised, and sent her to a series of boarding schools – all of which she managed to get thrown out of. Eventually she got her wish and moved in with Dimitri, who treated her as just another houseguest.
Charlotte’s banker husband, a stepfather who Olympia never warmed to, had passed away a year previously. Now Charlotte had a new prospect ready for the altar. A film producer whom Olympia had no desire to meet.
‘Mama,’ said Brigette, as they were escorted out of customs. ‘I see the men with the cameras.’ At nine she spoke three languages fluently.
‘Head down, eyes straight ahead,’ warned Nanny Mabel sternly. ‘Never acknowledge their presence.’
Olympia touched her golden curls, fluffed them out a little. She hated the paparazzi, but if they were going to catch you – well, one may as well appear at one’s best. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking like Christina Onassis. She adjusted her dark glasses, and smoothed down the skirt of her Saint Laurent suit.
The cameramen leaped into action.
It wasn’t easy being one of the richest women in the world.
* * *
Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not interested in the showgirl Matt Traynor had arranged for his pleasure. She was young and not even all that pretty. He was sixty-two years old. He did not need the boring conversation of a woman forty years younger. He preferred to play baccarat, so Matt set him up at a private table with several other high-rolling guests. There was a male singing star wearing a bad toupee; an Italian Contessa with skin the colour and texture of baked mud; two Japanese electronics kings; and the English girlfriend of an Arab munitions dealer.
Dimitri knew the woman. He nodded at her. She nodded back. He found her a far more interesting proposition than the vacuous showgirl.
‘Where is Saud?’ he asked, swooping to kiss her hand.
‘L.A.,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m keeping his seat warm.’
And more than
She travelled by Concorde from Paris with her nine-year-old daughter, Brigette, and the girl’s English nanny, Mabel. Brigette was a pretty child. She had inherited her mother’s thick blonde hair and blue eyes, and her father’s patrician features and lithe body. She had also inherited Olympia’s wilful streak.
Nanny Mabel was a frustrated fifty-year-old woman, who after thirty-five years of ‘service’ considered she had wasted her life looking after other people’s children. Olympia was the latest in a long line of wealthy employers, and although she had only worked for her for six months, she had grown to loathe the capricious blonde heiress. The child was not much better. Spoilt, selfish and destructive. A miniature version of her mother. Fortunately, the money more than compensated, and Nanny Mabel also enjoyed the limousines, private planes, and first-class service. When in Paris, Olympia rarely visited what she referred to as the ‘nursery floor’ in her duplex apartment on the Avenue Foch, so Nanny Mabel hardly had to put up with her at all.
Olympia was more than a little aggravated that she had been forced to bring Brigette and Nanny with her. But her mother had insisted the child be flower girl at the wedding, and Olympia was unable to summon up a suitable excuse.
Her mother, Charlotte, was a chic American society matron. She had married Dimitri Stanislopoulos at the age of twenty against violent parental objection, given birth to Olympia nine months later, and divorced her husband after a year. Then she had returned to America, and within a year remarried, this time to a Wall Street banker with her parents’ full approval. For the first twelve years of her life Olympia had lived with them in America, but when puberty struck, she became unmanageable and screamed to be allowed to live with her father who flitted between his Greek island, his yacht, and his mansion in Paris. They compromised, and sent her to a series of boarding schools – all of which she managed to get thrown out of. Eventually she got her wish and moved in with Dimitri, who treated her as just another houseguest.
Charlotte’s banker husband, a stepfather who Olympia never warmed to, had passed away a year previously. Now Charlotte had a new prospect ready for the altar. A film producer whom Olympia had no desire to meet.
‘Mama,’ said Brigette, as they were escorted out of customs. ‘I see the men with the cameras.’ At nine she spoke three languages fluently.
‘Head down, eyes straight ahead,’ warned Nanny Mabel sternly. ‘Never acknowledge their presence.’
Olympia touched her golden curls, fluffed them out a little. She hated the paparazzi, but if they were going to catch you – well, one may as well appear at one’s best. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking like Christina Onassis. She adjusted her dark glasses, and smoothed down the skirt of her Saint Laurent suit.
The cameramen leaped into action.
It wasn’t easy being one of the richest women in the world.
* * *
Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not interested in the showgirl Matt Traynor had arranged for his pleasure. She was young and not even all that pretty. He was sixty-two years old. He did not need the boring conversation of a woman forty years younger. He preferred to play baccarat, so Matt set him up at a private table with several other high-rolling guests. There was a male singing star wearing a bad toupee; an Italian Contessa with skin the colour and texture of baked mud; two Japanese electronics kings; and the English girlfriend of an Arab munitions dealer.
Dimitri knew the woman. He nodded at her. She nodded back. He found her a far more interesting proposition than the vacuous showgirl.
‘Where is Saud?’ he asked, swooping to kiss her hand.
‘L.A.,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m keeping his seat warm.’
And more than
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