Poor Little Bitch Girl by Jackie Collins Page B

her mother was dead? Hadn’t anyone told her?
    “Have you heard the news?” he ventured.
    “Didn’t you read the text message I left on your phone?” she said shortly. “’Cause you don’t seem to care that I got beat up and raped ! What’s the matter with you?”
    “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, regretting that he hadn’t checked his messages. He’d been too busy losing at blackjack, picking up a pretty waitress, and almost enjoying a lap dance.
    “Babe,” he said, finally realizing that he was the one who had to tell her. “There’s something you should know.”
    “What?” she said, furious that he wasn’t reacting in a stronger fashion.
    “It’s your . . . uh . . . mother.”
    “What about her?”
    “Jesus, I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell you this,” he muttered. “So I guess there’s no other way but to give it to you straight.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Your mother was murdered earlier today. Shot in the face.”
    There was an eerie silence.
    “I . . . uh . . . thought you knew,” he added lamely, watching her closely to see how she reacted.
    Annabelle stared at him in disbelief. What was he saying? What was he talking about? Was she still dreaming? Had her dream turned into some ridiculous nightmare?
    “I’m so sorry, babe,” he said. “It’s a total bummer, I know.”
    “When?” she said at last, catching her breath. “When did this happen?”
    “Sometime this morning in L.A. I dunno much, only what I saw on TV. Soon as I heard the news I got in the car an’ came racing home.”
    “This morning,” she repeated dully, her expression blank. “How come nobody contacted me?”
    “I’m sure somebody must’ve. You checked your messages?”
    She shook her head. Suddenly everything seemed surreal. Her mother had been murdered. Her mother, the world-class beauty. The woman everyone loved. The heroine of countless movies. The Oscar-winning actress with the undeniable talent.
    Her mother. The untouchable Gemma Summer. A woman she’d never been close to. A woman who’d allowed her only child to be raised by a series of disinterested nannies. A woman who’d spent most of her daughter’s childhood away on location shoots – unless there was the need for a People or Vanity Fair cover story – in which case a cute little five year old added to the appeal of the picture. Then, after the age of eight, there were no more photo sessions. Eight was too old to be considered cute any more, although sometimes her father took her to the Lakers games and they were photographed sitting courtside. But even he stopped doing that when she hit puberty.
    Ah yes, puberty. Her South African nanny had taught her the facts of life. Her mother had decided she needed a nose job at fourteen. And a young Mexican gardener who worked on their estate had taught her how to give head.
    At school she’d perfected the art of the blow-job, becoming the most popular girl in her class. Sex was her way of getting plenty of attention. She excelled at it.
    There was also shopping, for her parents didn’t stint when it came to giving her money. They handed her a bunch of credit cards and gifted her with a Porsche on her sixteenth birthday. Anything to keep her out of their way.
    So there she was, a popular girl, a rich girl, a spoiled girl, with nobody around to stop her from doing anything she wanted.
    And what she wanted was to get away from her self-absorbed movie-star parents. Fly the coop, and lose the tag – “This is Annabelle. Her mother is Gemma Summer and her father’s Ralph Maestro.”
    Moving to New York was the best thing she’d ever done. Very few people knew who her parents were, and who she really was. That’s the way she liked it.
    Gemma Summer. Mother. Dead. And she’d never even got to know her.
    “Check the messages on the phone at the SoHo apartment,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s the only number Ralph’s got.”
    Frankie did so, and sure enough