Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (40 page)

The formula for success is one that never changes: hard work, passion, and perseverance. But the occasional lucky break never hurts. And Lena Chapman was Caitlin’s.

After the success of her debs’ ball, Lena became Caitlin’s first client. More importantly, she passed Caitlin’s name on to her friends. Like Lena, they were all young, rich, beautiful, and often photographed.
And they all loved the idea of having their clothes designed specifically for them.

Soon Caitlin was running her own couture business.

It was perfect for her, allowing her to create the kind of dramatic, extravagant pieces that were her forte. The young socialites adored the timeless nostalgia of Caitlin’s designs: the sweeping strapless evening gowns and delicate cocktail dresses. She would take the time to talk to her clients, find out what they liked, their personal style, and what look they wanted to portray at the event they were attending. It was this attention to detail that kept them coming back.

For the first year, Caitlin sketched, cut, and stitched every item herself, working eighteen-hour days in her cloth-strewn basement. But as her client list grew, she started employing freelancers to help make the clothes. She only used the best. With a service where quality was everything, she couldn’t afford for anything to be shoddy. She personally checked every item before it went out—making sure the hand stitching was perfect.

By year two, although Caitlin was doing well, she was all too aware that couture was time-consuming and badly paid proportionate to the effort involved. She wanted to start designing her own ready-to-wear line, something she could sell to department stores. But to fund a whole collection—with fees for models, showrooms, and runway shows—she would need much more cash than she had access to.

Help came in the form of Alexis Reid, a pushy young publicist from Queens. Intrigued by the coverage that the mysterious Caitlin O’Dwyer’s work was getting, Alexis made an appointment to see her. She turned up early at Caitlin’s dingy walk-up, sat in the corner, and watched her conducting a fitting. By the time the customer left, Alexis had made up her mind.

Over a cheap noodle lunch in nearby Chinatown, she laid out the facts. “Talent is one thing, honey; success quite another. You’ve got the potential to be huge—but you need my help.” She offered her services in exchange for a share of Caitlin’s future earnings.

“You’re taking quite a risk,” Caitlin observed, as they shook on it.

The other woman’s eyes glinted. “Believe me, I’m totally screwing you over.”

Joining forces with Alexis turned out to be the right call. With her power suits and carefully set bright red hair, she was all eighties
aggression—exactly what Caitlin needed. Lena and her friends were regulars at every New York party and hip club—and they were attending them in Caitlin’s designs. It was fabulous free publicity and exposure, if used properly. Alexis knew how to do that. She kept a list of Caitlin’s clients and where they were wearing her designs, and then she called in whatever favors she could to ensure that a photo of the dress ended up in the papers the next day.

Alexis got the job done any way she could. When it came to the Oscars, she leaked a story that Caitlin had received three commissions to make outfits for the evening. In fact, at that point, no one had asked her to make anything. But by the next morning she’d had four desperate calls requesting her to keep herself available.

Mostly Caitlin let Alexis have free rein. The only time she intervened was when the publicist wanted to capitalize on her links to the Melville family.

“But, honey, it’s a fabulous story,” Alexis cooed. “Like a modern-day Cinderella. And your not-so-ugly stepsister is making quite a name for herself as a model.” She reached into her newly acquired Hermès Birkin bag and pulled out several glossies, all with Amber’s face splashed across them. “It’d be a big boost to sales.”

“Sales are good enough,” Caitlin said.

“That’s true. But they’d be even better if you’d let me leak a little bit of info . . .”

“
No
, Alexis.” Caitlin’s voice was uncharacteristically firm. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up again.”

She didn’t. After all, it wasn’t like they needed the exposure. Caitlin was the darling of the Hollywood A-listers, and the big stores that had once rejected her were clamoring for her to supply them with a ready-to-wear line. Henri Bendel’s, known for its innovative women’s wear and encouragement to young designers, was the obvious choice to start with. Caitlin poured all her savings into producing a limited collection for the store. Stock was sold out in a week.

Now, as the limo finally pulled up outside the 42nd Street entrance of the New York Public Library, Caitlin felt a prickle of nerves run through her. With the CFDA nomination for Emerging Talent in Womenswear, it seemed all her hard work had finally been recognized. She was on her way to becoming a household name. As long as she won, that is . . .

*   *   *

Alexis Reid stood to one side, watching approvingly as Caitlin emerged from the car. She’d been a little worried that her laid-back client might turn up in a long peasant skirt, floaty tunic, and ethnic jewelry. But thankfully Caitlin had abandoned her usual breezy bohemian style and pulled out all the stops for the glittering occasion. And doesn’t she look glorious for it, Alexis thought, pride mixing with a dash of envy. In fact, in a floor-length gown of midnight blue—one of her own creations, naturally—Caitlin looked downright sensual, the dress showing off her perfect hourglass figure. She was going to steal the show, Alexis just knew it.

Already on the red carpet were Heidi Klum, resplendent in Chanel, and Heather Graham in Dior, with P. Diddy bringing up the rear. But as Caitlin glided toward the entrance, the photographers and camera crews homed in on her.

“Over here, Caitlin!” they called.

Flashbulbs popped. After they’d spent an hour snapping size two models and actresses, it was a relief to see a real woman. And those curves would give J.Lo a run for her money.

Alexis looked on as Caitlin smiled obligingly for the press. She was a real class act, all old-fashioned glamour. Her gown was cleverly designed to pour over her body, the raw silk clinging to her full breasts, her wasp waist, and the gentle flare of her hips, leaving just enough to the imagination. With those smoky eyes, red-lipped pout, and hair piled high on her head, just a few dark tendrils escaping to frame her face, she was every inch the fifties movie star. She had a rare talent for creating a story with her designs. That was why she was such a success.

Thankfully, though, that success hadn’t gone to her head. Four years on, Caitlin was still the same down-to-earth person Alexis had first met. Yes, she had matured in that time, turned from an endearingly earnest but somewhat clueless twenty-two-year-old girl into a confident young woman. But she hadn’t lost her passion along the way. Designing was still at her core; she made no compromises, refused to trade on her name as others would. That’s why she’d been nominated for this award tonight.

Finally, sensing her client needed rescuing, Alexis moved forward. “That’s enough for now, boys,” she said, taking Caitlin by the arm.

“Thanks,” Caitlin whispered, as she allowed Alexis to lead her inside. “My face was beginning to ache.”

“Well, get used to it,” Alexis retorted. “You’ll be doing a lot more once you’ve won.”

Protesting that winning wasn’t assured, Caitlin followed Alexis in to take their seats in the beautiful Celeste Bartos Forum—just in time, as the awards ceremony was about to start.

In an elegant Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo, Sandra Bernhard played host for the evening. As always, it was a long night—although thankfully not running to the seven hours of the previous year. There were few surprises, with Tom Ford being named Womenswear Designer of the Year and the Lifetime Achievement Award going to Calvin Klein.

“Now the Award for Emerging Talent in Womenswear,” Sandra Bernhard said. Alexis glanced over at Caitlin, who was trying hard not to look hopeful but failing miserably. Alexis reached down and took her hand.

“And the winner is . . .” There was a pause. In the vast auditorium the only noise was the rustle of paper as she opened the envelope. “Caitlin O’Dwyer!”

It was four in the morning by the time Caitlin left the after-party at the Gramercy Park Hotel. The rest of the evening had passed in a whirl of interviews and well-wishing. When her longtime hero Michael Kors came up to offer his congratulations—“a well-deserved win, darling,” he’d said, kissing her on each cheek—she thought she might die of pleasure.

“The press coverage is going to be unbelievable,” Alexis had said excitedly. “This could take you international.”

Caitlin thought of all the people she hoped would see her achievement tonight: Lucien, William . . . Childish, she knew, but still. . . What was the point of success if you couldn’t flaunt it?

The journey home was far quicker. Caitlin leaned back in the leather seat, golden trophy in hand, and watched the city slip by . . . past the brownstones of Greenwich Village and the cast-iron façades of SoHo, and on to her TriBeCa loft. She had moved there two years earlier, when she’d started making serious money. Originally a textile warehouse, the building had been converted during the eighties, before the area had made the transition from trendy to exclusive. Caitlin had fallen in love
with the duplex the moment she’d seen it. She used the lower floor as her workroom, while upstairs was a huge living-sleeping area.

Inside, she stepped out of her heels, unzipped the gown.
It had been fun to wear for one night,
she thought, hanging it away carefully. But she was glad to take it off now. Something so grand and formal wasn’t her usual choice. She’d only worn it tonight for the publicity shots. Alexis would have killed her otherwise.

Ten minutes later, all trappings of the evening were gone. Once she was dressed in brushed cotton pajamas, her face scrubbed clean, there was no trace of the sophisticated designer left. Too keyed up to sleep, she made herself a mug of tea and took it outside onto the fire escape. The heat had gone out of the day now, and the air was pleasantly warm. Below her, there were the familiar sounds of the city waking up: a truck delivering to the deli on the corner, an NYPD squad car racing by, siren blaring.

As she sipped her tea, she reflected on the evening. It had been a triumph for her, but still she felt . . . unsettled. Coming back to her empty apartment, it had hit her—how alone she was. All the success in the world meant nothing if you had no one to share it with. Sure, she had friends who had called to congratulate her, who wished her well. Alexis, Alain . . . But she had no family to call, and there was no one special in her life right now. Sure, there had been a few men since she’d arrived in New York. Occasionally she allowed friends to fix her up. She would go out with the guy once, maybe twice. They were usually good-looking men with interesting jobs and the best of intentions. But they weren’t Lucien.

Even now, just thinking his name, she winced.

She had thought about him a lot after she first arrived in New York. She’d intended to call, to write, to explain. Once she had gotten her head sorted out. But somehow it had never felt like the right time. It was something she needed to do face to face. The first chance she’d had was six months later, when she’d gone back to Paris for Alain’s fortieth birthday.

She’d spent the weeks beforehand planning what to wear, what to say. Time and distance had helped her realize that she’d made a dreadful mistake running out on him that night.

The party took place at Café des Amis. Caitlin got there early and spent the first part of the evening catching up with old friends, while keeping one eye on the door so as not to miss Lucien’s arrival.

It was nearly midnight by the time he finally turned up. Caitlin was so pleased to see him that it took her a moment to register the Icelandic blonde on his arm. Tall and leggy, she was Caitlin’s polar opposite. It changed everything. When Caitlin finally came face to face with him, they exchanged no more than a polite nod of acknowledgement.

Caitlin was relieved when the party ended and even more relieved to return to New York the next day. She hadn’t been back to Paris since then. She wasn’t planning a trip any time soon.

So much for her love life.

With that less-than-positive thought, she went inside and to bed.

The phone jarred her awake the next morning. Thinking it was going to be Alexis wanting a postmortem of the evening, she answered. But it wasn’t her publicist. It was William.

Caitlin’s heart sank when she heard his voice. It had been months since they’d last spoken, even longer since they’d seen each other. She didn’t need him ruining her good mood.

“Congratulations on your win last night,” he said, after the preliminary greetings were out of the way.

“Thanks,” she said shortly. She just wanted to get him off the phone as quickly as possible.

“But I’m not just calling to say well done,” he continued. “I actually wanted to know how your schedule was looking the next few weeks.”

“Busy,” she said automatically.

“Not so busy that you can’t manage a trip to London, I hope.”

There was a silence.

“You see,” he went on, “there’s something I want to discuss with you. Something important.”

Caitlin frowned. “Can’t we do it over the phone?”

This time he was firm. “No, we can’t.” There was a pause. “Caitlin, please. I don’t ask much. I would like you to do this for me.”

Reluctantly, she agreed to come over the following week. As she replaced the receiver, she tried to quash the feeling of foreboding.

_________

Elizabeth padded across the tatami mat to where her husband lay sleeping, belly down, on their futon. He was naked, the only way he ever slept during the muggy Tokyo summers, milk-chocolate skin against crumpled white cotton sheets, tight muscles glistening with sweat. She wasn’t looking forward to the week apart. Being away from him was torture.

They’d been in the apartment for four years now, ever since their wedding. By mutual agreement, they’d decided against a Western-style building and had chosen somewhere typically Japanese—with sliding shoji doors, minimalist furnishings, and flexible living/sleeping areas. The location suited them both. In the small, exclusive neighborhood of Shoto, the apartment had easy access to the shopping and restaurants of Shibuya—Cole’s choice—but was also within walking distance of Yoyogi Park, Western Tokyo’s version of Central Park, where Elizabeth liked to jog on weekends.