Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (43 page)

She was still scanning the throng when she stopped, did a double take. A new but curiously familiar face had caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to place it.

“Is that Johnny Wilcox over there?” she said slowly.

The others followed her gaze across the room. It was JB who answered, “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

For the first time that night, Amber totally forgot about Wallace.

Johnny Wilcox was one of the members of Brit boy band Kaleidoscope. Their last three albums had gone platinum and they had been considered a hot property—until their surprise split last month. The press announcement had cited creative differences, but media speculation suggested the other three members had gotten fed up with Johnny. Kaleidoscope had built its name on having a squeaky clean image, the housewives’ wet dream. Johnny had repeatedly screwed that up. He was perfect tabloid fodder. Slow news day? Johnny always delivered. Every other week the papers were printing photos of him snorting
cocaine, rolling around drunk in the gutter, or punching out the paparazzi. Girls were lining up to sell their stories about him: three-in-a-bed kiss-and-tells; all-night sex romps . . . He’d been in and out of rehab for every vice you could name, always falling off the wagon again after he was released.

But, like most bad boys, he was also undeniably sexy, in that dark, mean way—the way that reminded her of Billy a lifetime ago. And now here he was, in Les Deux, surrounded by quite an entourage, even by Amber’s standards. She watched with interest as a well-known recording mogul stopped by Johnny’s table to pay his respects.

“I wonder what he’s doing in L.A.,” she said, half to herself.

“I heard he’s here recording a solo album,” piped up Devon.

Devon Carter was one of L.A.’s manufactured blondes. She also happened to be the star of HBO’s hit teen drama
Always & Forever
—or she had been until it got cut halfway through its third season. With no new roles on the horizon, she’d been spending more and more time out partying and trying to forget.

Devon leaned over and stage-whispered: “Phoenix Records is supposed to have signed him.”

Amber digested the information. Despite Devon’s fall from grace, she was still well connected and her gossip usually right on the money.

JB looked pissed off, as he saw his chances of hooking up with Amber tonight swiftly fading. “I don’t see what’s so great about him,” he said moodily.

Amber ignored JB. She was still watching Johnny. He was even hotter in person, she decided. Slumped in a chair, with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he had more sex appeal than the rest of the room put together. He smoldered. He had that something extra that either you were born with or you weren’t—you couldn’t manufacture it. She didn’t realize people often said that about her.

Johnny must have felt Amber staring at him, because he glanced over in her direction. She didn’t bother to look away. Coyness had never been her style. Their eyes locked, and something passed between them, a moment of mutual recognition. He gave her a slow smile.

That was all the invitation Amber needed. She downed the last of her champagne.

“Guys, I’m going over to introduce myself.” She deposited the flute back on the low table. “It’s the least I can do for a fellow expat.”

She slipped her feet back into her Choos and stood up, smoothed her tiny dress down over her pert ass, and sashayed over to Johnny. Right now, Wallace’s betrayal was the furthest thing from her mind. As Rich always said, the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. And she had a feeling Johnny Wilcox was going to be that someone.

An hour and a half later, they were back at her mansion. She went through the motions of fixing drinks and then came to sit beside him on the couch. They were just getting started on the real business of the evening when the phone rang. Johnny was already fiddling with the catch on her bra, so she wisely let the machine pick up. It was only when she heard her mother’s tearful voice saying that her father had been rushed to the hospital that Amber pulled away and ran to the phone.

_________

It was lunchtime in London. Seated at his desk, Piers Melville pushed his half-eaten sandwich to one side and reached for his coffee instead. He stared groggily out of the window. If he squinted, he could just about make out his counterpart in the office across the street. Head buried in a file, the stranger looked like he was having a more constructive day than Piers—although that wasn’t saying much.

The past six years hadn’t been kind to Piers. He hadn’t known a peaceful night since his mother’s death. He’d lost his appetite, too. The effects of this lack of nutrition and rest were obvious. He wasn’t the good-looking man he had once been. His slender figure now bordered on scrawny; his hair had grayed and thinned; his complexion was sallow, and his skin seemed stretched over his cheekbones.

He took another sip of his coffee. Not that the caffeine had much effect. He was in a permanent state of exhaustion; most of the time, he felt disconnected from the world, as though his head was in a fog.

The phone on his desk rang, making him jump. Irritated, he looked at the number displayed: it was his assistant’s extension. He frowned; he’d explicitly told her not to put any calls through for the next hour. Couldn’t she follow simple instructions? He took his time answering—throwing his leftover sandwich into the trash and wiping his hands on a paper napkin, before picking up the receiver. “What is it, Louise?” he said wearily.

As she began to tell him that William had been taken seriously ill, he could feel the blood draining from his face.

“Piers?” Louise prompted. He was aware that she was looking for some kind of response from him, but he was too stunned to think
straight. Sensing he was in shock, she asked, “Shall I organize a car to take you to the hospital?”

“A car?” he repeated, still dazed. Then: “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” He paused, trying to clear his thoughts. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “and do let Elizabeth know what’s happened. She’ll want to accompany me to the hospital, I’m sure.”

“She already knows,” Louise said. “In fact, she was the one who called
me
. Apparently she was with your brother when it happened.” She paused and added helpfully, “I think Caitlin was there, too.”

That brought Piers up short.
Caitlin
was in London? And William and Elizabeth had been having lunch with her. What was all that about? And, more to the point, why hadn’t he been included?

It played on his mind all the way to the hospital.

William had been taken to The Wellington, a private facility in North-London. Elizabeth insisted on riding in the ambulance with him. Caitlin followed in a black cab. On the drive through London, she had one thought in her head:

Please don’t die. Please don’t die . . .

The Wellington’s Cardiac Services Department was one of the largest of its kind in the U.K., with some of the country’s most distinguished cardiologists leading its specialist teams. That didn’t make the news any easier to take. Although CPR had gotten William’s heart beating again, he would need surgery: a coronary angioplasty would be carried out the following morning.

It was Elizabeth who asked the question everyone was thinking. “What does that involve?”

By then Piers had joined them. Isabelle was on her way up from Somerset, and Amber was catching the first available plane out of L.A.

“Angioplasty is surgery to open up a coronary artery,” Dr. Davies the surgeon explained. “What we’ll do is insert a tiny wire into a large artery in the groin . . .”

As the surgeon warmed to his subject, explaining in minute detail exactly what the procedure entailed, Caitlin began to wish Elizabeth hadn’t asked. What she did understand was the important point that the surgery was usually carried out after the patient recovered—but in William’s case, because of the severity of the heart attack, it was going to be performed as an emergency treatment.

*   *   *

Amber arrived from L.A. the following morning. She stepped off the plane into a sea of flashing bulbs. Rich had called ahead to tip the papers off about her arrival.

“Is it true you’re seeing Johnny Wilcox?” the reporters shouted at her.

She stared blankly ahead and allowed the bodyguard to usher her out into the waiting limo. Once inside, she finally let her guard down. It was hard being back in England. After her career had taken off in America, she had been too busy to come back more than a couple of times a year. And, if she was honest, she didn’t particularly like seeing the family. They always made her feel as though there was something a little, well,
unseemly
about her chosen profession.

Not her mother, of course; she was always supportive. Well, when hadn’t she been? Amber thought, a touch scornfully. But whenever Amber saw her father and Elizabeth—on the obligatory holidays of Easter and Christmas—they made no secret of the fact that they looked down on what she did for a living. Amber would assure herself it was just because they were jealous that she made her own money and had a life away from them. Being a Melville didn’t matter to her. Even if she’d been born a nobody, she would still have made it.

Or would she?
There was always that nagging doubt in her mind. The last time she’d seen her father—three months ago on his birthday—they’d argued about a somewhat risqué photo shoot she’d taken part in for
GQ.
All she remembered now was him yelling at her, “The only reason they let you waltz down the catwalk in next to nothing is because you’re making a fool of this family, of the family name!”

She’d told him he was talking nonsense, but the doubt had been planted in her mind. Was it true? Was she only in this position because she was a Melville?

As she stared out of the tinted window on the drive into London, she realized just how confused she felt about seeing her father again.

It was a tense forty-eight hours. Lying in his hospital bed, gray-faced and hooked up to bleeping monitors, the great man seemed to have aged immeasurably. The family refused to leave. They watched anxiously as he was wheeled, still unconscious, into intensive care, where he would be monitored overnight as he recovered from his operation.

Through the window of the ICU, Caitlin watched her stepmother
keeping vigil over William. Even though she had been crying almost nonstop, Isabelle still looked immaculate: makeup carefully applied, clothes unwrinkled. Style and appearance were the two areas where she had every other woman whipped.

Caitlin smiled a little as she watched Isabelle stroke William’s hair away from his face. It was rare to see them show each other affection. But then the smile faded as she remembered their argument.
You’re not my father.
The words had been said in anger, in the heat of the moment. Caitlin closed her eyes and wished she could shut the memory out so easily.

Only one person was allowed into the ICU at a time. With Isabelle inside, the rest of the family had taken up residence on a little row of plastic seats near the room.

Piers, who had come back from the vending machine with coffee for everyone, handed them out before sitting down beside Elizabeth.

“So you were at Mirabelle when this happened?” he asked casually.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. She was still dazed from what had happened. “Yes, we were.”

“You and William . . . and Caitlin, too?”

“That’s right.”

“I see,” Piers said slowly. “So, what were the three of you doing there?” The question had been nagging away at him all evening.

“Oh, nothing important,” Elizabeth said distractedly. “Daddy wanted to see if Caitlin would come over to design for us.”

Piers was speechless. Appointing a new head designer was a major strategic decision—he couldn’t believe William hadn’t seen fit to discuss it with him, or to invite him along to the meeting today. He wanted to ask more, but looking over at Elizabeth’s worried face, he decided this wasn’t the time.

Sensing that her uncle was lost in thought, Elizabeth glanced over at him. God, he looked dreadful. Not that he ever seemed particularly well these days. He’d never really recovered from Granny Rosalind’s death. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” she said gently. “I can call you if—” She paused to collect herself. “If something happens.”

Piers shook his head. “I’d rather stay.” What would be the point of going home? He hadn’t slept properly for six years. He was hardly likely to start now.

*   *   *

Amber came out of the ladies’ room, makeup freshly applied. Seeing her, Elizabeth felt her hackles rise. She was upset about her father and wanted to take her frustration out on someone. Right now, her little sister seemed as good a target as any. “You know, Amber, it’s not a fashion show,” she said disapprovingly.

Amber pretended to look her over. “I can see that,” she retorted.

Elizabeth bristled. Suddenly she wanted to pick a fight. “To be honest, I don’t even know why you’re here. It’s not like there are any photographers around.”

This time, the jibe hit home. “For God’s sake, Elizabeth,” Amber said, clearly wounded. “He’s my father, too!”

“You could’ve fooled me. When was the last time you bothered seeing him? Or called him, for that matter?”

Caitlin, who’d been silent throughout the exchange, now put a restraining hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Don’t.”

Elizabeth glared at her. “What’s it got to do with you? If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t even be here.” She shook Caitlin off and stalked over to intensive care.

“What was that about?” Amber asked curiously.

Caitlin merely sighed in answer. Deep down she knew Elizabeth was right. She
was
the one who had done this to him.

Caitlin hadn’t been to church for a long time. But, like most people, in the face of death it was easy to find her faith again. On her knees in the hospital chapel, she said a Hail Mary followed by an Act of Contrition and made a vow to put things right with William if he could just be allowed to pull through.

When she got back to the ward a little while later, the others were standing around outside, preparing to go home for a few hours to rest.