Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (49 page)

She pushed the beer toward him. “Here.” She tried to smile. “I’m not sure if I got the right kind.”

He gave a curt nod, didn’t return the smile. Sensing the conversation was being left up to her, Caitlin searched for something to say. She gulped down some wine and hoped its anesthetizing qualities would start working soon.

“Alain filled me in on what you’ve been up to,” she said settling on the most neutral topic she could think of—his work. “It sounds like you’ve done very well for yourself.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You haven’t done so badly, either.”

So he’d followed her career, too.

“I didn’t realize you were in London until I saw that article in the
Observer
,” she said, feeling bolder. “You probably didn’t know I was here . . .”

His blue eyes met hers. “I knew.”

That put her in her place. The awkward silence returned. She downed some more wine, thought about ordering another glass, and then decided getting drunk might not be the best way to deal with the evening.

She searched around for another topic. “I’m working here now,” she volunteered. “At Melville.”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “Your
family’s
business.”

Yet another sore point
, she thought, trying hard not to feel flustered. “Oh, right,” she said neutrally. “I never told you about that, did I? It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He paused. “To you.” He took a sip of his beer. “And how is it—working at Melville?”

“Not as easy as I thought,” she said with feeling.

“And why is that?”

For the first time since they’d met that evening, he seemed interested in something. Well, if he really wanted to know . . .

She started to talk. And as she talked, she could see him beginning to relax a little. She found herself telling him about moving to London, finding Melville’s design department in such a mess, getting the go-ahead to make changes, and now the problems she was having seeing them through. He had the implicit understanding of a fellow artist.

“It will come to you in the end,
chérie
,” he told her. “My advice: relax. Stop worrying. Only then, when you least expect it, will inspiration strike.”

Somehow his understated assurances made her feel better than she could have imagined. After that, conversation was easy. He caught her up on his career, telling her about the galleries he was showing in. She knew most of the details already but was happy to hear it all again. They moved on to mutual friends. Both were still in touch with Alain and a few others from their Belleville days. They reminisced without mentioning what had transpired between them all those years ago.

Despite the quality of the wine, one drink turned into two and then three. By midnight, Caitlin was feeling lightheaded and brave.

“Another drink?” she asked, indicating the nearly empty bottle in front of him.

She saw a guarded look come over his face. “I don’t think so, Caitlin.” He waited a beat, then said, “In fact, I should go.”

She chose to ignore the warning tone in his voice. “Oh, come on,” she chided him lightly. “You can’t leave yet. It’s still early.”

“I’m meeting someone,” he said abruptly.

For a moment, Caitlin felt confused. Meeting someone? But it was so late. Then it dawned on her. A girl, of course.

“Right.” She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, guessed that he could see it, too. “Sorry. I understand. Of course, you should go.”

He stood up. “Come on. I’ll make sure you get a cab.”

She’d been hoping for a quick escape, but it soon became apparent that wasn’t going to happen. It was Friday night, as the pubs were closing. There wasn’t a black cab in sight. They stood for an increasingly painful ten minutes of silence until a taxi finally, mercifully, pulled up. Lucien held the door open for her. She went to get in and then stopped, not wanting to leave it this way between them.

“Can I see you again?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth she regretted it. Especially when he didn’t answer at first, just stared at her, with those piercing blue eyes. She should never have said anything, he clearly wasn’t interested. But now that she had started . . .

“It’s just that I don’t really know anyone here, in London,” she added hastily. “So if you had a spare evening to go out, grab a drink or some dinner, you’d be doing me a favor—”

“Okay,” he cut into her babbling. “I will call you sometime.”

He slammed the cab door closed before she could say anything else. There was a finality to the sound. As the cab drove away, she couldn’t help thinking it would probably be the last time she saw him.

It was a week before he called. By then, she’d given up hope that he was ever going to get in touch.

He got straight to the point. “A friend of mine’s performing at Shunt tonight. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, of course.” It was an offbeat performance art venue, deep in the tunnels under London Bridge station. “But I’ve never been,” she said quickly.

“Well, now’s your chance. I have a spare ticket for tonight. Would you like to come?”

“I’d love to,” she said warmly.

“Good.” He was brusque. “I’ll see you outside at ten, then.”

With no further pleasantries, he rang off. For a long time afterward, Caitlin sat at her desk, trying to analyze what the call meant. By the time evening arrived, she was still no closer to knowing. But it was a start, at least.

_________

Amber brought her sin-red Ferrari screeching to a halt in the Santa Monica beach parking lot. The car took up three spaces, but she didn’t care. Driving had never been her forte. She pulled the rearview mirror round to check her appearance—frowning at the dark circles under her eyes and her dry frizz of hair. The bleach she had to use to maintain the white blonde these days was doing a world of damage. Making a mental note to book an appointment with Sheri Eskridge at Art Luna to get that fixed, she grabbed her Gucci bag and headed over to where the camera crew, stylists, and makeup team were waiting.

She was halfway there when Rich intercepted her. He wasn’t in a good mood.

“You’re over two hours late,” he said tersely. “You better get ready to do some serious groveling. Derek isn’t fucking happy—and that’s a direct quote.”

She was supposed to be filming a TV commercial for Glamour cosmetics today. Derek Moss was directing, and he was a stickler for punctuality. The idea was to show her spending a day at the beach, with the highly unoriginal slogan of “Makeup that lasts as long as you do.” Derek had run through the images he wanted to use earlier in the week: Amber on the Pier, all popcorn and cotton candy, playing in the penny arcade; then jogging along the South Bay bicycle trail; cooling off in the bluer-than-blue Pacific waters; shopping in the Third Street Promenade. Then they were supposed to come back tonight at sunset and film her going for a romantic walk along the long, wide beach, sinking her toes into the soft sand.

It was Sunday morning, and he’d wanted to start early, before the place started to fill up. The call had been for seven. It was nine now and already starting to get busy. Amber, like everyone else on the shoot, had known it was going to be hard enough filming everything without the usual onlookers gawking at them and getting inadvertently caught in the shots . . . tourists, joggers, bikers, and bladers, as well as the L.A. uptown girls who came to maintain their tans. But Amber was damned if she was going to apologize.

She spat her chewing gum onto the sand, and Rich frowned. Santa Monica beach prided itself on its cleanliness, and there were trash receptacles everywhere. But as usual she took no notice.

“Didn’t you tell him I was sick?” She pushed her oversize Chanel sunglasses onto her head.

“Yes, I did.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Unfortunately, one of the crew saw you out last night with Johnny. So now I look like a liar and you look very not fucking bothered about your contract with Glamour.”

Amber rolled her eyes. Rich had been on her back a lot lately, mainly about Johnny. Her manager wasn’t exactly thrilled with her new beau. In fact, he’d made his feelings on the subject abundantly clear.
Johnny isn’t good enough for you. He’s dragging you down. You can’t keep partying like this forever. I’m worried about you.

Bull. Shit.

She knew what was really pissing Rich off. He didn’t like that she had someone else special in her life. She’d been with Johnny for three months now—in L.A. that was pretty much a lifetime. That week she’d been in England, after her dad’s heart attack, he’d called her every day. Once she’d gotten back, they’d really hooked up, and she’d never regretted it. Johnny was so cool, so sure of himself. And he wasn’t tied up in the same old tired scene. He liked to keep it real. The people he invited over to her place weren’t the same old faces—they were
ordinary
people, who he’d started talking to in bars, restaurants, and clubs. They just wanted to hang out and party. Sometimes Johnny would get his guitar out, and they’d start jamming, smoking some of the finest dope Amber had ever had.

He was all about living for the moment, not worrying too much about the next day. So, yeah, maybe they were partying hard at the moment. But what was the big deal? She was still young. Most twenty-two-year-olds cut loose at some point.

But Rich didn’t see it that way. They’d had a huge argument on that very subject last week. He’d been building up to it for a while, and he’d finally exploded when she’d crawled in for a photo shoot at
Vogue
after only two hours’ sleep.

“It’s un-fucking-acceptable for you to turn up with bloodshot eyes and a hangover, he’d yelled.

“Why don’t you stay the fuck out of my business?” she’d screamed back.

The argument had raged on in front of the gruesomely fascinated photographers and magazine staff. It had ended in tears—from both of them. Amber had apologized and given him a huge hug, and they’d sworn that it would never happen again. But now, less than five days later, Amber had a feeling Rich was about to start in on another lecture.

She stifled a yawn. God, she was tired. She’d come straight here from the club. She’d been chewing the gum to hide the smell of alcohol. She put her hand to her hair, matted and tangled after hours on the sweaty dance floor. She knew she didn’t exactly look her best this morning, but it was nothing half an hour in the makeup artist’s chair wouldn’t cure. And Johnny had slipped her some speed before she came out here. It was in her purse, so she could take it later when she started to fade. She had everything under control. There was nothing to worry about. Rich was just overreacting, as usual. And she wasn’t in a mood to pacify him.

“Hey, take a Valium, Rich.” Her eyes glittered wickedly. “Or, should I say, take another one. Who’s the star around here? Glamour’s lucky to have me. I had lots of other offers, and I chose this one because they made it worth my while. What was it they said, to justify how much they were paying?” She pretended to think. Finally, her expression cleared. “Oh, yes. That’s right. ‘There’s only one Amber Melville.’ And as far as I can see, there still is. So, I’m a little late?” She gave a careless shrug of her petite shoulders. “What does it really matter?”

She didn’t give Rich a chance to answer. Instead, she tossed her car keys at him, like he was a valet.

“Anyway, can you make yourself useful and get someone to watch the car? I don’t want to come back and find scratches all over it.”

With that, she turned and flounced off. If she’d bothered to glance back, she’d have seen the thunderous look on her agent’s face. It was
going to take all his willpower not to scrape her keys along the hood himself.

Johnny stretched out on the chaise longue next to Amber’s heated pool. Not that the pool needed heating at this or any other time of year. It was lunchtime on another scorching California day. The faint breeze wasn’t even strong enough to rustle the leaves on the palm trees.

Johnny loved it here in Beverly Hills, with its candy-colored mansions and manicured lawns. It was all about the image of perfection, which suited him just fine. He hardly ever bothered going back to his comparatively modest Brentwood condo now. What was the point, when this place was so great? There was a tranquil, rarefied atmosphere up here in Summit Circle, with its fresh, pine-scented air and panoramic views of the cityscape below. Even now, despite not having slept for the best part of forty-eight hours, he felt relaxed, chilled.

The maid came over with his Bloody Mary. “Here you go, señor.”

He watched as she set the glass down on the table next to him, complete with a celery stick and Tabasco sauce. It was five-star treatment all the way chez Amber Melville. A cook, butler, and fulltime maid—although he would have happily done without the first two and just stuck with the maid, he decided, as she straightened up. With her dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, she clearly hailed from south of the border, down Mexico way. Her Latin-American beauty was an antidote to all the pneumatic blondes that were a dime a dozen here.

“Thanks . . .” He paused, waiting for a name.

“Rosita,” she filled in for him.

“Thanks, Rosita,” he said.

She gave him an inviting smile, the kind he could read a mile off, turned, and sashayed away. He watched her full, round buttocks undulating beneath the thin material of the maid’s outfit and felt a hard-on stirring in his pants—which was exactly where it needed to stay. He couldn’t afford to piss Amber off. Right now, she was his meal ticket.

Yeah, everyone always assumed he was loaded. He’d made some best-selling albums, so he must be, right? Wrong. By the time everyone else had taken their cut—the record company, the studio, the promoters, his manager, the other band members—there hadn’t been all that
much left for him. What there was, he’d managed to get through all too easily. Maintaining his lifestyle, keeping up appearances . . . It wasn’t like he could check into Motel Six. He was currently forking out eight thousand dollars a month in rent. That was rapidly depleting his already precarious bank balance. Then there were the nights out. Everyone expected him to pick up the tab. And why wouldn’t they? He was the big pop star, after all. It wasn’t like he could start asking everyone to chip in for gas.