Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (50 page)

Even he’d been shocked when his grim-faced accountant had told him how much he had left. It had almost made him think twice about the wisdom of breaking up the band. But he’d wanted to go solo for a while—he’d always been the real star, after all. Like he’d told the guys, “I want to get away from the Brit pop scene, do something cooler, maybe some rock, a little soul . . .”

After the band split, he’d gotten a new manager. His first piece of advice: “Head out to L.A.” Johnny wasn’t about to argue. Relaunching himself in the States sounded ideal. Crack the U.S. market, and he’d be made.

Life in L.A. had been great at first. His manager, Brett, had made the appropriate calls, so the right people knew he was in town and looking to cut a deal. Everyone recognized his face, and there was a buzz around him. Sharp-suited record execs took him for power lunches at the Ivy and Spago; girls threw themselves at him—and these were great-looking girls, taut, tanned wannabe actresses and models, not like the English groupies with their cellulite thighs and muffin tops spilling out of their jeans. He was invited to all the right parties; when he went into clubs and bars, he was shown to the best seats.

But as the months went on, the invitations began to dry up. It was becoming obvious that no one actually wanted to sign him. They’d all been happy to meet him, but only to figure out whether their competition had seen an angle on him that they’d missed. When his manager had pushed for a commitment, though, the response had been underwhelming. There was a lot of chat about ex-band members “not always making great soloists,” and wanting “to wait for the dust to settle on the split.” But Johnny—and his bank manager—couldn’t afford to wait. He knew his shelf life. He needed to make his move now, while Kaleidoscope was still considered a hot property. Otherwise, he might as well start thinking about alternative career paths, like sweeping floors.

And then he’d finally caught a break: meeting Amber Melville.

He hadn’t realized who she was at first. He’d been so wasted in Les Deux that night that he’d assumed she was just another pretty girl giving him the eye. It was only when he’d gotten back to her place that he’d begun to realize she was worth more than a one-night stand. His manager had been ecstatic.

“Holy shit! Amber Melville! This is the PR coup we’ve been looking for!”

Under Brett’s excited direction, he’d been his especially charming self, got her number, and called her religiously while she was in En-gland. When she got back the following week he’d booked a booth at Fred 62—guaranteed to get you photographed. The next day, pictures of them making eyes over a milkshake were splashed across every celebrity magazine, with the caption: Are Amber and Johnny an item? It kind of bugged him that her name came first, but he’d been able to live with it. After all, this was the most exposure he’d had in months.

Their respective PR machines went to work, with the usual protestations that they were “just good friends.” It was like issuing a challenge to the paparazzi to prove otherwise. An anonymous tip to every reporter in town, and Johnny was photographed leaving Amber’s place early one morning, in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before at Teddy’s. Later that day, they issued a joint statement saying that they were together but would appreciate it if the press gave them their privacy. Suddenly they couldn’t move for photographers.

Things were finally starting to look up for Johnny. He was back in the media spotlight. And hanging out with Amber wasn’t exactly a chore: she was gorgeous and fun. The record companies had tentatively started getting back in touch. It was only a matter of time before he signed something big. Then he could do what—and who—the hell he liked. He just needed to keep the wolf from the door for now. And that meant finding some way to cut costs, without looking as though he was trying to.

He was still lying outside when Amber got back a few hours later. Stripping off her clothes, she dropped onto the chaise next to him, naked apart from a tiny pink thong, and started telling him about her day—Rich had pissed her off again for some reason. The sooner
that
loser was out of the picture the better, as far as Johnny was concerned. He tuned out until she finally shut up.

“And what about you?” She rolled onto her back and threw a hand across her eyes. “What have you been up to?”

He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her pert breasts and long, shapely legs. He could live with this, he decided, laying his free hand across her flat belly. “Actually, babe, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking while you were out.”

“Hmmm?” It was more of a purr than a word. He grinned, knowing what her answer was going to be even before he’d asked the question.

“Why don’t I move in with you?”

_________

When it came to her designs, Caitlin decided to take Lucien’s advice. “Relax,” he’d told her that night in Hoxton. “Stop worrying. Only then, when you are least expecting it, will inspiration strike.” She didn’t particularly like the idea of taking a break when she was so far behind, but as nothing else had worked, she might as well give that a try.

So the following weekend, instead of heading down to Aldringham as planned, she spent Saturday and Sunday seeing London through the eyes of a tourist. From the National Gallery to the Victoria and Albert Museum, and then on to the Tower of London, she took in the sights, trying to recapture the heart of the city.

Monday morning, she called up Jess. “I’m not coming in today,” she told her.

“Oh?” The design assistant sounded concerned. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

In fact, Caitlin had decided that a day away from the accusing eyes of the workroom staff might help her creative block. So she wrapped up warmly and took her sketchbook to Hyde Park. And there, sitting on a bench by the Serpentine, she managed to achieve something that she hadn’t for a long time—she got lost in her drawings. Before, back in Melville’s offices, she’d tried to think of a new skirt or a new dress. Now, she drew an impression, a feeling, a mood, not really concentrating on the garments, not worrying about whether it was right for the Collection. She drew for the simple pleasure of creating.

It was only later that night, once she was back at Eaton Square, that she began to realize how good the drawings were. There was
something . . .
different
in there, something she hadn’t seen for a long time. London played a strong part—but from years gone by. It was a London of masked balls, rakish highwaymen robbing foppish gentlemen and their heaving-bosomed wives, overcrowded streets filled with bawdy wenches, Nell Gwyn and the depravity of Charles II’s court. These weren’t detailed sketches of garments—they were full pictures, life scenes. But there was no mistaking the presence of the clothing in the background, like a grand costume drama.

Caitlin felt the first buzz of a revelation.

Back at Melville, she called the design team together. Perching on one of the pattern-cutting tables, she watched as they pulled up chairs. Disillusioned, jaded faces stared up at her.

“I know the last few months haven’t been easy,” she began.

A few people exchanged knowing looks. Rumors of layoffs had been circulating. They thought that was why she’d called them together.

Caitlin hopped down from the table and stood in front of them, hands on hips.

“Well, today is where that ends,” she said firmly. “To make Melville Apparel a success, we need to reinvent it as a lifestyle brand. And this is how we’re going to do it.”

She had their attention now. Across the room, people were sitting up straighter, spitting out gum, and reaching for pen and paper as she started to outline her ideas. Back in its heyday, she reminded them, Melville had been the brand of movie stars and jetsetters. She wanted to appeal to the glitterati once again. To do this, she would fuse the past with the present to create a sensual, decadent look; expensive and flamboyant. She summed it up in one sentence.

“When those models come down the catwalk, I want them to look like Restoration courtesan meets modern A-list celebrity.”

All around her, the design team started to talk at once.

That was the easy part. Now Caitlin had the seed of an idea, she needed to grow that into an entire collection: from clothes to shoes to handbags and other accessories. She had never felt so exhausted and exhilarated in her life. Apart from the help of her small team, she was on her own, designing everything alone. In some ways that was best. It meant she had total artistic control.

She focused in on her original drawings, favoring the ones threaded with the hint of seduction. This idea of the upper-class vamp, the antiheroine in historical novels and costume dramas . . . she would use that as her springboard and then translate it into a wardrobe for a sensual modern woman.

Caitlin looked everywhere for inspiration, watching old movies again and again, trying to capture the mood she wanted for the fashion show. Film adaptations of Daphne du Maurier’s
Frenchman’s Creek
and Kathleen Winsor’s
Forever Amber
were among her favorites. Visually sumptuous, the lavish costumes were a constant source of ideas. She fell in love with an emerald green velvet cape and transformed it into a thigh-length swing coat, complete with faux-sable lining. A cloth-of-gold gown became a cute cocktail dress, retaining the dramatic neckline—low, wide and dropped on the shoulders—while bringing the full skirt up above the knee, so it flared out like a ballerina’s tutu.

“I want to create corsets,” she declared late one Friday evening to the design team, who were growing used to her outbursts. “Proper lace-up, boned corsets—the type that give the wearer a perfect hourglass figure.”

That weekend, she ordered her assistants to watch the Margaret Lockwood version of
The Wicked Lady
—a movie about an aristocrat who relieves the tedium of her genteel life by becoming a highwaywoman. When the team came in Monday morning and found sketches of a strapless dress in black leather, with a pencil skirt and lace-up bodice top, they knew precisely where the idea had come from.

At the next board meeting, an uncomfortable silence fell across the room as Caitlin handed round her latest sketches. After last time, no one was expecting much. Caitlin didn’t say anything about her new designs. She’d decided it was best to let her work speak for itself.

She watched the directors closely to monitor their reaction. Initial indifference turned to interest, followed by murmurs of excitement as they passed the sketches around.

It was Elizabeth who spoke first. Concerned that Caitlin might not be able to pull off a show on the scale Melville needed, she had secretly been putting feelers out, trying to see if she could get anyone decent to take over as head designer. Now, thankfully, there would be no need to go down that road.

“These are good,” she said. It was exactly what she’d hoped for—a lavish, upscale collection, dramatic and glamorous—a true break with Melville’s current dreary image. There was undisguised admiration in her eyes as she went on: “I mean, these designs are amazing. Absolutely perfect.”

Caitlin felt a rush of pride mixed with relief. “Obviously you won’t get the full impact just from a drawing,” she said hastily. “Without the feel and drape of the fabric, it’s hard to bring the garments to life.”

No, no, Elizabeth and the directors rushed to assure her; they could see perfectly well what the collection would be like. They might not be fashion experts, but even their untrained eyes could see that they were in the presence of something truly extraordinary. Years of beige and brown were being replaced with blood red and ebony black; tweed and linen by velvet and lace; tailored suits and sensible knitwear were making way for low-slung trousers and lavish gowns.

The board spent another half hour discussing Caitlin’s work before the meeting finally wound up. Elizabeth, rushing off for a conference call, still found time to congratulate her sister. “You’re doing a great job.” She gave Caitlin’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever inspired you—make sure you hold onto it.”

It was exactly what Madame had said to her, all those years ago when she’d looked at Caitlin’s pieces for the final show. Then, as now, Caitlin had Lucien to thank for putting her on the right path.

Collecting her sketches, she headed downstairs to the workroom. As soon as she got through the door, she was surrounded. During her two-hour absence, the design team had already come up with a hundred new questions.

“Okay, okay.” She held her hands up. “One at a time, guys.” But she was secretly delighted with their enthusiasm. It looked like this might work out after all.

Getting board approval for her designs was only the start for Caitlin. Now, the sample garments needed to be made up, models selected and brought in for fittings, and a suitable venue chosen to show the collection. Caitlin had already decided against using Melville’s showroom, as she wanted this to be a firm break with the past. And, even though work was unrelenting, she was happy—because she finally felt as though she was on the right track for Melville.

But while her professional life was going well, her personal life seemed to be as much of a mess as ever. Since that first night at the gallery, she had seen quite a lot of Lucien. They met once or twice a week, hanging out in the clubs and pubs of Curtain Road and Old Street. But it was always in a crowd, and the conversation never involved anything personal.

Tonight, she’d finally gotten him to agree to go for dinner with her—just the two of them. They were meeting at CRU, near the gallery. It was casual, a late tapas supper in the bar. “I can’t stay long,” he’d emphasized on the phone when they’d arranged it. But time alone together seemed like a step forward at least.

Caitlin had on her usual workroom attire—jeans and a T-shirt, her battered sneakers. In her bag, she’d brought makeup and a change of clothes for the evening. But now she suddenly couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. He never seemed to notice how she looked these days anyway. She simply pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, then paused in front of the mirror for a moment, something disconcerting her. It suddenly came to her. With her hair tied back, she looked younger—almost exactly the way she had in Belleville. Well, maybe turning back the clock would help. It surely couldn’t hurt.