Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (57 page)

The waitress came over. Piers ordered a green tea, while Elizabeth went for a brandy. She needed something to help her relax. Cole still hadn’t called her back, and she knew he was going to be furious.

Luckily, her uncle seemed to sense her anxiety and kept up a steady stream of small talk until she started to feel better. Eventually the conversation turned to Armand Bouchard. There were rumors that he was considering making another bid for Melville. Elizabeth had been thinking through their options. Yes, he could bid for the publicly-owned 40 percent of the company. If he succeeded in getting it, then he could make things difficult for them, pushing for a seat on the board, trying to influence policy.

“It’s all going to come down to convincing shareholders that there’s still a lot more value in Melville and that we’re the management team to realize that,” Elizabeth told Piers.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s going to be difficult, isn’t it, with the uncertainty surrounding your father’s succession.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped up. “Uncertainty?” She seized on the word. “Why would there be any uncertainty?”

Piers quickly shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” Seeing her frown, he added, “Honestly, it’s nothing . . . forget I mentioned it.”

But Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. “Piers, if you knew something you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Of course, my dear. But it’s nothing, I promise you. A silly slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Elizabeth stared at him for a moment. He looked horribly flustered; his cheeks were flushed and beads of sweat lined his brow. Seeing his obvious distress at having upset her, she forced a smile. “I know you didn’t,” she said. “Anyway,” she went on briskly. “That’s enough business talk. Why don’t you fill me in on the plans for refurbishing your house?” She saw him relax and knew she’d been right. Her father
had
said something about appointing a new chief executive, and it wasn’t going to be a rubber-stamp decision to elect her. But who else could it be?

Caitlin.

The name popped into her head. She remembered then that article a few weeks ago, the one that had credited Caitlin with single-handedly turning around the company. But their father knew that wasn’t the case, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

Elizabeth was quiet for the rest of the evening. She had suddenly realized that Armand Bouchard was the least of her problems. So she was pleased when she finally spoke to Cole the following day and found he wasn’t as furious with her as she’d expected. He didn’t even mind when she told him that she wanted to change her flight plans and go via L.A. before coming back home.

“Daddy hasn’t heard from Amber for a while,” she told him, “so he wanted me to check up on her. I’ll only stay there one night, and then I’ll be back in London.” She hesitated a second before adding, “That is, as long as you don’t mind.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t mind at all.”

His acquiescence was a surprise—and something of a relief, too. The last thing she needed right now was pressure on her marriage. Whatever had caused this new mellowness, she wasn’t complaining about it.

_________

Amber closed her eyes. For a brief moment she was in her Ferrari F430 again, racing through Beverly Hills. Then a horn sounded, dragging her back to reality: a worn-out Nissan, stuck in a jam on I-405 heading toward Lake Balboa.

It didn’t help that it was another steaming afternoon, and the air conditioner was broken. She cranked down the window, letting in hot, dirty fumes. No wonder the Valley was cheap. The weather, usually a bonus in L.A., took on a certain perversity down here, the summers warmer but smoggier, too.

Finally the traffic started to edge forward. She took the next exit, following the road signs—helpfully in Spanish—until she turned onto the modest suburban street where she’d moved six weeks earlier. She pulled into the driveway and sat there for a long time after switching off the ignition, just staring ahead. However many times she saw her new home, she still couldn’t get used to it.

About six months ago it had become obvious that she had no money left. Her accountant, a fatherly gentleman by the name of Taylor Hammond, had sat her down and explained the hard facts.

“You can’t afford this place,” he’d said, nodding at the lavish surroundings of her Summit Circle mansion.

“What about remortgaging?” Johnny, who’d somehow ended up sitting in on the meeting, had asked. “Raise cash that way?”

Taylor had shot him a disdainful look before turning back to Amber. “The bank has extended the loan twice already, on the basis that your
luck would pick up again. But now that it doesn’t seem to be . . .” He’d trailed off then, unable to meet her eye.

Amber got the picture. She hadn’t really worked since the Glamour scandal. Neither had Johnny. Two years with them both living off her savings: no wonder she was broke.

Moving was inevitable. Wanting to get as much space for her money as possible, she’d found herself a realtor covering the San Fernando Valley. It had been a rude awakening. After six years living in L.A., Amber had seen very little of it. She’d quickly learned to avoid the no-go neighborhoods—Van Nuys, Reseda. Compared to them, Lake Balboa wasn’t so bad. The house itself was nothing special—two beds, two baths, no frills; a small pool in the backyard, just big enough to cool off in. It was the best thing she’d seen in five days’ house-hunting. Johnny hadn’t been interested in coming with her.

“It’s your money, babe,” he’d told her.

As with all the big decisions in her life lately, she’d been on her own.

Moving had been a wake-up call. Amber realized then how arrogant she’d been. She’d had the world at her feet, and she’d blown it. After those photos of her in
Celebrity
magazine, big brands had refused to touch her, and the press had turned against her. Word began to filter out about her turning up late to shoots, and suddenly she had a rep for being a prima donna.

Johnny couldn’t understand why it bothered her so much. “Fuck ’em all,” he’d said.

Like a fool, she’d listened. Maybe she could have salvaged something of her career after the scandal at Dynamite, but she’d made no effort to do so. It was easier to go along with Johnny’s “fuck ’em” attitude. At first it hadn’t felt like much had changed. They’d gotten dressed up, gone out partying to the same places, hung with the same people. But after a while the invitations had slacked off. It wasn’t quite so easy to book a table at the Ivy or Spago; they were no longer on the VIP list for new club openings. Jim-Bob and Devon, and her other so-called friends, had stopped returning her calls. But still Amber hadn’t let it bother her. Everything would work itself out eventually, she was sure.

But it hadn’t.

Leaving Summit Circle had been the incentive she’d needed to pull
herself together. The night that they’d moved, for the first time in a long while, she hadn’t touched any alcohol or drugs. She’d even attempted to cook dinner for herself and Johnny.

“I need to get my shit together,” she’d told him as they dug into overcooked pasta. “I’ve got to get work, get some money.”

“Whatever.” Johnny had pushed his half-finished plate aside and reached for a cigarette. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I thought your family was loaded. Why don’t you just tap your dad for some cash?”

“Because I want to stand on my own two feet.”
And he won’t give me any
, she’d added silently.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Her family was well aware of how low she’d sunk over the past two years—what she hadn’t told them, they’d been able to read about for themselves in the press. But all the talk of drugs had made them wary about offering a financial lifeline. Her father had taken a “tough love” approach. “Come home, get the help you need, and I’ll happily support you. But while you insist on staying out in that
place
”—he made no secret of his contempt for L.A.—“you’re on your own.” He’d pretty much stuck to his word. There were the occasional handouts, and presents at Christmas and birthdays—mostly she asked for jewelry that she could sell—and she could still wangle money out of her mother or Caitlin if she tried hard enough. But she didn’t want to take the easy way out this time.

Amber had never been one for soul-searching, but over the past few weeks she’d begun to think about what exactly she’d achieved in her life. And the answer was a big, fat zero. It was a sobering thought: twenty-five and nothing to show for it. Oh sure, she’d been a model, a global name. But that had been through luck more than anything. This time she wanted to figure stuff out on her own.

Easier said than done.

Last month, she’d managed to get herself signed with some third-rate agent, who’d sent her on her first audition today—an advertising campaign for
Break
, the sportswear brand. It hadn’t gone well. She’d had to line up with one hundred fifty other girls and wait over three hours, only to be told that she didn’t have the “fresh” look they were after. Maybe next time it’ll be better, she thought, as she got out of the car.

She let herself into the house and saw immediately that Johnny hadn’t accomplished the one task she’d asked of him today—to tidy up. She sighed heavily as she bent to pick up a bucket of KFC that lay
on the floor in the still-bare hallway. The furniture from her old place had been too large and opulent to bring here, and she hadn’t had the time or cash to shop for anything new yet.

Out in the backyard, she found Johnny with eight of his cohorts, most of them strangers to her. They looked like they’d made an afternoon of it—pizza boxes lay around, and someone had stacked the empty beer cans into a pyramid. Amber’s eyes narrowed as she spotted Johnny rubbing sunscreen onto a blonde girl’s back. Sheri, a Texan beauty queen, had arrived on the bus six months earlier. She attended acting classes during the day and worked the bar at a club on Sunset most evenings. That’s where Johnny had met her. A big fan of Kaleidoscope back when she’d been a kid, Sheri had been suitably impressed to meet
the
Johnny Wilcox. Johnny, who never tired of having his ego massaged, was happy to have her join his dwindling entourage.

Neither of them had spotted Amber, so she hung back and watched as Johnny massaged the cream into Sheri’s skin, his hands lingering a fraction longer than they needed to.

Amber cleared her throat to let them know she was there. Johnny looked up.

“All right, darling? How did it go?”

He didn’t look remotely ashamed to be caught with Sheri. It irritated Amber. He knew she didn’t like the other girl—who was nineteen and full of herself—but he went ahead and invited her over anyway.

“Fine,” she said, coolly. She wasn’t about to let on in front of Sheri how humiliating the whole experience had been.

Sheri sat up. She was wearing the briefest of string bikini bottoms, in metallic silver. She’d dispensed with the top, so that she didn’t get strapmarks, but she made no effort to cover up her silicone breasts.

“Was that the
Break
audition?” she asked, sticking out one long, tanned leg to admire the color. She didn’t wait for Amber to answer. “I heard there were a ton of people there.”

Amber frowned. She suddenly realized where she recognized the bikini—it was one of her own. Sheri had obviously gone into her room and helped herself. She wanted to say something but knew she’d sound petty.

“I’ve got a headache,” she said instead, “so I’m going inside for a nap. Maybe you could keep it down,” she added meaningfully.

But Johnny either didn’t catch the tone or chose to ignore it.

“Okay, babe. See you later.”

As she walked across the patio toward the house, she heard him laughing with Sheri. It was the perfect end to her horrible day.

She waited until the others left before coming out of her room. She’d been fuming in there all afternoon, and she had to say something to Johnny about it. She found him in front of the TV, lying on the sofa watching some music channel. He’d managed to get himself another beer, she noted, but hadn’t thought to come in to see how she was doing.

“Does Sheri have to hang out here all the time?” she asked, going to sit down by his feet. “You know I don’t like her.”

He threw a peanut in the air and dropped his head back, catching it in his mouth.

“Why’s that?” He crunched down on the nut. “’Cause she’s better looking than you?”

She recoiled at his words. He saw her reaction and rolled his eyes.

“It was a joke, Amber. You can still take a fucking joke, can’t you?”

“It didn’t sound much like a joke,” she said in a small voice.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, cut it out, will you? As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

She wanted to make him understand how much his comment had hurt. But she’d gotten to know that tone of voice all too well and didn’t want to push her luck. So she let it go, like he’d known she would.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was apologizing for. “It’s just the audition didn’t go too well today.”

He gave her a cold look. “Yeah? Well, at least you had an audition, Amber. You know, I’ve had jack shit for months. There’s no need to fucking rub it in.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

He threw the remote down and swung his legs off the couch, narrowly missing her head. “Fuck it. I’m out of here.”

Amber scrambled to her feet and followed him outside. “Please, Johnny. Don’t go. I didn’t mean it.”

But he wouldn’t listen. He got into his car, slamming the door hard. She watched helplessly as he roared out of the driveway.

Amber waited up for him. She waited all night, until dawn finally broke. She was terrified that he wasn’t coming back, all because she’d
been bummed out about that stupid audition. Because however much her head told her that being with Johnny was bad for her, her heart was telling her that being without him would be worse.

Somewhere between the tears and the worry, she must have eventually dozed off. She woke up to find him climbing into bed next to her. She waited for Johnny to reach for her. When he didn’t, she turned over onto her side to face him. He was on his back outside the covers, hands tucked behind his head, stark naked like always. She could tell from his breathing that he was still awake.