Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (58 page)

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said quietly.

He yawned. She smelled whiskey.

“No worries.”

At least he wasn’t angry with her anymore. Eager to make it up to him, she reached down between his legs. She rubbed a little but got no response. He pushed her hand away.

“Not now, darling.” He turned away from her.

She settled for spooning against his back instead. And, if she could smell Sheri’s perfume on him, she chose not to think about it. She was just happy he’d come home to her.

Elizabeth called a few days later to say that she was going to be in town for a night—would Amber like to see her?

Amber jumped at the invitation. “Oh, yes,” she said, surprised at how pleased she was to hear from her eldest sister. “I’d love to.”

Elizabeth wanted to come out to see her new place. But Amber, suddenly aware of just how ashamed she was of the grubby little house, suggested meeting for brunch at the Hotel Bel-Air, where Elizabeth was staying, instead.

When Amber walked into the dining room, Elizabeth tried hard not to show how appalled she was by her little sister’s appearance. It wasn’t just that her hair was lank and her skin had the greasy look of someone living off junk food; what upset Elizabeth most was that Amber had lost her sparkle. She had that defeated look of someone who had been disappointed one too many times. It took all of Elizabeth’s willpower to greet her as though everything was normal.

They went through the motions of catching up. Amber asked how Cole was—“Fine,” Elizabeth answered tersely; then she asked after Johnny, whom she’d met once and hated on sight. “He’s fine, too,”
Amber said, her eyes firmly fixed on the menu. After that they moved on to safer topics, gossiping about mutual acquaintances and the rest of the family.

It was only when they had finished eating and the plates had been cleared away that Elizabeth grew serious. “You know, it was Daddy who suggested I come over here,” she said.

Amber looked guarded. “Oh?”

“Yes.” On the plane over, Elizabeth had planned a whole lead-in to this. But now she simply said, “He’s worried about you, Amber. We all are. Please, come home.”

The younger girl felt a sudden rush of tears. She’d been expecting the usual lecture from Elizabeth about her lifestyle, her total lack of direction, what a disappointment she was.
That
she’d been prepared for. But this . . . well, she hadn’t anticipated this stark, unconditional plea from her sister.

Heartened by the fact that Amber hadn’t rejected her right off, Elizabeth talked on. “All you have to say is yes, and I can book you on a flight straightaway,” she continued earnestly. “We can leave tonight. Mummy and Daddy would love to see you.”

Amber didn’t know what to say. It was
so
tempting—to go back to Aldringham, to stay in her old room, to let someone else take care of her for a change. But then, wouldn’t it be like admitting defeat? She wanted to show them she could pull herself together, that she didn’t need their help.

Somehow she swallowed down her tears and managed a smile. “Look, it’s good of you to worry, but I’m fine. Maybe things were a bit difficult for a while, but everything’s starting to pick up now. Did I tell you about this movie role I’m being considered for?”

Elizabeth sighed. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I’m not sure whether it’s
totally
in the bag,” Amber said brightly, “but everything’s looking good . . .”

Elizabeth listened as Amber chattered. She was aware that her sister was lying, but it seemed kinder to go along with the story. She’d said what she’d come here to say. It was up to Amber to take her up on the offer.

In the weeks after Elizabeth’s visit, Amber tried to stick to her good resolutions. She started taking care of herself, kept off the drink and
drugs, got to bed early instead of going out partying with Johnny. But it was a constant battle. Every day brought new levels of personal humiliation followed by setback after setback. She’d gone from hot to not, hero to zero, and it seemed everyone wanted to remind her of that.

“What am I doing wrong?” she begged her agent.

Zena DeLaney was a gum-chewing, chain-smoking, middle-aged woman, who was past her prime in every way. Her offices currently comprised one room above a Laundromat; she didn’t plan to move out anytime soon.

Zena shrugged carelessly. “Who knows?” she said, in her nasal voice, mentally putting a black mark through the English girl’s name. Zena had thought she was onto a good thing when the striking heiress had walked into her office. But she realized now that Amber was a dead end. “Making a comeback’s never gonna be easy at your age.”

Amber walked out feeling completely demoralized. Too old at twenty-five. She wasn’t going to have the longevity of Cindy Crawford or Naomi Campbell. But what else could she do? She had no training, no way to make any money. She suddenly felt exhausted. Rising to the occasion looked easier in the movies.

It didn’t help that Johnny wasn’t exactly being supportive.

“Face it, love,” he said that night, taking a long drag on his spliff. “You’re past it. Happens to the best of us. I’ve had to get used to it. So should you.”

She was tempted to remind him of what had happened eighteen months earlier when one of the other band members, Dave Ridwell, had released his first single—and it had gone straight to number one. Johnny had gone on a bender that lasted two days. Since then he hadn’t spoken about trying to get a record deal.

But was he right? Did she just need to resign herself to the inevitable?

As if sensing her resolve weakening, Johnny held out the joint to her. “Here. This’ll make you feel better.”

She stared down at it. She could think of nothing better than to lose herself in the sweet aroma; to forget cold, hard reality for just a little bit, to let the edges blur, to feel the peace and calm descending on her.

Finally, with a show of willpower she hadn’t thought she possessed, she shook her head.

He shrugged. “Okay. Your choice.”

Amber felt proud of herself. She wasn’t ready to give up quite yet.

For the first time in their relationship, Johnny was the breadwinner. He never seemed short of cash now. Amber had a good idea where it came from, although she pretended she didn’t. People turned up at the house all hours of the day and night, strangers with carryalls and backpacks stuffed full of God knows what. They would follow Johnny into the back room, never staying for long.

Business was always conducted behind closed doors. Amber never asked what went on, and Johnny never volunteered any details. She always stayed out of the way when Johnny’s “business associates,” as he called them, were around. She didn’t like the way they looked at her, especially Weasel.

Weasel was a whigger—a tall, skinny white boy who thought he was black. He wore his jeans baggy and low, had an array of wife-beaters and a tattoo of a weasel smoking a joint on his scrawny right bicep. He didn’t smile often, but when he did he displayed a set of yellow-brown teeth, apart from the left front incisor, which was solid gold. What annoyed Amber most was how he liked to talk ghetto.

“’S’up, my niggaz?” He’d high-five Johnny while looking at her, his eyes crawling all over her body. Amber always reached for something to cover up when he was there. She hated having him around. The house wasn’t exactly big, but Weasel always seemed to disappear into dark corners, pouncing whenever she walked by.

“Does he have to come over here?” she asked Johnny once.

“If you want to keep eating.”

There wasn’t much she could say to that.

One night, she got home from another disastrous audition, for a walk-on part in a TV commercial. She’d waited in line for two hours. She’d kept her head up and tried to ignore the bitchy comments from the other girls. But when it got to be six and the runner had come out to say that they were finished for the day, and everyone left would just have to come back tomorrow, she’d felt her resolve slipping.

She’d rushed home, hoping that Johnny wouldn’t have any friends around and they could spend the evening alone together, like a proper boyfriend and girlfriend. She knew as soon as she got back that he wasn’t there. It was dark, and there weren’t any lights on. She let herself
in, trying not to feel disappointed. A note on the kitchen counter said he’d gone out with Weasel and would be back soon. She crumpled it up. With Johnny, she never knew what “back soon” meant.

The hours crawled by. She didn’t want to eat—someone had told her last week that she was carrying a bit of weight on her hips—so she turned on the TV, but she couldn’t concentrate. She kept looking at her watch, feeling anxious and tense, wondering where Johnny was.

By midnight, he still wasn’t home, so she went to bed. He’d be back by the next morning, she was sure of it.

Two days later, he finally walked through the door, as casually as if he’d popped out to get milk. By then, Amber was beside herself.

“Where were you?” she cried hysterically, rushing into his arms. She’d called every hospital and police station looking for him. “I thought something had happened to you!”

“Hey, hey.” He pushed her away. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Quit your whining, woman.”

“But where were you?” she sniffed.

“With Weasel. We went down to Nuevo Laredo.”

“Oh.” She wanted to ask what he’d been doing at the Mexican border town, why he hadn’t called. But she knew he wouldn’t like that, so she kept quiet.

“I was worried,” she said instead, feeling a fresh batch of tears start to run down her face.

Johnny shook his head. “Jeez-us. You need to chill.”

He was right, she realized. She felt exhausted. She hadn’t slept for nearly forty-eight hours, but it was more than that. She was tired of trying so hard; she was tired of constant rejection; she was tired of feeling so aware of her misery. And she knew there was one thing that could make her forget all that.

“Yes,” she agreed. “You’re right—I do need to chill. What exactly did you have in mind?”

_________

It was early morning in Paris. Sitting in his top-floor office at Grenier, Massé et Sanci’s headquarters, Armand Bouchard’s thoughts were across the Channel, with his English counterpart, William Melville.

Along with every other major fashion house, GMS was based on rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. Renowned for being one of the most fashionable streets in the world, it was a prestigious location. Even though being based there was expensive, Bouchard was happy to put up with the extra cost for the cachet. Whenever he looked around GMS’s headquarters, he could feel proud of what he had achieved. There was nothing like being able to see a lifetime’s achievements every day to make you feel good about yourself.

Of course, even the most successful businessmen made mistakes along the way. For Armand, Melville was one of those. He could see that now. Eight years earlier, he’d known the English fashion house was in trouble. He should have moved then, but he’d hesitated. It had been hard to see any value in the business, and he’d thought that by waiting a while, he could pick it up at a bargain price.

Well, he’d been wrong. Now the company was worth three times what he would have paid for it then. But he wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. William Melville might be driven by pride and arrogance, but Armand Bouchard was cold and logical. It was how he had gotten his nickname—Napoléon—in the press. Sure—he wished he’d moved sooner with Melville, but that didn’t mean he would walk away now. Quite the opposite, in fact—he still saw value there.

“But surely nothing has changed since last time, Armand,” his second-
in-command had challenged him at the last board meeting. “With 60 percent of the shares in the family’s hands, how can you hope to get control? None of them will sell to you.”

The other directors had murmured their agreement. A week earlier, Armand would have conceded that they were right. Except they hadn’t been privy to the phone call he’d received, out of the blue, the other day. A phone call that suggested the family wasn’t quite as unified as everyone assumed.

Lately—well, ever since she’d moved in with Lucien, really—Caitlin had found herself thinking about having a baby. Perhaps it was something to do with finally being in a stable relationship, or perhaps it was simply that she wanted a family of her own, something she had missed out on during most of her adult life.

At first, she tried to put the idea out of her mind. Naturally they’d talked about having children at some point, but she’d imagined that time was still a few years from now. And it seemed something of a cliché—wanting to be a mother to make up for the loss of her own. But, however hard she tried to forget about it, she simply couldn’t.

“I know it’s a silly idea,” she told Lucien, after finally confessing how she felt to him one evening, “and that there are so many reasons to wait. We’re both so busy at the moment, and we haven’t even been together that long . . .”

Lucien nodded solemnly. “You’re right,” he agreed. “There are a million reasons why this would be a terrible time to have a baby.” Caitlin felt a twinge of disappointment. But then he leaned forward, and she saw his eyes were dancing with amusement. “But who cares about that?”

She drew back, startled. “Really?”

He gave her a slow smile. “Really,
chérie
.”

Two months later, to their delight, Caitlin found that she was pregnant.

The following weekend, she and Lucien went down to Aldringham to tell William their news. To Caitlin’s amusement, he looked a little shocked and embarrassed at first. She had expected as much—he was terribly old-fashioned, after all. “Not that he can say very much,” she had reassured Lucien on the drive down there. “Not after what happened with my own mother.” But it still didn’t stop him frowning disapprovingly
at Lucien. Although once it was clear they intended to marry before the child was born, he seemed a lot happier.

In fact, William was thrilled at the thought of becoming a grandfather. He’d been saddened by Elizabeth’s report of her meeting with Amber. He had no idea how to reach his troubled youngest daughter after she’d rejected his overtures again. But the news of his first grandchild cheered him.