by Hyland, Tara
“Lucien . . .” she said warningly.
It was the third time she’d pulled back in the past half hour. The other times he’d ignored her, continued kissing and stroking, until she’d eventually given in. But this time she wasn’t going to be persuaded. He could hear it in her voice. It was a tone he was all too familiar with.
Sighing heavily, he rolled away, allowing her to sit up. He stayed stretched out on her bed, watching as she pulled on her T-shirt, ran a hand through her tousled hair. He thought again how much he loved her body, the flawless milky skin, the womanly shape of her with those full breasts and the soft swell of her hips.
She felt his gaze on her and turned to look at him, smiling a little, knowing what was going through his mind. But her eyes remained serious as she said, “It’s late—you should go.”
He pouted a little. “But I don’t want to go, ma petite.”
They had been together for three months now, and he felt he’d been very patient. This was as far as she would ever let things go between them. She was enthusiastic at first, enjoying the kissing, the touching, the stroking. And then, suddenly, something would change. There was always a point where she seemed to shut down, where she stopped feeling and started thinking, where he could feel he was losing her. The first few times he had tried talking to her, asking what was wrong. She’d insisted that she was fine. He never believed her, but he couldn’t force it out of her, and eventually it seemed easiest to let it go.
What hurt most was that she wouldn’t even allow him to simply stay over, to sleep next to her. Probably because she didn’t believe that was all he wanted to do, he admitted. But, in fact, his request tonight had no ulterior motive. He simply liked the idea of waking up next to her. It wasn’t something he’d felt with any other girl, and it pained him that she didn’t seem to appreciate that it was different with her, that he was different with her.
He sat up now, not ready to let it go this time. “As you say, it is late. Would it really be so terrible if I stayed?”
“I’ve got an early class tomorrow,” she said evenly. “I need to get some sleep.”
“What about next Friday, then?” he suggested, unperturbed. “You could come over to my place. I’ll cook dinner . . .” He knelt up on the bed, reached out, and cupped her chin in his hand, running his thumb over her soft lips. Instinctively, she parted her mouth, drawing him inside, between her teeth.
“And then,” he continued, encouraged as her tongue caressed the tip of his thumb, “after dinner is finished, maybe you could stay over. You won’t have to get up early the next morning then, and—”
Before he could finish the sentence, she bit down hard on his thumb. He yelped, pulling his hand back.
“God, Lucien.” Her eyes flashed. “Can’t you leave it alone?”
He looked down at the teethmarks on his thumb, then back at her. “I just want to know what the big deal is.”
There was a long pause. She stared at him, and there was an expression in her eyes he couldn’t quite read. For one hopeful moment he thought she was about to explain, but then she seemed to change her mind and looked away.
“I really think you should go now,” was all she said.
This time, he didn’t argue.
After Lucien left, Caitlin went straight to bed. But an hour later she was still awake. Their earlier conversation kept running through her mind.
She knew she wasn’t being fair to him. How could he be expected to understand why she kept pulling back, pushing him away? Several times she had been on the verge of telling him about what had happened to her at Greycourt. In fact, she’d nearly caved in again tonight. But something always stopped her. She didn’t want him to think differently of her, to treat her differently—to look at her with pity. And she didn’t want their entire relationship to be dominated by this one thing that had happened to her.
Instead she had kept hoping that as time went on, as she came to trust him more, it would happen between them naturally. But she still didn’t feel ready.
Are you ever going to?
She turned restlessly. The little voice of doubt spoke the question she’d been trying to ignore. More and more lately, she had begun to wonder whether she should just get it over with. She didn’t want to be a victim, someone who was going to let one incident rule the rest of her life. Coming to Paris had been about starting over, putting the past behind her. And right now, the way she was with Lucien made it clear that she still hadn’t managed to do that.
With that final thought, she drifted into a fitful sleep.
“Mademoiselle O’Dwyer?”
Caitlin jolted out of her daydream and looked up to find the whole class staring at her. She wondered how long she’d been out of it. From the look of disapproval on Madame Tessier’s face, it was a while.
She sat up straighter. “Sorry, Madame. What did you say?”
The old woman’s expression darkened. “I asked you to explain what the major drawback is to CAD and CAM systems. To give you a clue, it is what I have been speaking about for the past half hour.”
Caitlin’s blank look told the woman everything. Computer-aided design and manufacture had never been the most fascinating part of the course.
Madame sighed heavily. “The drawback—and it is a major one that is worth knowing about,” she said pointedly, “is that the computing firms have not bothered to fully integrate the design, pattern-cutting, and manufacturing sequences. The design stage has simply been left out.”
Caitlin bent her head over her notepad and forced herself to scribble down the words. When the bell went off for the end of the class, she wasn’t surprised that Madame asked her to stay behind.
However, instead of giving her a lecture, Madame wanted to talk about Caitlin’s plans after graduation. With only three months now until the course ended, she was speaking to all the students individually. The main message she had for them was that finding a job would not be easy.
“I have been in touch with people I know at Lacroix and Gaultier,” Madame told Caitlin, “since I think you would be a good fit for those places. Unfortunately for you, no one is hiring at the moment. So I will say the same to you that I have said to your peers. As usual, the three prize winners at the final show will be awarded a six-month contract at a fashion house. This year it will be more important than ever to win.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “If I had to hand those prizes out now, based on what I have seen during the past two years, then you would undoubtedly receive one.” She gave a tight smile. “That is not something I have said to everyone—and I do not expect it to be repeated outside of this room. Understood?”
“Yes, of course,” Caitlin said quickly.
“But the judging team is made up of industry professionals, so I have no say over who wins. It doesn’t matter what you’ve produced these past two years, this final performance is all that counts. That may not be fair on those of you who have consistently performed well, but that is how it works.”
“I understand.”
Madame gave her a hard look. “I am not so sure that you do. Daydreaming in class today . . .” Caitlin winced. She’d thought she’d escaped this. “Now is not the time to rest on your laurels. Everyone wants this badly. Your fellow classmates will be doing everything they can to make sure they win this—and you have to, as well.”
Caitlin stared across at her, wondering what Madame had hoped to accomplish by telling her all this. Far from feeling inspired, she was frankly a little demoralized. Right now, it felt as if the woman was telling her she didn’t have a hope in hell of winning.
Madame seemed to sense her consternation, because when she spoke again, her voice had softened. “All I can say is—do your best.” She gave a little smile. “And make sure you come up with a collection that is worthy of you.”
* * *
On the Metro home, Caitlin mulled over those words. The talk of the final show, of life after college, suddenly made the future seem very close. She’d heard rumo
rs about how tough the job market was: too many good candidates chasing too few jobs. A lot of last year’s graduating class were still unemployed, apparently. But hearing about it from Madame made it seem more real.
“There’s always Melville.” That’s what William had said, the last time she’d made her monthly duty call to him. Not that she’d told him about her difficulties getting a job. He’d just slipped the offer into the conversation, let her know that she’d be welcome in Melville’s design department.
“Thanks,” she’d said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
What she’d actually meant was that she couldn’t think of anything worse. Even if professionally it had been her kind of place—which it wasn’t, what with all the beige and navy, and reliance on classic cuts rather than fashion—she would do anything rather than work for William. Even work full time at the Café des Amis.
But it wouldn’t come to that. She had some more interviews lined up. Plus, as Madame had said, there was the end-of-year fashion show. Scouts from all the major haute couture and ready-to-wear labels in Paris, London, New York, and Milan would be there. If they liked what they saw, job offers could be made on the spot. It would be Caitlin’s chance to shine, and she needed to make the most of it.
The idea dominated Caitlin’s thoughts as she set to work. The biggest challenge was settling on a theme. It was the key to any good collection and never more so than for a student show, when each designer was only allowed to produce six items. A killer theme was key to putting across a consistent and memorable look.
And it just happened to be eluding Caitlin.
“It’s so frustrating!” she complained to Lucien, as they ate dinner together late one evening. “I’ve never been more devoid of ideas! It’s as if Madame’s little talk knocked every original thought out of me.” She shook her head despairingly. “I can’t help thinking, What if this is it? What if, after all the hard work over the past two years, I can’t pull it off now?”
He smiled gently, recognizing her insecurities for what they were. “That will not happen, ma belle. Trust me. You just need to look elsewhere for inspiration.”
Something in his voice made Caitlin look over at him sharply. “Do you have an idea?”
“Hmmm. Perhaps . . .”
“What?” she demanded.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said mysteriously.
She opened her mouth to ask another question, but he reached across the table and put his finger to her lips, stopping her.
“You’ll not get anything else from me. I want this to be a surprise.”
The next day, he called to check that she was free on Saturday evening. She was.
“Good. Then be ready at six. I shall come to collect you and we can go together.”
“Go where?” Across the line, there was silence. “If you won’t tell me where we’re going, then how will I know what to wear?” she said playfully.
“Nice try.” There was a pause. “Wear that red dress I love.”
The following Saturday, Lucien arrived at her flat at six on the dot, the first occasion she’d known him to be on time. He was looking characteristically flamboyant in a racing-green velvet jacket, with a ruffled shirt underneath, open-necked and hanging loose over black leather trousers. When they left her apartment, he still wouldn’t tell her where they were going. He even went so far as to whisper in the taxi driver’s ear so she couldn’t overhear the destination.
It was only when the cab drew up outside the Opéra Garnier that she finally figured it out. He was taking her to see La Bohème.
Lucien helped her out of the car in the busy Place de l’Opéra. They stood at the bottom of the opulent staircase, watching the well-dressed crowd streaming up to the entrance.
“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”
It was the sheer scale that blew Caitlin away at first. At seventeen storys high on three acres of land and seating more than two thousand people, the Paris Opera House was undoubtedly an imposing building. But there was more to it than that. As she took in the grand neo-Baroque architecture, the gilded statues, it reminded her of the rich history and romance she had read about that were integral to the place. With its sumptuous decor—all grand chandeliers and spouting fountains—and its subterranean levels and famous ghost, there was an enduring mystique about the Opera House. It would be an ideal inspiration for her final collection: it was pure Paris and perfectly suited to the dramatic style that she favored.
She looked up at Lucien and smiled. “It’s a brilliant idea,” she said.
“Good,” he said, looking pleased. “I am glad to have helped.”
It was then that it struck her. Lucien had gone to so much trouble tonight—so much trouble for her—and it was all because he cared. He really cared about her.
He started to walk up the stairs, but she reached out and grabbed his arm, knowing that she needed to say this now or she might change her mind. He stopped and turned back, his expression enquiring.
“Lucien,” she said impulsively, “do you still want to make dinner for me next Friday?”
“Yes, of course I do,” he said simply.
“Good.” It was said decisively. “Because I thought . . . well, I thought I’d come over then. Like we talked about.”
He waited a beat before asking. “And does that mean you’ll stay this time?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, Lucien,” she said. “I’ll stay the night with you.”
He looked so pleased that it was almost enough to convince her that she had made the right decision.
Then, taking her hand, he kissed it briefly. “Allons-y, mon ange. We should find our seats.”
Pushing her doubts aside, she followed him up the stairs.
24
_________
“Left a little,” Elizabeth instructed. “And drop it a fraction lower . . .”
There was only a month to go until the opening of the new Melville boutique in Tokyo. It was late Friday evening, it had been a long day, and Elizabeth had spent the past half an hour trying to decide on the best position for the Gainsborough. The Japanese decorators who were putting the finishing touches to the store had been patient with her, and for that she was grateful. To the untrained observer, it might seem that she was being fussy. But it was this attention to detail that would help set the store apart.
It had taken three months to get where they were today. Setting up a new store in a foreign country hadn’t been easy, even with Mr. Yamamoto’s help. Elizabeth had found the perfect site pretty quickly. Naturally it was in Ginza, Tokyo’s most elegant shopping district. When the lease became the subject of a bidding war, she’d had to act quickly to secure it. Yamamoto ensured that three million yen got to the right people, and soon the site was theirs. That had been the first of many challenges. Settling on a knockout store design; finding good staff, multilingual, enthusiastic, and also cheap . . . the list had seemed endless. But, whatever the problem, Elizabeth had refused to be daunted by it, had always insisted her high standards were met.
Cole had been pretty good about not interfering too much. It had been agreed before she came out here that she would provide him with a weekly progress report, and he would then call to follow up on any queries. But, although his questioning was always rigorous, he’d rarely vetoed outright any of her decisions. And when he had, he’d usually had a good reason for doing so, she had to admit grudgingly. His monthly visits to the site had been surprisingly pain-free, too—they’d been mainly observational and, again, any suggestions that he had put forward had always been spot on.
“That’s great,” Elizabeth said, finally happy that the painting was in the perfect position.
She left the workmen to hook it up to the state-of-the-art security system. The picture was a quintessential English landscape, borrowed from the family’s personal collection at Aldringham.
Elizabeth had kept her word to Mr. Yamamoto. The store was a seamless blend of modern and traditional. The b
uilding itself was an extraordinary glass tower set over eight floors. Bathed in light, it created a breathtaking effect. Inside, the sales floor was like a little slice of England. It was decorated in a Regency style, its tones of cream and navy complemented by traditional rosewood and gilt. The whole effect was one of luxury and good taste. Elizabeth was sure that it was going to be a hit with the Japanese public. Then, if the Tokyo operation went well, the plan was to continue expanding in the Far East and then into Southeast Asia.
But first, Elizabeth couldn’t wait for her father to see what she had achieved here, in Tokyo. Maybe it was childish. But he’d been so adamant about her proving herself—and now she had.
It was late by the time Elizabeth got back to her hotel room. She slipped into a silk kimono and mixed herself a gin and tonic from the minibar. Swirling the liquid around the glass, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one side of her room and gazed out across the city.
She was staying in the presidential suite of the Park Hyatt Tokyo, in the shopping area of Shinjuku. At over three thousand square feet, the suite was huge by Japanese standards. Perched fifty-one storys above Tokyo, it also had spectacular views—to the east, the neon lights of the city, to the south, Yoyogi Park, and to the west, Mount Fuji looming in the distance.
She placed her left hand against the cool glass and sighed. Sometimes she didn’t understand herself. Everything was going so well. She was on track to make Tokyo a success, and more importantly, to prove her worth to her father. She had achieved everything she had set out to do. So why did it still feel as if something was missing? She had barely had time to think, this past year. Too busy to keep up with old friends, much less make new ones. She hadn’t been home to England in months. And men . . . well, there was no time for anything serious, and even the casual flings were a thing of the past. She had always prided herself on not needing anyone, but tonight—and not just tonight, but other times, too—she was aware of an emptiness pervading her.
