Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  “My problem with this is that she’s still only sixteen. Now,” he said decisively, “that at least means we have the law on our side. She needs our consent to leave home. And I’m quite prepared to use legal means to force her to come back to England.”

  His wife sighed. “Oh, William, she won’t thank you for that. This is a great opportunity for her, and you shouldn’t be the one to take it away from her.” Isabelle shook her head gently. “Come on, be honest now. Did you really expect her to come back to England, settle down to studying, and go on to college? You know that isn’t Amber. She’s not like Elizabeth.”

  That was one point William couldn’t argue with.

  So once again, with her mother’s help, Amber got her own way. She knew that she should have been pleased with the outcome, but part of her was also a little disappointed. Surely, if they’d really loved her, they wouldn’t have let her go so easily?

  29

  _________

  Elizabeth’s schedule didn’t get any easier after the opening of the Ginza store. Delighted with the success of the Tokyo operation, Yamamoto was already putting on the pressure to expand, and within a few weeks, she found herself checking out the shimmering skyscrapers and marbled shopping malls of Hong Kong’s Central district. Then she was on to Orchard Road in Singapore and the modern shopping district between Sukhumvit Road and Siam Square in Bangkok.

  But, even though she had more than enough to occupy her mind, Elizabeth still found her thoughts wandering to Cole and what had happened between them. Late at night, in the understated luxury of yet another anonymous hotel room, she would imagine him there with her: her hands running over his taut biceps and down across his ripped chest; his muscular back glistening with sweat as he knelt above her; those dark, mocking eyes gazing down at her. That was the thing about Cole, it was hard not to feel feminine around him. It was the sheer size of him.

  Filled with restless longing, she would toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep. It would have been easy enough to go down to the hotel bar and pick up a nameless businessman for a night of meaningless release. But somehow she knew that would no longer be enough for her. With Cole, it was more than sex. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth realized she was ready to open up to someone, to consider a relationship.

  After that revelation, she longed to speak to him again. She waited for him to call. Maybe they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but she was sure he wouldn’t hold it against her. A week later, when she still hadn’t heard from him, she swallowed her pride and phoned him herself. His assistant informed her that he wasn’t around. She called several more times, leaving messages which she was assured he had received. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was trying to avoid her. When they finally spoke, for their now monthly catch-up conversation, he was distant, detached. After they’d run through her report, he didn’t seem to want to linger on the phone.

  “So, any plans to come back out here?” she asked as casually as she could.

  “Not at the moment,” he said shortly. “Hold on a sec, Elizabeth.” She heard him cover the receiver and muffled voices in the background. When he came back on he was abrupt. “Look, something’s come up. I’ve got to go.”

  “Fine,” she said. But he had already put down the phone.

  She stared down at the receiver. I’ve really blown it this time.

  She was feeling so low after their conversation that when Magnus Bergmann called a week later to say he was in Tokyo and would like to take her out, she forgot all about her resolution to stop seeing men casually and agreed to meet him that night.

  Had Magnus always been this dull? Elizabeth wondered over dinner at Hamadaya. She usually loved Tokyo’s ryōtei—formal Japanese restaurants serving haute cuisine, the favorite of politicians and businessmen. But tonight, she couldn’t help thinking how much more fun she’d had with Cole, when they’d gone out for beers at the izakaya. With Magnus, the conversation was polite and formal, there was no flirtation. And yes, he might be good looking for an older man, but when he put his arm around her waist, there was no strength there, no sense of power. He didn’t make her feel safe and protected.

  “I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental,” he told her as he put down his Platinum American Express card to pay the bill. “It’s not far.”

  Maybe it was his presumption that she was just going to go along with what he wanted, fall back into their old routine. Or maybe it was because she knew there was someone else she’d rather be with right now. But suddenly she just wanted to get as far away as possible.

  “I’d prefer if you dropped me back at my hotel,” she said coolly.

  Magnus raised an eyebrow but didn’t make any objection. She had made it clear that whatever had been between them once was over now. He had too much dignity—and no real need—to beg. He was handsome and wealthy. There were plenty of other girls waiting to take her place. Maybe they weren’t as special as Elizabeth, but who had he been kidding anyway? That was why he’d never wanted to get serious with her in the first place. He’d always known it was only a matter of time before she came to her senses and found someone closer to her own age. Magnus just hoped that, whoever he was, he was worthy of her.

  30

  _________

  The girl gasped. It was somewhere between encouragement and protest, a moan and a sharp intake of breath. Above her, Lucien pumped steadily away, harder and deeper with each thrust.

  She had come a while ago; her noisy enthusiasm had let him know precisely when. But he couldn’t quite seem to get there. It wasn’t usually a problem for him. But lately . . .

  He wasn’t even aware of how hard he was pounding, didn’t notice her gritted teeth or the way she was clutching at the duvet, until she finally choked out, “Maybe . . . we . . . could try . . . something else?”

  He stopped mid-thrust, and she took the opportunity to reach down and give his balls an encouraging squeeze.

  “I could suck you off instead?” she offered.

  For an answer, he grunted. Instead of taking her up on the offer, he withdrew, turned her over, and entered her from behind. Only then was he able to close his eyes, allow himself to think of someone else. One final deep thrust and he finally climaxed, quick and silent.

  He rolled away from her, slipped the condom off, and then reached for a cigarette—another bad habit he’d taken up again. He watched the girl dress as he smoked, aware that he still didn’t feel satisfied. Recently he’d begun to doubt whether he’d ever fill the darkness that seemed to be with him these days. He wondered where Caitlin was right now. Wherever it was, he hoped she was feeling even half as shitty as he was.

  In fact, across town, Caitlin was at college. She spent most of her time there these days.

  It was June in Paris, and for the forty-five students graduating from the Chambre Syndicale fashion school that meant one thing: the final show. For Caitlin, it was an excuse not to think about Lucien. She had seen the way he dealt with their breakup: sleeping around, leaving Café des Amis with a different girl every night. She’d reacted by throwing herself into work. It was almost a relief to have the upcoming show to occupy her.

  The tension had begun building six weeks beforehand. The show’s presence loomed in every class, dominated every lunch conversation and coffee break. After a couple of weeks, any talk of the show was met with theatrical groans from the students.

  “I’m sick of hearing about it!” they would say.

  But it was all bravado. Everyone was on edge, and understandably so. This was the culmination of two years’ hard work. It was their chance to showcase their work to the Parisian style arbiters—buyers, journalists, and, most importantly, designers scouting for new talent to fill their ateliers.

  Most of the students were preoccupied with their designs, making last-minute alterations or dealing with unforeseen crises. Caitlin had the same nightmares as the rest of her classmates, waking up in a cold sweat from dreams of fashion experts shaking their
heads in disgust at her collection, her designs falling apart on the runway, leaving the models naked.

  But, as the day drew nearer, she was preoccupied with a more immediate problem: whether to invite Lucien. She was allowed to bring three guests. William had insisted on coming. She had invited Alain, naturally. That left the third ticket. The ticket that should have been Lucien’s.

  Caitlin couldn’t forget that her collection had been inspired by him and that trip to see La Bohème. She had chosen to design evening wear for a young but well-heeled market of wealthy partygoers, and her theme was the Parisian Opera House during its heyday of the nineteenth century, a grand, extravagant time. The opulent Baroque design and lavish interior could be seen in her color palette—deep reds and purples, striking black with metallic highlights—and rich textures, including brocade, heavyweight silk, and damask. The Gothic grandeur of Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of the Opera lurked in the background. A feature of Caitlin’s work was the attention to detail, and she had trawled the markets searching for appropriate accessories—such as elegant evening gloves and antique pocket watches.

  Even with the nerves and self-doubt, she knew she had done a good job. And the work was all her own, of course. But part of her felt that she owed something to Lucien, and sending him an invitation would be her way of acknowledging that. And then maybe, just maybe, they could at least be friends. When she broached the subject to Alain, she expected him to approve of the idea. But instead he told her to leave well enough alone.

  “Why?” she asked, confused by his reaction.

  Alain sighed. From the beginning, he had been opposed to Caitlin and Lucien as a couple. He had known it would end in heartbreak. He just hadn’t expected the broken heart to be Lucien’s. He had no idea what had gone on between those two. But his friend was well and truly screwed up over Caitlin.

  “If you invite him, it will seem like you want to get back together,” he said carefully. “And if you don’t want to, that would be cruel. Don’t you agree?”

  Caitlin didn’t answer. She knew Alain had never been keen on them getting together. With that in mind, it was hard to trust his judgment. So she put the spare ticket in the drawer and waited for a sign to tell her what to do.

  The sign came a week before the show. By then, the students were working at fever pitch. The classroom at Chambre Syndicale was buzzing around the clock, filled with the whir of sewing machines and the nervous chatter of the fledgling designers. Long-limbed models roamed the floor, eyeing the talent as they waited for their fittings. Even though the students were nobodies now, it was worth being polite to them, as one day they might be somebodies.

  Madame took the opportunity to give her last input on the students’ work. She had driven them hard over the past two years, but now she could look proudly on as they proved that all her nagging had been worthwhile.

  Caitlin was busy hand-embroidering beads on a gold brocade jacket when Madame stopped by to see her. She barely looked up as the teacher examined her garments. When she did, she found Madame wasn’t just smiling—a rare enough occurrence—she was beaming.

  “Well, Mademoiselle O’Dwyer. I see that Paris has worked its magic on you.”

  “You like them, Madame?”

  “Like them?” The Frenchwoman arched an eyebrow. “Caitlin, whatever—or should I say whoever?—has inspired you in this work, make sure to keep them in your life.” And with a swish of her cane, she walked away.

  Caitlin posted the invitation to Lucien that very afternoon. And, even though she got no reply from him, she kept hoping that he would come.

  At five to six the following Wednesday evening, Caitlin and the other forty-five graduating students stood nervously backstage in the Salle Le Nôtre at the Carrousel du Louvre, waiting for the show to begin. It was one of the venues used during Paris’s main fashion week every year. Tonight, the young student designers were as anxious as the big names always were before a show.

  Caitlin watched sympathetically as one of the girls in her class ran off to throw up again. Her stomach was churning, too, but at least she’d managed to keep her lunch down. She took a sip of champagne to calm her nerves. Moët had supplied complimentary bottles, and everyone was making the most of them. They were all so high on adrenaline, however, that all the alcohol in the world wasn’t going to get them drunk.

  The air crackled with anticipation. The next two hours would determine the rest of their design careers, and they all knew it. Three prizes were up for grabs. A jury of twelve fashion heavyweights would decide on the winners, awarding the coveted prizes of six-month internships at Christian Dior, Hermès, or Yves Saint Laurent.

  Standing behind the huge brushed-cotton curtains, Caitlin anxiously watched the competition. There were some fabulous efforts. A lone bagpipe heralded the entrance of Brooke’s models, sporting flirty kilts teamed with pretty knitwear in the softest cashmere. Another scene stealer was Shay Kestler. As the opening riff of the Jimi Hendrix track took hold, it looked like flower-power fashion had gotten lost on the way to Woodstock and ended up on the catwalk. Gauze dresses, peasant blouses, and beaded necklaces bravely echoed the hippie scene and somehow worked in all their bohemian ethnicity. They were all so good, Caitlin thought half-admiringly, half-enviously. It was hard to know how she would compare.

  Finally her turn arrived. She felt her heartbeat quicken, fired by nerves and excitement. There was a shriek of surprise from the audience as the auditorium plunged into darkness. In the wings, Caitlin grinned. The students were responsible for all aspects of their collection: from lighting to music. Donations from the school’s benefactors helped fund the show—the cost of the models, materials, and any props—and volunteers from the affiliated drama school lent their services for lighting and stage management. Caitlin had planned her segment carefully, like a piece of musical theater: as dramatic as the clothes she had designed.

  There was a long moment of total darkness, allowing the anticipation to build. Then the lights went up. Through the white screen at the back, the audience could see the shadow of five giant candelabras. A smoke machine started hissing out thick clouds across the floor. A heartbeat later, the aggressive sound of an electric organ tore through the air. And then, as the strong underlying beat of the rock-opera tune took hold, the first model strode out.

  Caitlin had taken a chance and led with her menswear outfit. From behind the scenes, she held her breath as Jean-Luc swaggered down the runway, cutting through the clouds of smoke, a modern-day dandy, complete with brocade tailcoat and gold-tipped cane.

  The audience exploded.

  Caitlin heard the cheers and applause and felt herself finally relax.

  In the front row of the audience, William clapped loudly as Caitlin’s designs came down the catwalk. He had arrived early, wanting to make sure he secured a good seat, and was pleased he’d made the effort. Sitting in the midst of all the industry experts, he could hear their comments on her collection.

  “I adore those trousers!” gushed a journalist from Paris Match. “Such attention to detail.”

  “For sure, she will be a big name,” Le Tribune’s representative agreed.

  Not that William needed anyone to tell him that. Melville might be better known for its accessories than its clothing line, but he had been in the business long enough to know talent when he saw it. Putting his subjectivity as her father aside, he knew that Caitlin’s garments were by far the best he had seen tonight. He felt a surge of pride, followed by a moment of sadness. He wished Katie could have been here to witness what their daughter had accomplished. Caitlin had come such a long way from that shy, gauche teenager who had arrived at Aldringham six years earlier. Now she was a beautiful young woman, with a promising future ahead of her. No one could ask more for their child.

  After Caitlin’s collection, the rest of the show passed quickly. William watched with detachment, only interested to see how the others compared to her. They were all good, the standard high, as would be expected from th
e Chambre Syndicale. But none came close to Caitlin, he decided, satisfied. There was no doubt in his mind that she would get a job offer at a top fashion house. He just hoped she would decide to work at Melville instead. That’s what he was going to talk to her about, after the show.

  As William turned away, he bumped into a young man hurrying past. William stopped for a moment, transfixed by the man’s long, flowing dark hair, translucent skin, and startlingly blue eyes. He was like a dark angel, impossible to miss. But it wasn’t just his appearance that made him stand out from the crowd: it was the way he held himself—that Napoleonic arrogance that seemed to be in every Frenchman’s blood.

  The two men apologized and then went their separate ways. Neither of them realized they were there for the same reason.

  Backstage, Caitlin was in the midst of what was professionally the most important night of her life. Scouts from the top couture houses in Paris surrounded her, congratulating her on her opulent but modern designs, courting her for the future. She had won the internship at Dior, but once that was finished, who knew?

  When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she turned, thinking it was going to be one of the other students. But then she saw the tall, slender man standing before her, his cool blue eyes fixed on her.

  Lucien.

  Later, she would tell herself that it was the unexpectedness of him showing up that threw her. And to an extent that was true. It wasn’t as if this was the first time she had seen him since the breakup. She saw him around a lot, even if they hardly ever spoke these days. But usually she could prepare herself, close her feelings off. It was the rawness of the moment that had caught her off guard.

  Lucien saw the reaction he was having on her and felt pleased. His ego had been badly damaged by their breakup. It had taken a great deal for him to come here tonight.