by Hyland, Tara
“So what do you think?” William prompted.
She pushed a piece of fish around her plate. “Thank you for the offer.” God, it pained her to say that. “But I don’t think it would be the right career move for me at the moment.”
He frowned. “You’re turning us down—just like that? Don’t you want to at least take a few days to think about it?”
She shrugged. “What’s to think about? I have my own business—a very successful one. Why would I want to give that up to work at Melville?”
Elizabeth jumped in. “Well, you wouldn’t have to work for us exactly. Perhaps you could design one line, something more youthful, or lend your name to part of the collection.”
“I wouldn’t have the time,” Caitlin said. “I have plans to grow my own company this year—”
“What plans?” William demanded.
Caitlin looked at him coolly. “They’re confidential at the moment.”
William tutted. Ignoring him, Caitlin turned back to Elizabeth. “I’m going to be working eighteen hours, seven days a week as it is.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but William got there first.
“But you haven’t even thought about what this could do for you.”
“That’s because I don’t think it could do anything for me. I’m doing very nicely on my own.” Caitlin paused. “Frankly, I haven’t heard one good reason why I should help you out. Because that’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? You want me to do you a favor. Well, why should I?”
“Because we need you, Caitlin.” Elizabeth said it quietly. “Because things are bad and we need you.”
There was a silence. William flashed Elizabeth a look of fury. But then the fight seemed to go out of him. His shoulders slumped, his eyes lost their spark.
“She’s right,” he admitted, and Caitlin could tell it killed him to say it. “If things go on the way they are, there might not be a business left in a few years’ time.”
Caitlin pressed the napkin to her lips before saying, “Well, I don’t really see how that concerns me.”
He looked up sharply then. For a moment he seemed confused. “What do you mean, you don’t see how that concerns you? Didn’t you hear what I said?” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Melville’s on the verge of disaster.”
“I heard,” she said evenly. “But I still don’t see how it concerns me.”
Elizabeth could see Caitlin wasn’t about to be persuaded. She sat back, ready to let it go. But William wasn’t.
“Are you telling me you don’t care?” He sounded disbelieving. “I know you’ve always wanted to be self-sufficient, but surely you can’t stand by while the Melville name is getting dragged down?”
Caitlin gave him a cool look. “Why not? I certainly don’t consider myself to be a Melville. And I never have.”
William stared at her, shocked into silence. As Elizabeth put a pacifying hand on his arm, Caitlin reached for her handbag, found her wallet, and threw some money on the table. She was on her feet, about to walk away, when William made his last-ditch, desperate appeal. “Does the fact that we’re family mean nothing to you, Caitlin?”
It was the wrong thing to say. She turned slowly to face him.
“Family?” she repeated incredulously. “You’re not my family. You’re nothing to me.”
“How dare you be so ungrateful!” he exploded. “I took you in when you were fifteen. I gave you everything you could want.”
Caitlin shook her head. “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? You think you can throw money at a problem and it will go away.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Caitlin hesitated, considering whether to confront him about the checks she’d found—proof that he’d paid off her mother and known about her existence. But what would be the point? He’d only deny it.
“Caitlin,” he said sharply. “I asked, what’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked him straight in the eyes. “It means I wish you’d stayed out of my life. You think you were doing me some big favor, bringing me to live with you? Well, I’d rather have stayed in Valleymount and gone on believing you were dead.”
William’s face went white. For a moment, she thought he might strike her. “How dare you speak to me like that? I’m your father and you should start showing me some respect.”
All around the room, conversations were stopping, the other patrons turning to stare at the raised voices.
Caitlin realized then that she’d been right all along. She should never have come here today. She had made a life for herself, a good life for herself, and that’s what she needed to get back to.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” she said. “You’re not my father. You never have been and you never will be.”
With that, she turned and made for the door.
William watched her go. He was furious with her, at the way she had behaved all these years toward him, and the Melville family. But he was also aware that she was his daughter, his only link to Katie, and that he didn’t want her to leave like this. He went to stand up, to go after her. But as he did so, a pain shot through his left arm. He winced, and sat back down heavily.
Elizabeth looked at him with concern. “Is something wrong, Daddy?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped. He rubbed his arm a little, frowning. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that pain. Isabelle had been nagging him for weeks to see their doctor. Someone of his age needed to be careful, she kept telling him.
His age. He hated to be reminded that he was getting old, something the mirror did for him on a daily basis. It seemed like only yesterday that he was taking over the company, with all his hopes and dreams for the future, promising himself that he would grow the business even bigger than his mother had. When had it all passed so quickly?
He opened and closed his hand, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of numbness. It worked—a moment later, the pain was gone. Good. Nothing to worry about. And that tightness in his chest—probably just a touch of indigestion.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Elizabeth was watching him closely now. “Should I get some more water for you?”
“No.” Why wouldn’t she stop fussing? “I’m going to see if I can catch up with Caitlin.”
He went to stand up again. But as he got to his feet, a second pain shot through him. And this time it didn’t go away. Suddenly he was finding it hard to breathe. And now the pain wasn’t only in his arm. Clutching at his chest, he saw the alarmed look on Elizabeth’s face, knew he should say something to reassure her . . . but instead he was falling, collapsing onto the floor and dragging the contents of the table down on top of him.
His last thought before he blacked out was that he might never get the chance to make things right with Caitlin.
Caitlin was at the door, waiting for the coat check attendant to find her wrap, when she heard an almighty crash, the sound of plates and cups smashing on the floor. Instinctively she turned.
For the rest of her life she would remember that moment. She would remember how she’d been feeling as she walked away from William, exhilarated by their argument, pleased that she had finally told him what she thought. Then she would remember starting at the noise, looking around and seeing him lying on the floor, eyes closed, face gray, weak, unmoving; feeling confused for a moment, not quite understanding what had happened. Then, all at once, everything clicking into place. And the awful, terrible realization:
This is all my fault.
35
_________
Rich Cassidy was in the Cartier store on Rodeo Drive, trying to decide whether his boyfriend would prefer the watch in platinum or white gold, when he got Amber’s page. It was a 911. He sighed heavily. Tonight was his seven-year anniversary. Back in their West Hollywood apartment, Louis had the champagne on ice and the lights turned down low. But their romantic evening would have to wait, because Little Madam—as Rich privately called Amber—sure as hell wasn
’t going to.
There were times he wished she wasn’t quite so successful—then he could tell her to go fuck herself. But six years after he’d first met her, Amber Melville was still a gold mine. Magazine covers, catwalk shows—and, her latest triumph, a seven-figure deal to become the face of Glamour cosmetics. She’d become such a lucrative asset that he was now managing her career fulltime. Unfortunately, that also meant he got to deal with all her drama.
He had three more messages from Amber by the time he’d made the short drive to her Beverly Hills mansion. The exclusive gated community of Summit Circle had multimillion-dollar views across the L.A. basin and a state-of-the-art security system. The guard checked his ID and waved him through. Rich had his own house key in case of emergencies, which he judged this to be. Taking a deep breath, he opened the front door.
He found Amber in the marble entrance hall, draped over the sweeping staircase and sobbing uncontrollably. A Mexican maid hovered ineffectually to one side. Rich waved her away, making a mental note to slip her a little extra this month so she didn’t run to the papers about this. Then he put on his concerned face and rushed over to Amber.
“Petal!” He dropped down in front of her. “What on earth’s happened now?”
Huge, gulping sobs wracked her body, making it impossible for him to understand what she was saying.
“Shush, shush,” he crooned, stroking her hair. “Tell Daddy all about it.”
It took twenty minutes to get her to calm down enough to tell him the whole sad story. She was crying over Wallace Marshall, the Lakers’ star shooter. The two of them had been hot and heavy for all of seven and a half weeks—a record for Amber. Everything was going fine, until Wallace had been photographed at Teddy’s with his hand down the pants of one of the Laker Girls. The first Amber had known about it was when Star magazine called to get her reaction.
“How could he do this to me?” she wailed. Another round of tears began.
Rich put his arms around her. “Oh, come here, petal,” he said, in the baby voice that she seemed to like. Frankly, he found it a little humiliating, but the 30 percent fee she paid helped him put his personal feelings aside. “Daddy will make it all better.”
He stroked her hair as she continued to sob, quivering against his chest. Rich flicked a surreptitious glance at his watch, wondering how quickly he could get out of here.
“Come on, angel. He’s not worth crying over.” He searched through his pocket and found a silk handkerchief with the Melville monogram on it. Amber had given it to him for Christmas last year. Cheap bitch. He handed it to her. “Now, dry those tears, pet. You don’t want to spoil that pretty face of yours, do you?”
Not that there was much chance of that. Even with her skin mottled red and nose dripping, Amber still looked good. In fact, perversely, it increased her charm—it was this imperfect, disheveled beauty that had made her famous.
From the moment Rich had first set eyes on Amber, six years earlier, he had known she was something special. Her launch had been one of those iconic moments that the industry would be discussing forever—like when Kate Moss had graced the cover of Face in 1990, ushering in the heroin chic craze. In Amber’s case, the sixteen-year-old heiress had stared defiantly out of the cover of Style magazine, rich and bored, with seen-it-all eyes and a cigarette dangling carelessly between crimson lips. Rich had made the stylist play up the sleazy look. They’d taken the photo on an early-morning subway, empty apart from a couple of drunks and a few pinstriped traders on their way to Wall Street. Amber had stood among them, dressed in a lurid gold backless dress, a tatty faux-fur coat thrown over her shoulders. With black eyeliner smudged under her eyes, she’d looked like she was doing the walk of shame home after a heavy night. Barely legal and dressed like a hooker, she was impossible to miss.
Her bad-girl image and jailbait looks caused an immediate uproar. It was what Rich had been counting on. For a week, no one in fashion could talk about anything other than Amber Melville. The accompanying article recounted every salacious detail of her brief yet colorful life. The story of English boarding schools, older men, rough sex, and hard drugs was too good to resist. Her father wasn’t happy; but her own fame—or infamy—was assured.
Rich glanced at his watch again. He sensed the worst of the drama was over. Now he wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.
“Honey,” he said, thinking quickly, “take my advice. The worst thing you can do is stay in and mope about this tonight.”
Amber turned big, wet eyes up at him. “You think?”
“I know,” he insisted. “You’ve gotta go out, have fun—show the world that the bastard doesn’t matter to you.”
She chewed at her bottom lip, pondering what he’d said. “Maybe you’re right.” She looked hopefully at him. “You’ll come with me, though, won’t you? I’m not up to going alone.”
Rich hesitated. He was already late for dinner, and he was going to be turning up without that all-important anniversary gift. His chances of getting laid tonight were fading fast.
“Well, I was supposed to be meeting Louis . . .”
Amber’s bottom lip began to quiver. That was the heart of Rich’s problem. He was the only person she could count on in a crisis. She had an abundance of acquaintances, happy to hang out around her pool or go partying with her, especially when it was on her dime. But she could never let her guard down around them. They were the type to turn around and sell a story about her for the price of an introduction to a casting director. She could trust Rich because it was still in his interests to stand by her.
He weighed up his options—and decided it was easiest to agree to go along. He could always ditch her after they got there. He forced a smile.
“Of course I’ll come, poppet.”
“You don’t mind?” she sniffed.
“Not at all.”
“Great.” The tears dried suspiciously quickly. She scrambled to her feet. “I’ll go and get ready.”
After she’d disappeared upstairs, Rich looked down at his powder-blue silk shirt. Two big wet patches stained the front of it, where Amber had cried against him. His nose wrinkled in disgust. It was his favorite shirt, and he’d picked it especially for the evening—Louis always said the color brought out his eyes. And now it was ruined—along with his anniversary dinner. Oh, well. He’d just have to find a way to charge Amber for the cost of making this up to Louis.
Three hours later, Amber was feeling much better. She sank down into one of the supple black leather couches that lined the patio at Les Deux, L.A.’s hipper-than-hip nightspot. She’d spent the past hour inside, grinding her body on the intimate dance floor. Out here, the mood was mellower: ambient music mingled with the jasmine-scented air and the soft lighting from the giant candelabras.
The waiter brought over an ice cooler and a couple of bottles of Cristal. Amber slipped her beautifully pedicured feet out of her Jimmy Choos.
“Hey JB, I want a massage.” She thrust her right foot into Jim-Bob Lewis Junior’s lap, burying her toes deep in his crotch and wriggling them suggestively.
He made no move to oblige. Instead, he gave her a slow smile, drawling, “You gotta ask nicer than that, honeybunch.”
Jim-Bob Lewis Junior—or JB to his friends—was sole heir to a Texan oil fortune and one of Amber’s cohorts. With an assured multimillion-dollar fortune, JB had nothing better to do than hang out in the California sun. He cruised the Santa Monica pier during the day, hitting on the pretty rollerbladers, and partied all night. It was little wonder he and Amber got on so well. Most evenings they hit Sunset Strip together. It was where Amber had met most of her friends. Wherever she went in the evening, she’d always find someone to hang out with.
Rich had been right, Amber decided as she joked and flirted with JB—she did feel better now that she was here. She wished he was around so she could tell him, but they’d gotten separated in the crowd early on. She’d have to catch up with him later.
Signing up w
ith Rich Cassidy all those years ago had been a stroke of luck. He always gave the best advice. Like his suggestion that she move to L.A. Amber loved it here. A lot of people hated the place, said it could suck the life out of you. But it was ideally suited to young, hot things like her. She especially loved see-and-be-seen venues like Les Deux. It was hard not to feel cool here, surrounded by all the beautiful people: long-limbed girls in skintight dresses, accompanied by Armani-clad men who could bench-press their own body weight without breaking a sweat. What they all had in common was their bright white smiles, taut, tanned bodies—and the hope that they were either going to make it big in L.A. or stay big.
Amber’s eyes swept the crowd. All the usual suspects were there: the aging A-list movie star surrounded by girls a fraction of his age, Disney’s latest teen sensation, rumored to be hiding a nasty coke habit, a Hollywood director who had turned Amber down for a role in his latest romantic comedy. She knew people were checking her out, too. And why wouldn’t they? In this illustrious but somewhat mainstream crowd she stood out. Wearing a pale pink babydoll dress, teamed with a black leather jacket and overdone makeup, she was all long legs and peroxide curls. A younger, hotter version of Courtney Love.
She was still scanning the throng when she stopped, did a double take. A new but curiously familiar face had caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to place it.
“Is that Johnny Wilcox over there?” she said slowly.
The others followed her gaze across the room. It was JB who answered, “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
For the first time that night, Amber totally forgot about Wallace.
Johnny Wilcox was one of the members of Brit boy band Kaleidoscope. Their last three albums had gone platinum and they had been considered a hot property—until their surprise split last month. The press announcement had cited creative differences, but media speculation suggested the other three members had gotten fed up with Johnny. Kaleidoscope had built its name on having a squeaky clean image, the housewives’ wet dream. Johnny had repeatedly screwed that up. He was perfect tabloid fodder. Slow news day? Johnny always delivered. Every other week the papers were printing photos of him snorting cocaine, rolling around drunk in the gutter, or punching out the paparazzi. Girls were lining up to sell their stories about him: three-in-a-bed kiss-and-tells; all-night sex romps . . . He’d been in and out of rehab for every vice you could name, always falling off the wagon again after he was released.
