by Hyland, Tara
“This is all very conservative,” she said out loud.
Sitting across from her, Jess nodded. “Yes, I know. I think that’s the way William Melville—I mean, your father,” she hastily corrected herself, “always wanted it.”
Caitlin closed the sketchbook with a decisive bang. There was a hint of a smile as she said, “Well, then. Maybe it’s time for a change.”
That was the problem with Melville’s design department, Caitlin realized during her first few weeks working there. Change wasn’t a word used very often.
A lot of it had to do with the history of the company. Melville was originally renowned for its accessories—shoes and handbags—and clothing had never been one of its strengths. Since the ready-to-wear line had been inaugurated in the sixties, the company had tried various approaches, but it had never quite found its niche. After a few disastrous attempts at high fashion, William had decided to stick to a more classic look. The last few designers had been hired for their conservatism, strong tailoring, and focus on the older woman.
No wonder Melville apparel was universally considered to be pedestrian, a follower rather than a creator of trends. The target customers were matronly women, fifty-year-old grandes dames who had been shopping at Melville all their lives, and tourists, who saw a trip to the quintessentially English store as being as much a part of their itinerary as the Tower of London or Buckingham Palace. There were never any surprises in the clothes—and that way, Melville gave its two customer groups what they wanted.
Caitlin could see the argument for sticking to the classics. It was safe, never risking a disastrous show. But personally she thought that it was the wrong approach at this point. It was impossible to create an image for the company with a pair of beige trousers or a navy blazer. If William wanted to put the glamour back into the Melville name, then a bolder move was needed.
She would have liked to share these thoughts with her father, but Isabelle had a strict ban on any talk about the business while he was recuperating. Whenever Caitlin went to visit him at Aldringham—which she did every weekend without fail—her stepmother would anxiously remind her not to bother him with any discussion of work.
“How’s everything going at Melville?” he would ask as soon as she arrived.
And she would give her standard reply. “Everything’s great. Anyway, you shouldn’t be worrying about that now. Just concentrate on getting better.”
He’d wave her concerns away. “I’m not an invalid, you know. My mind still works perfectly well.” But secretly he was pleased to have her fussing over him.
They never discussed the past. It was enough for William that Caitlin was working at Melville now. She’d had her rebellious stage, and he forgave her for it, even if he would never quite understand it. Instead, they spent their time together going for long walks, in companionable silence, through Aldringham’s grounds. It was part of William’s therapy. And it seemed to be working. At first he had tired easily, only able to go a little way before needing to turn back. But soon he was able to be out for an hour and a half at a time.
He was delighted with the progress. He hated to be stuck out here, away from London, with nothing to do. He missed the buzz of work. It was frustrating, not knowing what was going on in the office. He was particularly concerned about what Elizabeth might be up to in his absence. He hadn’t been particularly impressed with the way she’d maneuvered herself into the position of strategy director. But Isabelle had stopped him from confronting her about it. It would just have to wait until he got back—whenever that might be. Until then, he was content to be able to spend time getting to know Caitlin, and to start making up for all those years they’d missed.
A month after she’d relocated to London, Caitlin presented her proposal for the future of Melville apparel to the board. Having only ever worked for herself, it was a strange concept to Caitlin, seeking the approval of others for her plans. But, to her surprise and relief, all of the directors were on her side. They listened attentively as she ran through her proposal to reinvent Melville’s image by the time of the next show, due to be held in six months’ time at London Fashion Week in February.
“I’d hope to have a first draft of my designs to show you within a couple of months,” she told the room, pleased to see how enthusiastic everyone looked; one or two of the men were even nodding along as she spoke. “That should give me plenty of time to get everything ready for presenting the Fall Collection,” she concluded.
To Caitlin’s embarrassment, there was a spontaneous burst of applause once she’d finished.
After the meeting, Elizabeth made sure to compliment her on the presentation. “Let me know if you have any problems,” she said. “Sorry I don’t have more time to chat now—I’m rushing off to another meeting. But we should go for coffee sometime soon.”
Caitlin watched her hurry off. Even though they worked in the same building, they rarely got to see each other—Elizabeth never had any time. She was a whirlwind of activity these days, a great ball of energy.
Caitlin had wondered if Elizabeth might question why, after all this time, she had finally made up with William. But if her sister was remotely curious about what had transpired, she never asked Caitlin about it. Always discreet, it wasn’t her style to press for information. Instead, she’d simply accepted that Caitlin was now a part of their lives. She hadn’t even cared that her half sister had taken up residence in Eaton Square.
“I’d much rather be in a hotel,” she’d said when Caitlin had asked if she minded. “I frankly find the house a little stuffy, and I prefer to be nearer the office.”
Along with getting to know William, Caitlin had been making an effort to get involved in Elizabeth’s life, too. It wasn’t always easy, as the older girl was so busy, but Caitlin had at least insisted on meeting Cole properly. As soon as he’d arrived in the U.K., she had made a point of inviting him and Elizabeth over for dinner.
It had been a fun evening. They’d all drunk too much and laughed and debated into the small hours. Caitlin hadn’t been at all surprised to find that Cole was just as dynamic and driven as Elizabeth. He was clearly so proud of her—and absolutely crazy about her, too. Halfway through the evening, Caitlin had gone into the kitchen to check on dinner and had come back five minutes later to find that Cole had Elizabeth pressed up against the fireplace. They’d sprung apart as she’d come in, and she’d discreetly looked away as Elizabeth straightened her clothes, half-embarrassed and half-envious that they felt so strongly about each other.
They’d planned to meet again after that evening, to make a regular twice-monthly event of it. But each time they set a date, Elizabeth had been forced to cancel at the last minute because she was too busy. Caitlin had no idea what Elizabeth was up to, but she was clearly in her element, full of energy and enthusiasm for her new role. Hopefully, once the craziness of these first few months had passed, they would have more opportunity to spend time together.
After a couple of months back in England, Caitlin’s life began to settle into a routine. During the week she worked on her ideas for the next collection, and then Friday night she would drive down to Aldringham to spend the weekend with William. And, if she was beginning to be a little worried about her progress on the new designs, she kept her concerns from her father. She’d come up with something eventually, surely she would. She just needed a little more time. It was just unfortunate that the board meeting, when she was due to present her designs, was imminent. She hadn’t expected the creative process to be quite so difficult, but—and she couldn’t admit this to anyone—she really was struggling. Her initial bravado about being able to reinvent Melville’s style was beginning to fade.
It was during a weekend at Aldringham that something happened which took her mind off her difficulties at work. She and William had just gotten back from one of their walks, and they were in the Georgian orangerie, reading the Sunday papers before lunch. Caitlin picked up one of the supplements and ran her eye over the conten
ts, spotting an article on London’s art scene which sounded interesting. She flicked to it and, as she opened up the double-page spread, she froze.
Because there, staring up at her, was Lucien.
39
_________
Elizabeth spent her first month back in England trying to get to grips with what was going on at the head office. While she’d been in Japan, it had been difficult to keep up-to-date—William was notoriously autocratic and cagey. And when she finally got all the details, she could see why. The figures were pitiful. Melville was having a hard time keeping up with its payments. Suppliers were fed up. The company was perilously close to breaking loan contracts.
“Daddy, how could you let it get to this stage?” she murmured to herself, late one night as she sat in his office. But there was nothing she could do about that right now, apart from damage control. She set up meetings with key suppliers and cajoled, begged, and pleaded for extra time. She undertook a review of creditors and worked with the purchasing manager to prioritize payments.
Six weeks after she’d arrived, Cole finally joined her in London. During their time apart, he’d put out feelers, looking for a place for them to move into. Through a friend, he’d managed to find somewhere that was fully furnished, vacant, and ready to rent. “It’s perfect for us,” he said, after he’d been to view it. “And the beauty is, we can move in right away.”
Elizabeth, who’d been living at The Lanesborough for the best part of two months, couldn’t have cared less what it looked like—as long as it wasn’t a hotel. But that still didn’t keep her from being a little surprised when Cole took her to see it. She’d been expecting a trendy apartment in the Docklands; instead, he brought her to a townhouse in Chelsea Harbour.
“This is all very sensible,” she said, as he showed her around.
He looked pleased. “I knew you’d like it.”
That wasn’t quite what she’d meant, but she let it go. After all, even though the gated development might be a little close to suburbia for her tastes, she could understand why Cole wanted to live there. Behind the faux-Edwardian façade, it was a house designed for contemporary living. Decorated in neutral tones, with minimalist furnishings and an emphasis on light and space, it had every modern convenience they could have wished for: marble bathrooms with Jacuzzis; an integrated Bang & Olufsen sound system; even a movie theater in the basement.
Yes, it would make a pleasant enough home. Plus, it wasn’t as if she had time to find anything herself.
“How soon can we pay the deposit?” she asked.
The week before William was due back at work, he went to see the doctor, who advised him to stay at home for another three months. Although Elizabeth was sorry that her father wasn’t back to full health, there was another part of her that felt secretly pleased to have more time without him around. It meant that she could turn her attention to the real problem facing Melville: how to grow sales. The latest strategy report proved to be five hundred pages of detailed analysis, with no overarching conclusions. In other words, a waste of time. Someone had obviously decided that if they generated enough paper, no one would notice that they didn’t have a clue what was going on. That would never have happened when the department was under Cole’s control. Well, if the analysis wasn’t there, then she’d have to do it herself.
She decided to go back to basics. When she’d first joined Melville, she’d found working in the store gave her invaluable insight into the business. So that’s what she’d do now. Spend some time as a salesclerk.
It proved to be a grueling routine. She would get in at seven and spend three hours holed up in her office going through spreadsheets and reports, before starting her shift as a sales assistant at ten. She worked until six, when her feet were so sore all she wanted to do was collapse into bed. But instead she went back to her desk, pushing on until she could barely keep her eyes open. Then she headed back home and fell into bed exhausted, only to wake up the next morning and do it all again.
It helped that she could survive on four hours’ sleep. But she hardly had time to eat, either. She lost over ten pounds in a month.
Cole wasn’t impressed—he’d already thought she was too skinny. In desperation, he started sending over deliveries from the restaurant for lunch and dinner—the only way he could make sure she ate. But even then she would get so caught up in what she was doing that she’d push the container away after barely a couple of bites. She was surviving on adrenaline alone. And she was loving it.
Working in the store was a real eye-opener. She noticed how shabby it was, compared to the Far East stores she’d opened—the carpets threadbare, the cleaners sloppy, leaving dust on top of the glass cabinets. The assistants took no pride in their appearance, chewing gum and showing up with chipped nail polish.
But mostly she paid attention to the customers.
There were a lot of people browsing but few making the transition to buying. In some ways she was surprised. Clothing aside—that was Caitlin’s domain—there didn’t seem to be too much wrong with the stock. She could still see the same good-quality workmanship in the accessories lines that had been there for over a hundred years. Why, then, was it not as popular as it had been?
Her answer came one afternoon during the second week, when she waited on a woman who was returning one of the Devonshire handbags. The Devonshire was classic Melville: a messenger bag of brown calfskin leather, imprinted with the Melville monogram. At five hundred pounds, it was one of the cheaper items in the line. The same version in ostrich retailed at four times that amount.
Elizabeth served the customer silently. It was Melville policy to honor returns without question. The woman was middle-aged and middle-class, obviously on her lunch break. She seemed a little nervous, as though this wasn’t the kind of shop she’d usually frequent. Elizabeth waited until the refund had gone through and then asked why she was returning the product.
The woman leaned across the glass counter, as though they were discussing some conspiracy. “Well, to be honest,” she confided in hushed tones, “I’ve always wanted one of the Melville handbags. Working in London in my twenties, I could never afford one. So my husband treated me for my fiftieth this year. And I was looking forward to showing it off. But . . .” She hesitated.
“But what?” Elizabeth prompted.
“But then I walked into our local Pharm-Mart and saw exactly the same Melville bag for twenty-five pounds. I mean, I know it wasn’t exactly the same,” she said hastily. “It was one of your cheaper lines, and when you looked closely you could see that. But after that I didn’t really want the real thing. It had . . . well, ruined the treat for me, I suppose.”
There was silence.
She saw the look on Elizabeth’s face and frowned. “I’m sorry, dear. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. This doesn’t affect my return, does it?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “No, of course not.” She paused. “And thank you for your help.”
After the store closed, Elizabeth rushed upstairs to change out of her uniform and then took a cab to Oxford Street, heading straight to the nearest Pharm-Mart. She had been shocked to hear Melville was supplying a chain like Pharm-Mart. A health and beauty retailer, it was a chain known for its rock-bottom prices—people shopped there because it was cheap and cheerful. It was hardly the kind of image Melville wanted to be associated with. Of course, she knew that the Melville Essentials line, which her father had set up in the seventies, catered to a lower price point. But she hadn’t pictured it being quite that low-end . . .
The nearest branch was located at the east end of Oxford Street, toward Tottenham Court Road, sandwiched between burger joints and discount stores selling tie-dye. Inside, the shop compensated for its dreary location with bright colors and a forced cheeriness, the products illuminated under harsh fluorescent light. The aisles were arranged according to product line—skin care, hair care, dental hygiene . . . At the back, next to the pharmacy, Elizabeth found the so-called “d
esigner” brands. And there, piled high in a cheap plastic basket, were around fifty rip-offs of the Devonshire handbag, squished together under a huge sign proclaiming: £25 each or 2 for £40.
This was even worse than she’d imagined. She picked one up, a replica of the handbag that had been returned that afternoon. The feel of the plastic material was unappealing; the catch—shaped into the double-m Melville monogram—felt as though it was about to break. The colors were a little too harsh, and when she rubbed hard enough, the tan-colored dye came off on her skin. She peered closely at the brand and saw that it was, indeed, the one used by the company. These bags were no fakes. Somewhere, somehow, somebody had produced these on Melville’s behalf.
And it wasn’t only handbags that Pharm-Mart stocked. There were cheap makeup cases, lighters, even combs. All using the Melville name. All poor quality. How on earth could the company retain its glamorous image when it was associated with this kind of cheap drugstore product?
She bought two of the most offensive bags, then spent the rest of the evening walking through Oxford Street seeing which other stores stocked Melville goods.
It was nearly nine by the time Elizabeth got back home. Cole was in their state-of-the-art kitchen, preparing dinner. Ever since he’d set up his restaurant chain, Cole had really gotten into cooking. As he was the owner, it didn’t actually matter if he knew one end of a saucepan from another, but he’d always been the kind of guy who liked to go into everything thoroughly. He was never going to be content to sit on the sidelines.
He hadn’t had a chance to cook for Elizabeth lately—tonight was the first time she’d been home before midnight since he’d moved to London—and she was impressed by how much he had improved. Tender wagyū beef—“from a shipment we got in today”—was perfectly complemented by crisp Asian greens. Over dinner and wine, she told him about her findings.
