by Hyland, Tara
Despite her success in New York, working at Melville was a whole different league. Speculation in the press was that she wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Tatler had recently run a piece on the company, with the pessimistic headline The Demise of an English Institution.
“Appointing an untried name like Caitlin O’Dwyer was always going to be a risk,” the article concluded. “Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be the final nail in the company’s coffin.”
At first Melville’s design team had looked hopefully at Caitlin, seeing her as their savior. But as the days went on, those looks had turned to disappointment and then scorn. Jess was the only one who still seemed to have faith. Every now and then she would pop her head around the door of Caitlin’s office.
“Any luck?” she’d ask.
“Nothing yet,” Caitlin would be forced to reply, trying to ignore the way the girl’s face fell.
Caitlin could understand the team’s frustration. She’d been doing so well in New York, so what was happening now? Even she wasn’t sure. She supposed she had no track record working on something of this scale. But that was no comfort to the design team. Melville was in trouble. Rumors of layoffs grew daily. Already, three of the most experienced design assistants had left for other jobs. She needed to prove herself to the others, earn their respect. And she wasn’t going to do that unless she had some damned good ideas. And soon.
But every day she’d sit down purposefully at her desk, get her sketchbook out, and sharpen her pencil, poised to go to work and then . . . nothing. She had no inspiration or vision. She responded by pushing herself twice as hard. She was in by eight in the morning and stayed until late into the night. But all she got for her efforts were more and more balls of paper in the wastebasket beside her desk.
Worst of all, there was no one she could confide in. She didn’t want to bother William with her problems. Elizabeth was busy with her own work. Her friends were all back in New York, and so far she hadn’t had a chance to make any in London.
At the next monthly board meeting she presented her first set of designs, cobbled together because she had to come up with something. They were passed along the table, submitted to the silent scrutiny of the board members. No one looked impressed.
“They’re just a first stab,” Caitlin said, hating the trace of desperation in her voice. “By next time I should have something more concrete to show you.”
Her platitudes were met with disappointed silence.
After the meeting wrapped up, Elizabeth took her to one side. “What’s going on?” She seemed genuinely concerned. “Is there anything wrong?”
Caitlin was at a loss to explain. “No, not really. It’s just . . . taking a little longer than I expected to come up with something.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Right, I understand,” she said, even though it was clear that she didn’t. “Just—well, let me know if you need any help, okay?”
She gave Caitlin an encouraging smile and left her to it.
Caitlin sighed. Her half sister’s patient understanding had made her feel even more wretched. Everyone was counting on her. And she needed to start delivering.
So Caitlin set back to work, feeling even more stress and pressure than before. She made herself some strong coffee and sat determinedly at her desk, waiting for brilliance to strike. At six o’clock, the design room started emptying out. Now, she thought. Now, I’ll be able to get down to some serious work.
But two hours later she was about ready to give up. She looked down at what she’d drawn—it was uninspired and unoriginal. In frustration, she stabbed her pencil onto the page, breaking the lead. Great.
She pulled open her desk drawer with such ferocity that it came straight out of its runners. She pushed it back in and started to rifle through the mess for a sharpener. And there, nestling among the papers and pens, as though it had been waiting for a moment just like this, a moment of weakness, was the folded-up article she had torn out of that magazine weeks earlier: the one about Lucien and his current exhibition in London.
That Sunday at Aldringham had been the first she’d heard of Lucien being in England. The article, which she’d just had to read, had told her that he’d moved here the previous year. Apparently the London art scene was far stronger than that in Paris these days, what with the English media and art dealers making stars out of trendy young British artists like Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst.
As soon as she’d gotten back to Eaton Square that night, she’d called Alain.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” she’d asked, hurt and upset.
She could almost hear his little Gallic shrug. “I thought it was for the best.”
Now she stared for a long moment at the address of the gallery where Lucien was exhibiting. He probably knows you’re in London, too, the logical part of her brain said. And if he hasn’t been in touch, then that must mean he doesn’t want to see you.
To hell with it, she decided. It was time she started fighting for what she wanted. Then she glanced down at herself. Her white T-shirt was stained with today’s lunch, she wasn’t wearing any makeup; and the last time she’d checked her hair needed washing.
Standing in front of the mirror in the ladies room half an hour later, Caitlin wished, not for the first time, that she was more like Elizabeth. Nothing ever fazed her sophisticated, organized half sister. She would have been fully prepared for a moment like this, an unexpected rendezvous with an old . . . friend. Would have had makeup with her, a change of clothes. Or, better still, she wouldn’t have left the house looking like such a mess in the first place.
Caitlin had improvised as best she could. She’d raided the studio, finally finding makeup and a comb left over from the last fashion show. The blusher and lipstick gave some color to her otherwise pale, tired face. There wasn’t much she could do about her hair, but at least the new cut was meant to look messy.
Clothes were a problem. As she was curvaceous rather than model-thin, none of the samples in the studio were going to fit her. She finally found a black satin shirt from the last collection, which matched her long skirt perfectly. She’d never much liked the loose fit of the shirt before, but because it was made for a model—and was therefore several sizes too small for her—it actually ended up looking okay, clinging to her curves.
Finally happy with how she looked, she went outside to find a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked once she was settled.
“The Borden Gallery, in Hoxton.”
At that time of night, it was only a twenty-minute drive to East London and the gallery where Lucien was currently exhibiting. Maybe the cab driver hadn’t heard of it, but Caitlin was impressed. Situated on the ever-so-trendy Hoxton Square, the Borden Gallery was small but select. An airy space of white walls, glass corridors, and exquisitely lit exhibition halls, the gallery had made its name from spotting the Next Big Thing. And Lucien was it.
Hoxton and Shoreditch were where the London art scene was centered nowadays. Like Belleville, the area was a former enclave of the working classes, and, also like Belleville, it was steadily gentrifying. Avant garde yuppies and the artistic set had turned former warehouses into loft apartments and made Hoxton Square the center of bohemian life. Where else would Lucien be?
“Hi, I’m Zara. Can I help you with anything?”
Caitlin glanced round to see a young, hip assistant flashing a megawatt sales smile. She took a deep breath. “I hope so. I’m an old friend of Lucien’s. Do you know if he’s in today?”
The girl’s smile cooled several degrees. “He’s around somewhere.” It was said with a total lack of enthusiasm. Zara was used to women coming in here and asking for Lucien. She nodded across the room. “In fact, there he is now.”
Caitlin felt her heart speed up. She turned . . . and yes, there he was, deep in conversation with a young couple—potential customers, she guessed. Five years and he hadn’t changed. He was still dark and dramatic, still the most charismatic man she had e
ver seen. She hung back, needing a second to compose herself.
He must have felt her eyes on him, because at that moment he looked up. There was nothing for it now, no chance to run away, even if she wanted to. His gaze met hers. For a moment he simply stared. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it.
He turned back to his customers, and for a horrible moment Caitlin thought he might ignore her altogether. But then she realized he was simply excusing himself, and the next minute he was walking over toward her.
“Lucien . . .” She stumbled over his name.
“Hello, Caitlin.” He was coolly formal, completely in control, almost as though he’d been expecting her to turn up like this one day, out of the blue.
She couldn’t help feeling disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Some grand reunion? Maybe at least a hint of how close they’d once been. But Lucien was all business. They exchanged the prerequisite kiss on each cheek. Caitlin tried not to notice how quickly he pulled away from her. He really didn’t seem surprised to see her. He didn’t seem . . . well, anything. Not exactly pleased, but not annoyed, either.
“I heard you were exhibiting in London,” she said. He hadn’t asked why she was here, but she felt she ought to explain. “I thought I’d come over and see the gallery . . . and you as well.” She fought the urge to ask if he’d known she was in London. What would be the point? If he hadn’t . . . well, they were talking now, so what did it matter? And if he had, then it was best not to go there.
He still hadn’t said anything, so she rushed on, before her courage failed her and she ran out. “I wondered if you wanted to go for a drink—you know, to catch up.”
There was a silence. Was he going to tell her to get lost?
But instead he said, “Oui, d’accord.” He looked at his watch. “The gallery closes at ten. There’s a bar across the street. Why don’t you wait for me there?” With that, he turned and walked away. It wasn’t the most promising start. But it would get better. It had to get better.
Caitlin found the bar easily enough. One of the many hip drinking establishments that surrounded Hoxton Square, it had that raw, urban feel associated with the area—exposed brickwork, scratched furniture, and low lighting. It was like being back in Belleville again, except this was a more studied attempt at cool. Friday night, and there were probably more lawyers and bankers in the crowd than media and art types.
It took twenty minutes to get served, then another ten to find a free booth—by which time she’d been jostled so much that half the drinks had spilled on the floor. She’d hoped to have some time to pull herself together, but she’d only taken a few sips of her rather warm white wine when Lucien appeared, dark and unsmiling. She’d left room for him to sit next to her, but he slid onto the bench opposite instead.
“You came,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You thought I would stand you up?”
In fact, it had crossed her mind. “No, of course not,” she lied.
“Well, it did not even occur to me.” He paused, before adding pointedly, “But maybe that’s because running away has never been my style.”
Ouch, Caitlin thought, as the gibe hit home. It was becoming apparent that Lucien wasn’t in the mood to forgive or forget.
Cool air pumped out from huge vents above them, but in the crush of hard, sweaty bodies it still felt hot. Caitlin slipped off her jacket. She felt Lucien’s eyes move over her. Because the shirt was so tight across her breasts, the top button kept popping open, and she was suddenly aware of the somewhat plunging neckline. She pulled self-consciously at the fabric but secretly felt pleased that he wasn’t as immune as he wanted her to think.
She pushed the beer toward him. “Here.” She tried to smile. “I’m not sure if I got the right kind.”
He gave a curt nod, didn’t return the smile. Sensing the conversation was being left up to her, Caitlin searched for something to say. She gulped down some wine and hoped its anesthetizing qualities would start working soon.
“Alain filled me in on what you’ve been up to,” she said settling on the most neutral topic she could think of—his work. “It sounds like you’ve done very well for yourself.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You haven’t done so badly, either.”
So he’d followed her career, too.
“I didn’t realize you were in London until I saw that article in the Observer,” she said, feeling bolder. “You probably didn’t know I was here . . .”
His blue eyes met hers. “I knew.”
That put her in her place. The awkward silence returned. She downed some more wine, thought about ordering another glass, and then decided getting drunk might not be the best way to deal with the evening.
She searched around for another topic. “I’m working here now,” she volunteered. “At Melville.”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “Your family’s business.”
Yet another sore point, she thought, trying hard not to feel flustered. “Oh, right,” she said neutrally. “I never told you about that, did I? It wasn’t a big deal.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He paused. “To you.” He took a sip of his beer. “And how is it—working at Melville?”
“Not as easy as I thought,” she said with feeling.
“And why is that?”
For the first time since they’d met that evening, he seemed interested in something. Well, if he really wanted to know . . .
She started to talk. And as she talked, she could see him beginning to relax a little. She found herself telling him about moving to London, finding Melville’s design department in such a mess, getting the go-ahead to make changes, and now the problems she was having seeing them through. He had the implicit understanding of a fellow artist.
“It will come to you in the end, chérie,” he told her. “My advice: relax. Stop worrying. Only then, when you least expect it, will inspiration strike.”
Somehow his understated assurances made her feel better than she could have imagined. After that, conversation was easy. He caught her up on his career, telling her about the galleries he was showing in. She knew most of the details already but was happy to hear it all again. They moved on to mutual friends. Both were still in touch with Alain and a few others from their Belleville days. They reminisced without mentioning what had transpired between them all those years ago.
Despite the quality of the wine, one drink turned into two and then three. By midnight, Caitlin was feeling lightheaded and brave.
“Another drink?” she asked, indicating the nearly empty bottle in front of him.
She saw a guarded look come over his face. “I don’t think so, Caitlin.” He waited a beat, then said, “In fact, I should go.”
She chose to ignore the warning tone in his voice. “Oh, come on,” she chided him lightly. “You can’t leave yet. It’s still early.”
“I’m meeting someone,” he said abruptly.
For a moment, Caitlin felt confused. Meeting someone? But it was so late. Then it dawned on her. A girl, of course.
“Right.” She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, guessed that he could see it, too. “Sorry. I understand. Of course, you should go.”
He stood up. “Come on. I’ll make sure you get a cab.”
She’d been hoping for a quick escape, but it soon became apparent that wasn’t going to happen. It was Friday night, as the pubs were closing. There wasn’t a black cab in sight. They stood for an increasingly painful ten minutes of silence until a taxi finally, mercifully, pulled up. Lucien held the door open for her. She went to get in and then stopped, not wanting to leave it this way between them.
“Can I see you again?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth she regretted it. Especially when he didn’t answer at first, just stared at her, with those piercing blue eyes. She should never have said anything, he clearly wasn’t interested. But now that she had started . . .
> “It’s just that I don’t really know anyone here, in London,” she added hastily. “So if you had a spare evening to go out, grab a drink or some dinner, you’d be doing me a favor—”
“Okay,” he cut into her babbling. “I will call you sometime.”
He slammed the cab door closed before she could say anything else. There was a finality to the sound. As the cab drove away, she couldn’t help thinking it would probably be the last time she saw him.
It was a week before he called. By then, she’d given up hope that he was ever going to get in touch.
He got straight to the point. “A friend of mine’s performing at Shunt tonight. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes, of course.” It was an offbeat performance art venue, deep in the tunnels under London Bridge station. “But I’ve never been,” she said quickly.
“Well, now’s your chance. I have a spare ticket for tonight. Would you like to come?”
“I’d love to,” she said warmly.
“Good.” He was brusque. “I’ll see you outside at ten, then.”
With no further pleasantries, he rang off. For a long time afterward, Caitlin sat at her desk, trying to analyze what the call meant. By the time evening arrived, she was still no closer to knowing. But it was a start, at least.
42
_________
Amber brought her sin-red Ferrari screeching to a halt in the Santa Monica beach parking lot. The car took up three spaces, but she didn’t care. Driving had never been her forte. She pulled the rearview mirror round to check her appearance—frowning at the dark circles under her eyes and her dry frizz of hair. The bleach she had to use to maintain the white blonde these days was doing a world of damage. Making a mental note to book an appointment with Sheri Eskridge at Art Luna to get that fixed, she grabbed her Gucci bag and headed over to where the camera crew, stylists, and makeup team were waiting.
