Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  She was halfway there when Rich intercepted her. He wasn’t in a good mood.

  “You’re over two hours late,” he said tersely. “You better get ready to do some serious groveling. Derek isn’t fucking happy—and that’s a direct quote.”

  She was supposed to be filming a TV commercial for Glamour cosmetics today. Derek Moss was directing, and he was a stickler for punctuality. The idea was to show her spending a day at the beach, with the highly unoriginal slogan of “Makeup that lasts as long as you do.” Derek had run through the images he wanted to use earlier in the week: Amber on the Pier, all popcorn and cotton candy, playing in the penny arcade; then jogging along the South Bay bicycle trail; cooling off in the bluer-than-blue Pacific waters; shopping in the Third Street Promenade. Then they were supposed to come back tonight at sunset and film her going for a romantic walk along the long, wide beach, sinking her toes into the soft sand.

  It was Sunday morning, and he’d wanted to start early, before the place started to fill up. The call had been for seven. It was nine now and already starting to get busy. Amber, like everyone else on the shoot, had known it was going to be hard enough filming everything without the usual onlookers gawking at them and getting inadvertently caught in the shots . . . tourists, joggers, bikers, and bladers, as well as the L.A. uptown girls who came to maintain their tans. But Amber was damned if she was going to apologize.

  She spat her chewing gum onto the sand, and Rich frowned. Santa Monica beach prided itself on its cleanliness, and there were trash receptacles everywhere. But as usual she took no notice.

  “Didn’t you tell him I was sick?” She pushed her oversize Chanel sunglasses onto her head.

  “Yes, I did.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Unfortunately, one of the crew saw you out last night with Johnny. So now I look like a liar and you look very not fucking bothered about your contract with Glamour.”

  Amber rolled her eyes. Rich had been on her back a lot lately, mainly about Johnny. Her manager wasn’t exactly thrilled with her new beau. In fact, he’d made his feelings on the subject abundantly clear. Johnny isn’t good enough for you. He’s dragging you down. You can’t keep partying like this forever. I’m worried about you.

  Bull. Shit.

  She knew what was really pissing Rich off. He didn’t like that she had someone else special in her life. She’d been with Johnny for three months now—in L.A. that was pretty much a lifetime. That week she’d been in England, after her dad’s heart attack, he’d called her every day. Once she’d gotten back, they’d really hooked up, and she’d never regretted it. Johnny was so cool, so sure of himself. And he wasn’t tied up in the same old tired scene. He liked to keep it real. The people he invited over to her place weren’t the same old faces—they were ordinary people, who he’d started talking to in bars, restaurants, and clubs. They just wanted to hang out and party. Sometimes Johnny would get his guitar out, and they’d start jamming, smoking some of the finest dope Amber had ever had.

  He was all about living for the moment, not worrying too much about the next day. So, yeah, maybe they were partying hard at the moment. But what was the big deal? She was still young. Most twenty-two-year-olds cut loose at some point.

  But Rich didn’t see it that way. They’d had a huge argument on that very subject last week. He’d been building up to it for a while, and he’d finally exploded when she’d crawled in for a photo shoot at Vogue after only two hours’ sleep.

  “It’s un-fucking-acceptable for you to turn up with bloodshot eyes and a hangover, he’d yelled.

  “Why don’t you stay the fuck out of my business?” she’d screamed back.

  The argument had raged on in front of the gruesomely fascinated photographers and magazine staff. It had ended in tears—from both of them. Amber had apologized and given him a huge hug, and they’d sworn that it would never happen again. But now, less than five days later, Amber had a feeling Rich was about to start in on another lecture.

  She stifled a yawn. God, she was tired. She’d come straight here from the club. She’d been chewing the gum to hide the smell of alcohol. She put her hand to her hair, matted and tangled after hours on the sweaty dance floor. She knew she didn’t exactly look her best this morning, but it was nothing half an hour in the makeup artist’s chair wouldn’t cure. And Johnny had slipped her some speed before she came out here. It was in her purse, so she could take it later when she started to fade. She had everything under control. There was nothing to worry about. Rich was just overreacting, as usual. And she wasn’t in a mood to pacify him.

  “Hey, take a Valium, Rich.” Her eyes glittered wickedly. “Or, should I say, take another one. Who’s the star around here? Glamour’s lucky to have me. I had lots of other offers, and I chose this one because they made it worth my while. What was it they said, to justify how much they were paying?” She pretended to think. Finally, her expression cleared. “Oh, yes. That’s right. ‘There’s only one Amber Melville.’ And as far as I can see, there still is. So, I’m a little late?” She gave a careless shrug of her petite shoulders. “What does it really matter?”

  She didn’t give Rich a chance to answer. Instead, she tossed her car keys at him, like he was a valet.

  “Anyway, can you make yourself useful and get someone to watch the car? I don’t want to come back and find scratches all over it.”

  With that, she turned and flounced off. If she’d bothered to glance back, she’d have seen the thunderous look on her agent’s face. It was going to take all his willpower not to scrape her keys along the hood himself.

  Johnny stretched out on the chaise longue next to Amber’s heated pool. Not that the pool needed heating at this or any other time of year. It was lunchtime on another scorching California day. The faint breeze wasn’t even strong enough to rustle the leaves on the palm trees.

  Johnny loved it here in Beverly Hills, with its candy-colored mansions and manicured lawns. It was all about the image of perfection, which suited him just fine. He hardly ever bothered going back to his comparatively modest Brentwood condo now. What was the point, when this place was so great? There was a tranquil, rarefied atmosphere up here in Summit Circle, with its fresh, pine-scented air and panoramic views of the cityscape below. Even now, despite not having slept for the best part of forty-eight hours, he felt relaxed, chilled.

  The maid came over with his Bloody Mary. “Here you go, señor.”

  He watched as she set the glass down on the table next to him, complete with a celery stick and Tabasco sauce. It was five-star treatment all the way chez Amber Melville. A cook, butler, and fulltime maid—although he would have happily done without the first two and just stuck with the maid, he decided, as she straightened up. With her dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, she clearly hailed from south of the border, down Mexico way. Her Latin-American beauty was an antidote to all the pneumatic blondes that were a dime a dozen here.

  “Thanks . . .” He paused, waiting for a name.

  “Rosita,” she filled in for him.

  “Thanks, Rosita,” he said.

  She gave him an inviting smile, the kind he could read a mile off, turned, and sashayed away. He watched her full, round buttocks undulating beneath the thin material of the maid’s outfit and felt a hard-on stirring in his pants—which was exactly where it needed to stay. He couldn’t afford to piss Amber off. Right now, she was his meal ticket.

  Yeah, everyone always assumed he was loaded. He’d made some best-selling albums, so he must be, right? Wrong. By the time everyone else had taken their cut—the record company, the studio, the promoters, his manager, the other band members—there hadn’t been all that much left for him. What there was, he’d managed to get through all too easily. Maintaining his lifestyle, keeping up appearances . . . It wasn’t like he could check into Motel Six. He was currently forking out eight thousand dollars a month in rent. That was rapidly depleting his already precarious bank balance. Then there were the nights out. Everyone expected him to p
ick up the tab. And why wouldn’t they? He was the big pop star, after all. It wasn’t like he could start asking everyone to chip in for gas.

  Even he’d been shocked when his grim-faced accountant had told him how much he had left. It had almost made him think twice about the wisdom of breaking up the band. But he’d wanted to go solo for a while—he’d always been the real star, after all. Like he’d told the guys, “I want to get away from the Brit pop scene, do something cooler, maybe some rock, a little soul . . .”

  After the band split, he’d gotten a new manager. His first piece of advice: “Head out to L.A.” Johnny wasn’t about to argue. Relaunching himself in the States sounded ideal. Crack the U.S. market, and he’d be made.

  Life in L.A. had been great at first. His manager, Brett, had made the appropriate calls, so the right people knew he was in town and looking to cut a deal. Everyone recognized his face, and there was a buzz around him. Sharp-suited record execs took him for power lunches at the Ivy and Spago; girls threw themselves at him—and these were great-looking girls, taut, tanned wannabe actresses and models, not like the English groupies with their cellulite thighs and muffin tops spilling out of their jeans. He was invited to all the right parties; when he went into clubs and bars, he was shown to the best seats.

  But as the months went on, the invitations began to dry up. It was becoming obvious that no one actually wanted to sign him. They’d all been happy to meet him, but only to figure out whether their competition had seen an angle on him that they’d missed. When his manager had pushed for a commitment, though, the response had been underwhelming. There was a lot of chat about ex-band members “not always making great soloists,” and wanting “to wait for the dust to settle on the split.” But Johnny—and his bank manager—couldn’t afford to wait. He knew his shelf life. He needed to make his move now, while Kaleidoscope was still considered a hot property. Otherwise, he might as well start thinking about alternative career paths, like sweeping floors.

  And then he’d finally caught a break: meeting Amber Melville.

  He hadn’t realized who she was at first. He’d been so wasted in Les Deux that night that he’d assumed she was just another pretty girl giving him the eye. It was only when he’d gotten back to her place that he’d begun to realize she was worth more than a one-night stand. His manager had been ecstatic.

  “Holy shit! Amber Melville! This is the PR coup we’ve been looking for!”

  Under Brett’s excited direction, he’d been his especially charming self, got her number, and called her religiously while she was in En-gland. When she got back the following week he’d booked a booth at Fred 62—guaranteed to get you photographed. The next day, pictures of them making eyes over a milkshake were splashed across every celebrity magazine, with the caption: Are Amber and Johnny an item? It kind of bugged him that her name came first, but he’d been able to live with it. After all, this was the most exposure he’d had in months.

  Their respective PR machines went to work, with the usual protestations that they were “just good friends.” It was like issuing a challenge to the paparazzi to prove otherwise. An anonymous tip to every reporter in town, and Johnny was photographed leaving Amber’s place early one morning, in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before at Teddy’s. Later that day, they issued a joint statement saying that they were together but would appreciate it if the press gave them their privacy. Suddenly they couldn’t move for photographers.

  Things were finally starting to look up for Johnny. He was back in the media spotlight. And hanging out with Amber wasn’t exactly a chore: she was gorgeous and fun. The record companies had tentatively started getting back in touch. It was only a matter of time before he signed something big. Then he could do what—and who—the hell he liked. He just needed to keep the wolf from the door for now. And that meant finding some way to cut costs, without looking as though he was trying to.

  He was still lying outside when Amber got back a few hours later. Stripping off her clothes, she dropped onto the chaise next to him, naked apart from a tiny pink thong, and started telling him about her day—Rich had pissed her off again for some reason. The sooner that loser was out of the picture the better, as far as Johnny was concerned. He tuned out until she finally shut up.

  “And what about you?” She rolled onto her back and threw a hand across her eyes. “What have you been up to?”

  He propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her pert breasts and long, shapely legs. He could live with this, he decided, laying his free hand across her flat belly. “Actually, babe, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking while you were out.”

  “Hmmm?” It was more of a purr than a word. He grinned, knowing what her answer was going to be even before he’d asked the question.

  “Why don’t I move in with you?”

  43

  _________

  When it came to her designs, Caitlin decided to take Lucien’s advice. “Relax,” he’d told her that night in Hoxton. “Stop worrying. Only then, when you are least expecting it, will inspiration strike.” She didn’t particularly like the idea of taking a break when she was so far behind, but as nothing else had worked, she might as well give that a try.

  So the following weekend, instead of heading down to Aldringham as planned, she spent Saturday and Sunday seeing London through the eyes of a tourist. From the National Gallery to the Victoria and Albert Museum, and then on to the Tower of London, she took in the sights, trying to recapture the heart of the city.

  Monday morning, she called up Jess. “I’m not coming in today,” she told her.

  “Oh?” The design assistant sounded concerned. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  In fact, Caitlin had decided that a day away from the accusing eyes of the workroom staff might help her creative block. So she wrapped up warmly and took her sketchbook to Hyde Park. And there, sitting on a bench by the Serpentine, she managed to achieve something that she hadn’t for a long time—she got lost in her drawings. Before, back in Melville’s offices, she’d tried to think of a new skirt or a new dress. Now, she drew an impression, a feeling, a mood, not really concentrating on the garments, not worrying about whether it was right for the Collection. She drew for the simple pleasure of creating.

  It was only later that night, once she was back at Eaton Square, that she began to realize how good the drawings were. There was something . . . different in there, something she hadn’t seen for a long time. London played a strong part—but from years gone by. It was a London of masked balls, rakish highwaymen robbing foppish gentlemen and their heaving-bosomed wives, overcrowded streets filled with bawdy wenches, Nell Gwyn and the depravity of Charles II’s court. These weren’t detailed sketches of garments—they were full pictures, life scenes. But there was no mistaking the presence of the clothing in the background, like a grand costume drama.

  Caitlin felt the first buzz of a revelation.

  Back at Melville, she called the design team together. Perching on one of the pattern-cutting tables, she watched as they pulled up chairs. Disillusioned, jaded faces stared up at her.

  “I know the last few months haven’t been easy,” she began.

  A few people exchanged knowing looks. Rumors of layoffs had been circulating. They thought that was why she’d called them together.

  Caitlin hopped down from the table and stood in front of them, hands on hips.

  “Well, today is where that ends,” she said firmly. “To make Melville Apparel a success, we need to reinvent it as a lifestyle brand. And this is how we’re going to do it.”

  She had their attention now. Across the room, people were sitting up straighter, spitting out gum, and reaching for pen and paper as she started to outline her ideas. Back in its heyday, she reminded them, Melville had been the brand of movie stars and jetsetters. She wanted to appeal to the glitterati once again. To do this, she would fuse the past with the present to create a sensual, decadent look; expensive and flamboyant. She summed it up in one sent
ence.

  “When those models come down the catwalk, I want them to look like Restoration courtesan meets modern A-list celebrity.”

  All around her, the design team started to talk at once.

  That was the easy part. Now Caitlin had the seed of an idea, she needed to grow that into an entire collection: from clothes to shoes to handbags and other accessories. She had never felt so exhausted and exhilarated in her life. Apart from the help of her small team, she was on her own, designing everything alone. In some ways that was best. It meant she had total artistic control.

  She focused in on her original drawings, favoring the ones threaded with the hint of seduction. This idea of the upper-class vamp, the antiheroine in historical novels and costume dramas . . . she would use that as her springboard and then translate it into a wardrobe for a sensual modern woman.

  Caitlin looked everywhere for inspiration, watching old movies again and again, trying to capture the mood she wanted for the fashion show. Film adaptations of Daphne du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek and Kathleen Winsor’s Forever Amber were among her favorites. Visually sumptuous, the lavish costumes were a constant source of ideas. She fell in love with an emerald green velvet cape and transformed it into a thigh-length swing coat, complete with faux-sable lining. A cloth-of-gold gown became a cute cocktail dress, retaining the dramatic neckline—low, wide and dropped on the shoulders—while bringing the full skirt up above the knee, so it flared out like a ballerina’s tutu.

  “I want to create corsets,” she declared late one Friday evening to the design team, who were growing used to her outbursts. “Proper lace-up, boned corsets—the type that give the wearer a perfect hourglass figure.”

  That weekend, she ordered her assistants to watch the Margaret Lockwood version of The Wicked Lady—a movie about an aristocrat who relieves the tedium of her genteel life by becoming a highwaywoman. When the team came in Monday morning and found sketches of a strapless dress in black leather, with a pencil skirt and lace-up bodice top, they knew precisely where the idea had come from.