Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  At the next board meeting, an uncomfortable silence fell across the room as Caitlin handed round her latest sketches. After last time, no one was expecting much. Caitlin didn’t say anything about her new designs. She’d decided it was best to let her work speak for itself.

  She watched the directors closely to monitor their reaction. Initial indifference turned to interest, followed by murmurs of excitement as they passed the sketches around.

  It was Elizabeth who spoke first. Concerned that Caitlin might not be able to pull off a show on the scale Melville needed, she had secretly been putting feelers out, trying to see if she could get anyone decent to take over as head designer. Now, thankfully, there would be no need to go down that road.

  “These are good,” she said. It was exactly what she’d hoped for—a lavish, upscale collection, dramatic and glamorous—a true break with Melville’s current dreary image. There was undisguised admiration in her eyes as she went on: “I mean, these designs are amazing. Absolutely perfect.”

  Caitlin felt a rush of pride mixed with relief. “Obviously you won’t get the full impact just from a drawing,” she said hastily. “Without the feel and drape of the fabric, it’s hard to bring the garments to life.”

  No, no, Elizabeth and the directors rushed to assure her; they could see perfectly well what the collection would be like. They might not be fashion experts, but even their untrained eyes could see that they were in the presence of something truly extraordinary. Years of beige and brown were being replaced with blood red and ebony black; tweed and linen by velvet and lace; tailored suits and sensible knitwear were making way for low-slung trousers and lavish gowns.

  The board spent another half hour discussing Caitlin’s work before the meeting finally wound up. Elizabeth, rushing off for a conference call, still found time to congratulate her sister. “You’re doing a great job.” She gave Caitlin’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever inspired you—make sure you hold onto it.”

  It was exactly what Madame had said to her, all those years ago when she’d looked at Caitlin’s pieces for the final show. Then, as now, Caitlin had Lucien to thank for putting her on the right path.

  Collecting her sketches, she headed downstairs to the workroom. As soon as she got through the door, she was surrounded. During her two-hour absence, the design team had already come up with a hundred new questions.

  “Okay, okay.” She held her hands up. “One at a time, guys.” But she was secretly delighted with their enthusiasm. It looked like this might work out after all.

  Getting board approval for her designs was only the start for Caitlin. Now, the sample garments needed to be made up, models selected and brought in for fittings, and a suitable venue chosen to show the collection. Caitlin had already decided against using Melville’s showroom, as she wanted this to be a firm break with the past. And, even though work was unrelenting, she was happy—because she finally felt as though she was on the right track for Melville.

  But while her professional life was going well, her personal life seemed to be as much of a mess as ever. Since that first night at the gallery, she had seen quite a lot of Lucien. They met once or twice a week, hanging out in the clubs and pubs of Curtain Road and Old Street. But it was always in a crowd, and the conversation never involved anything personal.

  Tonight, she’d finally gotten him to agree to go for dinner with her—just the two of them. They were meeting at CRU, near the gallery. It was casual, a late tapas supper in the bar. “I can’t stay long,” he’d emphasized on the phone when they’d arranged it. But time alone together seemed like a step forward at least.

  Caitlin had on her usual workroom attire—jeans and a T-shirt, her battered sneakers. In her bag, she’d brought makeup and a change of clothes for the evening. But now she suddenly couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. He never seemed to notice how she looked these days anyway. She simply pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, then paused in front of the mirror for a moment, something disconcerting her. It suddenly came to her. With her hair tied back, she looked younger—almost exactly the way she had in Belleville. Well, maybe turning back the clock would help. It surely couldn’t hurt.

  Three hours later, Caitlin had to concede that the evening wasn’t turning out quite as she’d planned. At the last minute, Lucien had canceled on dinner, telling her that he’d forgotten a prior commitment to meet some friends at Cargo in Rivington Street.

  “Can I come along?” she’d asked, unwilling to abandon the evening quite yet.

  Lucien had answered with a noncommittal, “If you want.”

  It wasn’t the most enthusiastic response, but she’d arranged to meet him there anyway.

  Cargo was currently one of the hippest clubs in East London. Built into the railway arches of the Kingsland viaduct, it attracted some of the best DJs in Europe. It was the first time Caitlin had been there, and she wasn’t sure she liked it much. She’d hung out with Lucien at nearby 333 before, which she’d loved—it had been very laid back and low key. But this place seemed much more self-consciously cool.

  Her mood wasn’t helped by the fact that the “friends” Lucien had promised to meet up with included Zara, the snooty gallery assistant. By the time Caitlin arrived, she was already squeezed into a booth next to Lucien.

  “It’s so lovely to see you again, Caitlin,” Zara brayed. She rested a proprietary hand on Lucien’s knee. “Are you joining us? How wonderful!”

  Zara was there with a group of equally preppy girlfriends, all wearing low-backed dresses and clutching cute evening bags. Looking around, Caitlin couldn’t help feeling underdressed. Even the girls in jeans had jazzed them up with strappy little tops and pointy-toed shoes.

  The evening got more miserable. Zara seemed determined to keep Lucien by her side. She kept dragging him off to dance, or introduce him to someone she knew—“They’ve been absolutely dying to meet you, Lucien!” Worse still, he didn’t seem to be making any objections.

  The crowd was mainly male and extremely pushy. And without Lucien around, Caitlin was an open target. A voice said, “Can I interest you in a drink?”

  She looked up to see a tall, clean-cut man holding a bottle of Moët. He was in his early thirties, wearing jeans with a button-down shirt tucked in at the waist. A management consultant or banker boy, she guessed.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Caitlin declined politely.

  He nudged her arm. “Come on. Just one drink.” He gave her what she guessed was his attempt at a winning grin. “I don’t bite, I promise.”

  The barman came back with her mineral water. She quickly paid. “Thanks again.” She held up the bottle for her unwanted suitor to see. “But I’m all set.”

  The smile left his face. “Uptight bitch,” he muttered, as he turned away. Charming.

  When she walked back to where their group had been sitting, Lucien had disappeared again. And so had Zara. Caitlin didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. He’d been trying to tell her for weeks that he wasn’t interested. She just hadn’t wanted to see what was in front of her. Well, it was time for that to end. If Lucien wanted her out of his life, then so be it.

  Grabbing her jacket, she slipped out of the side door of the club . . . and came to an abrupt halt. So much for a smooth getaway. Because there, standing alone in the alleyway, halfway through a cigarette, was Lucien. Zara was nowhere in sight.

  Lucien looked down at the coat in her hands. “Running away again, Caitlin?” His voice was quietly mocking. “That did not take long.”

  She bristled. He was the one who’d ignored her all evening. “Well, there didn’t seem much point staying around. You were with Zara and—”

  “And what?” he cut in. “We were talking, that’s all. And even if there was something more to it, is it really any of your business? I think you gave up your right to have a say in my life a long time ago.”

  As he took a step toward her, his face was suddenly illuminated by the streetlight, and she saw something in h
is eyes that she hadn’t been expecting. Anger. It was the first time he’d let his veneer of indifference slip.

  “You were the one who walked out on me,” he hissed. “On us. Twice. For no good reason.”

  “It wasn’t for no reason,” she protested.

  “Then tell me.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Tell me, why did you leave?”

  There was a long silence. Finally she dropped her eyes. “Lucien, I can’t.”

  The anger seemed to leave him all at once. He shook his head then, and if she wasn’t mistaken he seemed almost sad as he said, “That’s what I thought.”

  He stubbed the cigarette out on the wall and walked away. There was a finality to the gesture that terrified Caitlin. She couldn’t lose him again.

  She opened her mouth to call after him. But the words wouldn’t come.

  It didn’t take Lucien long to get home. His Shoreditch flat was only five minutes from the club. Passing the night doorman without a word, he got into the lift and hit the button hard for the top floor.

  Usually his apartment was a sanctuary for him. Part of a trendy warehouse conversion, it was a huge open-plan live-work space with floor-to-ceiling windows, elegantly furnished in dark wood and fine white linens. It suited Lucien perfectly. But tonight, for the first time ever, stepping inside didn’t help him relax.

  He went over to the bar, found a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a large glass. Cradling the tumbler in his hands, he took a sip. It was only then that he saw he was actually shaking with fury. He had never known such rage, never thought he had it in him. He hated that she could do this to him still. With all his strength and anger, he hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered against the brickwork.

  “Putain!” he swore. Caitlin, Caitlin, Caitlin. He put his hands to his temples, wishing he could erase her from his mind. Why did she have to come back into his life now, when he’d thought that he was finally over her?

  He found another glass, poured more whiskey, and dropped into the armchair. He felt like such a fool. For some reason he had hoped it would be different this time, that she would finally open up to him. How wrong could he be? She was still the same head case as before. His hand clenched into a fist, and he banged the arm of the chair. God, but he didn’t need this.

  Five minutes and another drink later, the intercom sounded. Instinctively, he knew it was her. He didn’t move at first. Just sat in the chair wanting to make her wait. Make her know some of the frustration of trying to talk to someone who wouldn’t answer.

  Finally, three exasperated rings later, he got up.

  “Please, Lucien,” she begged. “Please . . . let me in.”

  Against his better judgment, he buzzed her up.

  Waiting for her, he paced the floor, trying not to think, concentrating instead on the clunk of the old freight elevator as it went down to the ground floor to collect her, hearing it slowly heave its way back up.

  The elevator arrived. He pulled the heavy grating open, and she was standing there, waiting for him to invite her in. He saw she had been crying and forced himself to ignore the tears, her intense vulnerability.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  He watched her take one deep breath followed by another. And then she said the words he’d been waiting to hear for such a long, long time.

  “I’m here because I want to tell you everything.”

  44

  _________

  William walked slowly into the boardroom. He was the last to arrive. It was his first day in the office after six months of recuperation. The board applauded as he entered, each member standing to shake his hand as he passed.

  “It’s good to have you back.”

  He gave a weak smile, waving away their enthusiastic greetings. The truth was, he felt disorientated and tired. The doctor had counseled him against returning to work, and Isabelle had begged him to stay at home. But he’d needed to do this. Piers’s reports of what Elizabeth was up to had worried him.

  Abolishing Melville Essentials . . . “The vote was unanimous,” Piers had told him. It was hard not to see his daughter’s actions as a direct criticism of him. But now he was back in charge, and he didn’t plan on going anywhere. Elizabeth would have to accept that.

  At least he could rely on Caitlin, he thought, immediately feeling better. She had really come through for him these past few months. He had seen sketches of the designs that she was working on, and he couldn’t help being impressed. It was a very different step for Melville, but one that he hoped would pay off.

  We’ll find out soon enough, he thought. The fashion show was only a month away. Whether employing Caitlin had been the right move would be apparent for the world to see then. But, whatever happened, from a personal point of view he had no regrets—he would always treasure these past few months, having the opportunity to finally get to know her.

  Aware of everyone’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat, ready to get down to business. “Now,” he began, “I’m sure there’s an awful lot for me to catch up on. So why don’t we get started?”

  Sitting across the table, Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking how well her father looked: he’d lost weight over these past months, and he had that healthy glow of someone who was watching his diet carefully. She was pleased that he seemed to have recovered, although part of her wasn’t exactly happy to have him back at work. Not at this crucial stage.

  Change took time. That’s what Elizabeth had found. Winning board approval for her ideas had only been the first battle in a long war to turn the company around. Over the past few months, she had been hard at work reducing operations: she’d cut the product line from twenty thousand to less than a quarter of that size; and reduced the number of stores stocking Melville items from five hundred to ninety.

  “It seems a bit drastic,” Hugh had observed initially, to murmers of agreement from the other directors.

  “The company doesn’t have time for a piecemeal approach,” Elizabeth had answered. “We need to see results—and fast.”

  You couldn’t gradually make a brand cool again. It was the basic principles of supply and demand. For years, Melville had been a luxury name behaving like some “pile ’em high, sell ’em cheap” outfit. That had to change.

  She’d refused to renew contracts for licensing the brand and had sent letters to over a thousand retail clients in the U.K. and the U.S. announcing that, once current stocks of Melville Essentials ran out they wouldn’t be replenished. The sales director of Pharm-Mart had been the first to complain. “This is outrageous! We’ve been doing business for years.”

  But Elizabeth was adamant. It had to be this way—all or nothing. It would take another twelve months, but by then Melville products would no longer be available in drugstores and supermarkets; other than the designated Melville stores, only top names like Harvey Nichols or Saks would be able to get hold of Melville products.

  Unfortunately, so far, her strategy of removing Melville Essentials’ products from the shelves had succeeded in reducing sales further, without any compensation at the higher end as yet. Every month, a new round of dismal figures appeared. Now, as Piers ran through the latest numbers at her father’s instruction, Elizabeth could feel everyone staring at her accusingly. But she kept her head up and stayed firm.

  “This is a long-term plan,” she told the board confidently now. “Of course you can’t expect to see results overnight. We need the customers’ perception of the brand to change first.”

  In the face of all the hostility, it was getting harder and harder to stick to her beliefs, but somehow Elizabeth managed it. She had to keep any doubts to herself. Because she knew if she showed signs of weakness, the vultures would descend and tear her apart.

  “Well, obviously this was all agreed without me.” William made no effort to hide his disapproval. Most of the other directors chose that moment to study their meeting agenda. “I just hope to God you know what you’re doing, Elizabeth,” he said, so no one
was in any doubt where he felt the fault lay for the current mess.

  In some ways Elizabeth couldn’t blame him for being sceptical. But she kept her cool. “Don’t worry,” she said, with a certainty she didn’t feel. “I do.”

  “Good.” His tone was brisk. “Then you won’t mind putting together a forecast for how far you expect sales to drop off over the next year, and when you see them picking up again.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll expect to see that on my desk tomorrow morning.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to object. She’d promised Cole that she would be home by seven at the latest, and what her father had just asked her to do would take pretty much all night. But then she saw the challenge in William’s eyes; knew the other directors were waiting to hear her answer. If she refused, she would lose face. And she couldn’t have that. “Of course,” she murmured.

  Cole would understand that she needed to do this. After all, it was only one more night.

  A ten-minute walk away from his wife’s office, over in the heart of Soho, Cole was caught up in a meeting about his own business. The kind of meeting that could determine a lot.

  He tossed the contract onto his desk. The offhand gesture showed the man who sat across from him exactly what he thought of his offer: twenty million pounds for a 40 percent stake in his company. Cole had no intention of accepting.

  Ed Linton frowned at this outright dismissal. “Hey, it’s a good offer, mate.”

  Cole rocked back in his chair, the leather creaking underneath his weight. “Yeah, I’m sure it is. But I’m still gonna have to say no, Ed.”

  The other guy opened his mouth to argue back and then thought better of it. He’d worked with Cole for long enough to know that once he’d made up his mind, he wasn’t going to change it.

  The two men had met when Cole first came to England. Ed had been a highflier in the London office of Sedgwick Hart. A few years earlier, he’d left to set up a private equity firm with a couple of other guys. They’d had their eye on Cole’s business, Kobe, for a while and had pitched a tempting offer. But Cole wasn’t interested in relinquishing any control—he liked having no one to answer to but himself.