But her father had changed almost beyond recognition.
Lola had tried her best not to imagine the scene that was before her now because she had been so afraid of what she might see. She had put off her first attempt at visiting for precisely that reason. Her enormous, strong, powerful father, who could deal with any problem by making a quick phone call, pulling just one of the thousands of strings that were at his disposition, was lying in his gigantic canopied bed. Helpless. Unconscious. At the mercy of anyone who might walk into the room.
The only sounds were his faint, laboured breathing, and a small regular beeping from a machine standing where his bedside table had been. He was hooked up to a drip, but there were other tubes running into his arm as well. Lola walked slowly towards the bed, feeling her resistance, her fear, with every step she took. When she was close enough to see his face, she stopped.
She didn’t even realise she was crying until she put a hand up, feeling an odd sensation on her cheek, and her fingers came back wet.
He looked so shrunken, so small. Being on nothing but a drip had caused him to lose weight, and the folds of skin that had once been plump with flesh now sagged, greyish, exposed in the bright morning light that flooded through the windows. The shape of his body under the richly quilted and embroidered bedcover would still have seemed large to anyone who hadn’t known Ben Fitzgerald, but to Lola it was frighteningly reduced in size. She had grown so used to her father’s bulk: there had been something comforting about it, his sheer size, the way it reflected the hefty power he could wield, the safety she felt knowing that she was always protected by his shadow.
His eyes were closed, of course. He looked almost dead.
Then she jumped. A nurse in a white coat over white trousers was standing by the bed, checking her father’s UV drip. He had been half-concealed by the lavish swags of brocade curtains that hung from the huge carver tester above.
‘Miss Fitzgerald?’ he said. ‘I’m Giuseppe Scutellaro, the day nurse.’ He grinned. ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful, though. You can call me Joe. Everyone here does.’
He was very handsome, Lola couldn’t help noticing; on the small side, with huge liquid dark eyes and a mass of thick curly hair, those amazing ringlets some Italians had, almost African in thickness and texture. His eyelashes were ridiculously long and curly, too.
‘I was just about to give your father his injection, ’ he continued, his Italian accent light but noticeable. ‘You’ll be used to this. I understand his diabetes was of long standing. And then I can leave you alone with him. It won’t take a moment.’
He picked up a syringe from a tray placed on top of the bedside table, which was actually a small carved oak cupboard converted into a miniature fridge to hold Ben’s supplies of insulin: neat little phials, their liquid pale and cloudy, looking much too small and insignificant to save his life. The drawer was full of new needles, each in plastic wrapping. In Ben’s private bathroom, under the sink, was a yellow sharps container, where Ben or his nurses disposed of the used syringes. The thought of this routine still continuing, even with Ben unconscious, unable to participate in it, made Lola’s eyes prick and water with tears that she blinked back, determined not to cry in front of the nurse.
He was unwrapping the syringe.
‘Oh, the pulse – I must record it, I’m sorry—’
He handed Lola the empty syringe and took Ben’s pulse, recording the result in a little notebook he pulled from the pocket of his white coat.
‘Do you want to take out the insulin?’ he asked. ‘We’ll make this as quick as possible, to give you time alone with him.’
‘Thank you, ’ Lola said gratefully, bending down to retrieve a phial of insulin from the fridge, sitting all by itself on the shelf.
‘How’s he doing?’ she asked, handing it to Joe as he slid the notebook away.
‘Not bad, ’ Joe answered. ‘We just have to be careful for bedsores. You know, he lies there all day without moving. We must turn him over, make sure he is comfortable, keep him nice and clean.’
‘He’ll never—’ Lola swallowed. ‘He’ll never wake up, will he?’
Joe shook his head, not meeting her eyes.
‘Not from an insulin coma. If he had been in an accident . . . a different kind of medical coma, then, perhaps. But he’s in a permanently vegetative state – there’s no coming back from that.’
He turned the phial upside down, drawing out its dose of insulin with the expert swiftness of someone who had done this thousands of times before. Despite her best intentions, Lola looked away as he bent over her father. It wasn’t seeing the needle slide in that she wanted to avoid: it was the sight of her father’s sagging, mottled flesh, his arm so limp, seeming so lifeless, that saddened her inexpressibly.
He would have hated this, she thought suddenly. He would rather have died than be this helpless, this vulnerable.
‘All done!’ Joe said, stepping back. He put the insulin back in the fridge and capped the syringe again, carrying it into the big central bathroom, the one Ben Fitzgerald had shared with Carin, to dispose of it. There was a rustle, and the familiar sound of the sharps container snapping shut, and then Joe emerged again, saying:
‘I’ll leave you alone now.’ He cleared his throat, a sign that something awkward was coming. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald says she will be back at five.’
‘That’s fine, thanks, ’ Lola said, understanding exactly what he was saying: that she was to be gone by then. ‘I’ll go at four-thirty.’
‘Bene. Well, I’ll leave you alone now.’
‘Thank you, Joe.’
He crossed the room and left through the main door that led to her father’s sitting room, closing it discreetly behind him. It was very silent in here, just the sound of her father’s guttural breathing. His head was propped up on two big pillows, his mouth slightly open, his jowls sagging onto his chest.
It was hard to look at him directly. Lola climbed onto the bed and lay down next to him, working her fingers through his limp ones to hold his hand. She closed her eyes and concentrated on bringing back memories of him. Playing with her when she was little, on the wide beach in Montauk, swinging her up through the air, pretending to drop her and then catching her at the last moment, her white-blonde hair blowing over her face as she squealed with excitement. The first time he took her to Venice, when she must have been about eight: on the private launch taking them to the Cipriani he snapped so many photographs of her with the breeze from the canals blowing her plaits over her face, sitting on the big white leather seat, holding onto the rail beside her with both chubby hands, looking around her with such excitement, that he finished a whole roll just on that boat ride. His expression when she slowly descended the stairs in this very house, all dressed up for a premiere at the Met, wearing an Alaia dress that had cost him an absolute fortune: the sheer pride on his face, the incredulous way he had said so fondly:
‘God knows how an ugly mug like me ever managed to make such a beautiful daughter . . .’
Memories of her father filled her mind and heart, washing away everything but the happiness they had shared together.
Oh Daddy, she told him. I love you so much. More than anything and anyone. I hope you can hear me, wherever you are. You loved me with all your heart, you took such good care of me. I promise you, whenever I think of you, whenever someone mentions your name, the first thing I’ll always remember is how much you loved me.
He hadn’t wanted her to grow up. He had, in a way, done everything he could to stop her from growing up, because he loved her so much that was his ultimate gift to her, to keep her forever his beautiful, spoilt, sheltered princess. Now the fairy tale was over. The princess had been thrown out of the castle by the evil stepmother. What happened next was up to Lola: but for any kind of happy ending, she needed to dry her tears and do whatever she had to do to claim her throne back.
Her head resting against her father’s bed, Lola made a promise to him.
I’ll do it
for you, Daddy. I’ll be the daughter you really deserve, not the one you thought you wanted. I’ll grow up. I’ll stop being a little girl and I’ll grow up into a woman. I’ll fight Carin so I can come and visit you. I’ll be strong, and I’ll stand on my own two feet, and I’ll be a daughter you can be proud of.
I know you’re in there, somewhere, and maybe you can hear me. Maybe you know what I’m telling you. And if you do, don’t be cross, Daddy. Don’t be worried. It’s time for me to grow up.
More than time.
Chapter 18
Lola was on top of the world as she waltzed in through the main door of the Plaza, which was held open for her by the uniformed doorman. She rewarded him with a lovely smile, and he nodded at her admiringly. Both her hands were full: one had a Starbucks cardboard tray, containing a chai tea latte with skim milk for herself, and a grande cappuccino with extra foam for Jean-Marc. The other carried a bakery bag with chocolate croissants for both of them. The calorie content was insane, but she had just done a yogilates class, it was only eleven in the morning, and if she didn’t eat a single carb for the rest of the day, she could allow herself that sort of crazy blowout every now and then . . .
She was in the rich-girl New York keep-fit outfit of black capri leggings, black fitted singlet top, hi-top trainers and a supersoft hoodie knotted round her waist. Her blonde hair was in the requisite straight ponytail, her sunglasses were propped on top of her head. At any moment, there were hundreds of women dressed just like Lola on the streets of Manhattan, jogging round the reservoir in Central Park, power-walking to their spinning or Ashtanga yoga class, showing off their slim bodies and the fact that they didn’t have jobs and could work out while the rest of the world just worked.
And Lola Fitzgerald might just be the prettiest one of all.
She examined herself in the elevator mirror. Pink cheeks, flushed from the exercise. Bright eyes – she and Jean-Marc had spent a quiet and early night in watching movies and drinking tea, and an alcohol-free evening certainly meant that the whites of your eyes were nice and clear the next day. Flat stomach: fennel tea was lightly diuretic, which meant that she wasn’t retaining any extra water. Good definition in her arms: the teachers of yogilates, which combined yoga poses and Pilates moves, knew very well that Manhattan women were as concerned about saggy upper arms as their abs and their hips, and they threw in a lot of plank position poses, which meant taking most of your body weight on your hands. It didn’t pump you up like doing weights, but when you were as slim as Lola, you didn’t need much to get your muscles showing.
And George was due to ring her at noon to confirm the date her trust fund case would be heard in Surrogate’s Court.
Everything was going as well as it possibly could.
Ping! The elevator doors slid smoothly open and Lola walked down the long corridor, hitting the doorbell to the Van der Veer suite with her elbow. She’d brought breakfast: Jean-Marc could at least get up and open the door so she didn’t have to put everything down and start fishing for her key.
To her surprise, the door swung open immediately. But it wasn’t Jean-Marc standing there. It was a grim-faced man in a suit.
‘Is Jean-Marc all right?’ she demanded, instantly jumping to the conclusion that something was wrong with him.
The man frowned.
‘Miss Fitzgerald? Lola Fitzgerald?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Yes, ’ Lola said impatiently. ‘What is it? What’s wrong with Jean-Marc?’
She hurried into the suite foyer, only to find herself surrounded by more grim-faced men and women.
Oh my God, she thought. Jean-Marc has gone out and tried to score drugs on the street and he’s got arrested, like that actress getting caught up in a drugs sweep, buying crack on the Lower East Side . . .
But why have they sent all these people to tell me about it?
‘Lola!’ called Jean-Marc from the living-room. He ran towards her, and was blocked out of the way by a woman with shoulders like a linebacker and a face like a hatchet. ‘I tried to call you, but they wouldn’t let me use the phones – which I’m sure they’re not allowed to do, ’ he added furiously.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Lola said faintly, a sensation of utter and complete impending doom rising through her. She was so scared she could barely move her lips. And although she was asking, it was only in the weakest of voices.
Because something deep down was telling her she didn’t want to know the answer.
‘It’s your—’ Jean-Marc started, but a louder voice drowned him out.
‘Lola Fitzgerald, you’re under arrest for the murder of Benjamin Fitzgerald, ’ said the man who had opened the door. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.’ He stared her right in the face. ‘Do you understand these rights?’
Lola’s mouth opened, but no words would come out.
‘It’s your father!’ Jean-Marc finally managed. ‘He died last night! Oh, darling, I’m so sorry—’
Lola’s muscles went weak. The Starbucks tray and the pastry bag dropped from her hands, and the police officers jumped back, cursing and pulling at their trouser legs, as hot chai latte and cappuccino splattered all over the marble floor. Jean-Marc, pushing past the woman to get to Lola, hugged her tightly, uncaring that his pale beige suede loafers were being irreparably stained by the spreading pool of brown liquid.
‘I’m so sorry, ’ he said, kissing her cheek, ‘so very sorry—’
But someone was pulling him off her and wrestling Lola’s arms behind her back. She felt cold metal close around her wrists, binding them to each other. It was like something out of a bad film; she couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
‘Get your hands off me! What are you doing to her?’ Jean-Marc protested, struggling as the woman police officer hauled him back. ‘I had no idea you were going to arrest her! She’s not a criminal! How dare you?’
‘She’s under arrest for murder, sir, ’ the woman police officer snapped at him, manoeuvring round the chai and cappuccino lake. ‘And you’d better not be hindering the execution of our duties.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ he insisted. ‘Lola, don’t worry, this is ridiculous, some idiotic mistake—’
‘Do you understand your rights?’ the grim-faced male cop bellowed in Lola’s face.
Lola stared right through him, which infuriated him still more. But she could barely see him: she was picturing her father, the last time she’d seen him. His still, comatose body, the grey tinge to his skin, the stuttering breathing. Had he really been on the verge of death? But the nurse had said he was doing well . . .
They were turning her round roughly, opening the suite door again, pushing her down the corridor.
‘I’m calling your lawyer now!’ Jean-Marc, galvanised to action by having been dragged off Lola and seeing her in handcuffs, shouted after her. ‘I’m calling George, he’ll know who to get hold of! We’ll have you out in no time! And then, ’ he added malevolently, ‘we’ll be pressing charges against all of you for wrongful arrest! And the city! I’m going to call my family lawyer as well! You have no idea who you’re dealing with here!’
The cops were snapping instructions to each other over Lola’s head as Jean-Marc’s furious threats followed them down the long corridor. Another suite door opened, an elegant woman of a certain age in pearls and a silk Tory Burch dress emerging, frowning, to see what all the screaming was about: her eyes widened in amazement as she took in the scene, and she actually called back into her apartment to summon someone else to witness it too.
‘In the Plaza!’ Tory Burch Woman breathed incredulously. ‘Chappy, darling, do hurry up – this is by far the most exciting thing to happen in the Plaza ever—’
Lola was manhandled into the elevator, the detectives pressing in around her, still talking to each other ov
er her head. It was all a blur. Her head was swimming. Her father was dead. She would never see him again. She had sat next to him only yesterday, held his hand, talked to him, listened to him breathing . . .
And less than twenty-four hours later, he had died.
Not only that, but she was under arrest for his murder.
The elevator came to a halt, and they bustled her out, turning into the main hotel lobby. Lola was hustled towards the main doors as Plaza residents and staff universally stopped in their tracks to stare avidly at the extraordinary spectacle before them, a phalanx of New York City detectives tightly packed around a small, slender young woman in workout clothes, her blonde ponytail bobbing from side to side as they hurried her across the lavish expanse of tiled floor. Utter silence fell for thirty seconds, as the spectators realised what they were seeing, the latest twist in a saga that had already been splashed across every newspaper and tabloid magazine in New York.
And then there was a mad scramble for activity, as people grabbed for their cellphones and tried desperately to snap a photo of the dramatic event happening right in front of them.
A blaze of light greeted their emergence from the Plaza. A mass of paparazzi was already gathered there, supplemented by a rapidly growing group of spectators, shoppers from Fifth Avenue, people emerging from Central Park, who had been drawn, out of curiosity, to see why there were so many photographers gathered outside the Plaza. They had expected a quick celebrity sighting, the latest young starlet-behaving-badly, carrying a water bottle filled with vodka, flashing her knickerless crotch at the paps as she slid into a limousine.
Instead they were rewarded with a real one-off – an honest-to-goodness celebrity arrest.
Disoriented, blinking in the constant flashes and the screams to her to look over here, Lola! Here! it didn’t even occur to Lola to duck her head. She stared around her, utterly confused, hypnotised by the red spinning lights on the three police cars – three, just for her? How could she possibly merit three police cars?
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