Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  She had an unexpected urge to call someone, to hear a familiar voice. But who? She’d phoned and left a message for Magnus earlier that day, and he still hadn’t gotten back to her. And it wasn’t as if there were that many other people she was close to. She spoke to her father on business, and her mother on sufferance; however hard she tried with Caitlin, her efforts were always rebuffed. Amber was too young and silly. Uncle Piers was one of the few people Elizabeth felt comfortable talking to, but right now, it wasn’t him she wanted. Then who?

  Cole. The idea popped unbidden into her head. Where had that come from? She turned around, her back pressed against the cool window, as she mulled the idea over. She spoke to him a couple of times a week, keeping him up to date on her progress. They got on now, bantered a lot. But deep down that was business, nothing more. She’d hardly phone him for a chat. He no doubt had plenty of friends—plenty of girlfriends—to occupy him. He might even be out with Kathleen.

  Elizabeth had wondered if there might be something going on between those two. Before she’d left London, she’d seen them closeted together in Cole’s office for hours at a time. She’d considered asking Kathleen if they were an item. But the other woman had barely been speaking to her after losing out on the Yamamoto deal. So Elizabeth had no idea what was going on in Cole’s personal life right now.

  But still. However illogical it might be, she wanted to speak to him. Elizabeth hesitated for just a moment. Then she reached for the phone and dialed his number.

  Unlike her eldest sister, Amber had never been happier. She finally felt she belonged. The past few months with Eva, Billy, and Jack had been the best of her life. After a while, the sex got better. And so did the parties. Billy and Jack welcomed her eagerly into their little group.

  “Amber, you came back!” Billy said the following week when she walked through the door, kissing her full on the lips.

  Jack seemed equally pleased to see her. “Hey, love. Fancy a beer?” He tossed her a can. It was only then that he noticed Eva standing behind her. “Oh, hi, there,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Do you want something to drink, too?”

  That was the best part for Amber. For the first time ever, she was the one getting all the attention, not Eva. When they’d started going to Cindy’s, all the boys had been drawn to Eva’s sultry voluptuousness rather than her own waifish looks. But Billy and Jack were different. As the evenings wore on, when it was just the four of them, the guys would always ask her to dance for them. She was happy to oblige. It made her feel special.

  Only one person wasn’t pleased with all the attention Amber was receiving. And that was Eva.

  She nudged Jack moodily. “Why don’t you ever ask me to dance?”

  He slung an arm around her, pulling her to him. “Sure I do.” He tried to plant a kiss on her forehead, missed, and got her hair instead. “All the time.”

  She pushed him away. “No, you don’t.” She sulked. “You prefer Amber.”

  Jack sighed. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument. Usually he tried to placate her, but this time he couldn’t be bothered.

  “Whatever, Eva.”

  He turned away and resumed watching Amber’s undulating body, leaving Eva to glare at him through narrowed eyes.

  Amber was blissfully happy with the routine they’d fallen into. So she was surprised when one weekend Eva suggested that they do something other than going over to Keepers Cottage.

  “I’m tired of those guys,” she said. “Why don’t we go to Cindy’s instead? Just the two of us. Like it used to be.”

  Amber was standing in front of the dressing-table mirror, straightening her hair the way Billy liked it. She looked at Eva’s reflection and frowned.

  “But you’re the one who said Cindy’s was boring in the first place.”

  Eva flushed. “Yes. I know. But—”

  Amber’s face was blank. “But what?”

  Eva sat up, swinging her legs over the bed. In her uniform, with no makeup on and her hair pulled back, she looked younger than her fifteen years.

  “Come on, Amber.” For once, her face was serious. “We’ve had some fun. But these homems . . . they’re bad news. They have no respect for us, saca?”

  Amber didn’t say anything. Assuming the silence meant she was wavering, Eva went ahead and pressed her advantage.

  “Don’t go tonight. Please. Stay with me. We’ll do something together—just the two of us.”

  Amber took her time straightening the last section of hair. She switched the tongs off. Then she turned to Eva.

  “I’m sorry if you don’t like hanging out with Billy and Jack any more.” Her voice was silky smooth. “But I do. And, to be honest, I think you’re just jealous because they prefer me to you.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are,” Amber interrupted. “You’re jealous that I’m getting all the attention—that’s why you don’t want to go. Well, I like hanging out with those guys. So don’t try and spoil my fun just because you don’t want to come along.”

  With that, Amber flipped back her long, thick hair, grabbed her coat, and left a pale-faced Eva sitting on the bed alone.

  No one seemed to care that Eva hadn’t turned up. Not even Jack, who was supposed to be her boyfriend. It was just the three of them tonight, Amber, Billy, and Jack. They sat cross-legged around the coffee table in the scruffy sitting room, drinking beer.

  After a while, Billy pulled a mirror from his rucksack, placed it in the center of the table, and emptied a small vial of white powder onto it. Amber thought nothing of it. Billy and Jack always indulged in a little pick-me-up. As a long-distance trucker, Jack had been using it for years to keep him alert on the road. He arranged the coke into three neat lines. But instead of snorting it himself, he looked expectantly at Amber.

  She hesitated. They’d offered her coke before, but Eva had always said no, and she had followed suit. Dope was harmless, the other girl said, but you didn’t want to touch anything harder. Only now, her restraining voice wasn’t here. And Amber wanted to prove that she could do this, that Eva was the coward and she was the braver, more sophisticated one.

  “Okay,” she said, with what she hoped was an air of nonchalance. Taking the twenty-pound note that Jack offered her, she rolled it up like she’d seen the guys do before. Then she bent over the mirror, put the note to her left nostril, and inhaled deeply.

  She felt the powder going up her nasal passage, stinging the tender skin, and for a second her face went worryingly numb. But then she stopped caring. Because the feeling of euphoria that engulfed her was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She felt calm, in control, powerful, confident. As if she could do anything.

  Her heart started to beat faster, and she felt hot . . . so hot. She pulled off the sweater she’d been wearing. The halter top underneath left little to the imagination. She caught Billy watching her and gave him a slow, seductive smile. He leaned over and started to kiss her. She closed her eyes.

  The kiss was sweet and tender, the kind she liked. His lips soft, his tongue gently probing. He tasted of cigarettes and beer. Eventually his hand slipped under her top and found her left breast, massaging it in slow, deep circles through the thin material of her bra. It was only when she felt him reach for the zip on her jeans that it crossed her mind to check if Jack was still in the room.

  Her eyes flickered open and she stared in confusion. Something wasn’t right. It took a moment for her to realize that the person holding her wasn’t Billy. It was Jack. She jerked away.

  “Billy!” she said, her hand going to her mouth.

  “It’s okay . . . it’s okay,” Jack shushed her, reaching down to squeeze her leg. “Billy doesn’t mind.” He nodded to the side. She followed his gaze and saw Billy sitting across the room, watching them. He got up then and came over to sit behind her.

  “Jack’s right,” he said, beginning to massage her shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

  His lips brushed her neck. A
nd Jack started to kiss her again too, slowly, softly. In that moment, she had never felt so loved, so wanted. This time, when Jack began to unzip her jeans, she didn’t object.

  And, over the noise of the CD, she also didn’t hear the whirr of the video camera perched on top of the mantel.

  25

  _________

  Friday night. Caitlin stood in front of the bathroom mirror. A half-finished glass of neat vodka sat on the side of the basin, where the soap dish should have been. She ran critical eyes over her appearance. Not bad. Nothing like she usually looked. She had made an effort this evening, and it showed. She’d gone shopping during the week and spent a month’s wages on a vintage dress that she had found in one of the little boutiques in the Marais. She’d fallen in love with the empire-line gown straightaway, had known it was perfect for tonight.

  It wasn’t only the clothes that were different. She’d gone into Véronique’s room and raided her makeup bag. Mascara and eyeliner emphasized her wide, indigo eyes and gave her a look of dark glamour; the deep plum lipstick showed off her full, sensual lips. She hadn’t gotten fixed up like this in a long time.

  “You look good.” Véronique stood in the bathroom door, watching her.

  Caitlin gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.”

  “When are you off?”

  “Soon,” Caitlin promised. She knew Jules was due and her roommate was eager to have the place to herself.

  Véronique gave a brief nod. “Give Lucien a kiss from me,” she said and drifted away.

  Soon, Caitlin thought. She would leave soon. She should really have left half an hour ago. Across town, Lucien would be waiting for her. But somewhere along the way tonight, her bravado had evaporated. In the end, she’d gone to the freezer, found Véronique’s vodka, and poured herself a large glass. She was still waiting for the alcohol to work its magic.

  She gripped the sides of the hand basin, trying to ground herself. Lucien wasn’t Elliott, she told herself again. This was nothing like it had been with Elliott. She was a woman of twenty. She wasn’t the same naïve girl who’d arrived at Aldringham all those years ago.

  Feeling a little better now, she tossed back the dregs of her drink, wincing as the vodka hit her throat. With one last cursory glance at her appearance, she decided it was time to go. Dumping the glass on the basin, she turned away from the mirror, but as she did so, her hand caught the edge of the empty tumbler, sending it flying. She looked back in time to see it smash onto the hard tile floor, shattering into tiny pieces.

  She stared down at the mess and felt a shiver run through her. She hoped it wasn’t an omen for the rest of the evening.

  By the time Caitlin got to Lucien’s place half an hour later, the vodka was finally beginning to take effect. Any last-minute doubts had deserted her. She pushed open the iron gates and walked down the pretty cobbled alleyway to his apartment building. Another resident was on his way out as she arrived. She slipped by him and ran the five flights up to Lucien’s top-floor flat.

  As he opened the door, looking uncharacteristically casual in jeans and a white smock, his long hair tied back, she felt herself relax.

  In turn, Lucien ran his eyes over Caitlin and decided he’d never seen her look so beautiful. The dress, the makeup, the way her hair fell across her face . . . He was pleased that she had made an effort for him, for tonight.

  “Comme tu es jolie, ma petite.” He went to kiss her, but she thrust a bottle at him, the cheap Bordeaux she’d picked up along the way.

  “I brought some wine,” she said unnecessarily.

  “Thanks.” He took a quick look at the label and raised an eyebrow. “But really, you needn’t have bothered.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm in his voice, she pushed past him. She always loved coming over to Lucien’s apartment. It was open-plan living at its best: beautifully light, with pale maple floors, white-painted beams, and south-facing windows. The view outside was a Paris roofscape of chimney pots.

  She threw her jacket onto the back of a chair and followed the smell of cinnamon through to the tiny kitchen, where a pan of what looked like stew was simmering on the stove. She ignored the food. Instead, she found an open bottle of wine and poured herself a glass.

  “What’re you cooking?” she asked as Lucien came in. She leaned back against the counter and sipped her wine.

  “El ham lahlou.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It’s sweet lamb. An Algerian dish. One of my mother’s recipes.” He took a step toward Caitlin, reaching for her waist, but she twisted away and began opening drawers.

  “It smells like it’ll be ready soon, so why don’t I set the table?” She pulled out some cutlery. When she turned back, she glanced over at the pan. “And maybe you should stir that. It’d be a shame to let it burn.”

  Lucien gave her a strange look as she hurried out of the kitchen but didn’t say anything. By the time she went back in, he was too busy dishing up to raise whatever had been bothering him.

  The meal was every bit as good as it sounded. The lamb was sweet and tender, the exotic flavors of North Africa coming through in the orange and cinnamon. But even though the food was delicious, Caitlin found it hard to eat. She pushed the buttered couscous around her plate and hoped he wouldn’t notice. Instead, she concentrated on the wine. It was from Algeria, a Château Mansourah, Lucien had explained. Whatever it was, it was exceedingly drinkable. In fact, she wasn’t aware of exactly how much she had drunk until she went to pour some more, and Lucien reached out his hand to stop her.

  “Maybe you should slow down a little. You didn’t eat very much.” He nodded at her almost full plate. “The alcohol will go straight to your head.”

  “I’m fine,” she said tightly.

  He peered at her. “Are you sure, Caitlin? Because if you’re not feeling well, I can take you home.”

  “No!” Her voice came out more sharply than she’d expected. It was just that now she was here, she wanted to get this over with. She softened her tone as she said, “I mean, I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here . . . with you.”

  To prove her point, she leaned over and kissed him. It was a brief kiss, no more than a few seconds, and then she drew away.

  Looking over at Caitlin, Lucien hesitated for a moment, torn between his desire for her and his conviction that something wasn’t quite right. Her drinking, then making the first move . . . it was so out of character.

  Perhaps he might have brought it up with her if he hadn’t seen the way her lips were slightly parted; if his eyes hadn’t traveled downward, noticing the way her breathing had quickened, her magnificent bosom heaving, straining against the muslin bodice of her dress. He had never wanted her more than he did right then. So, instead of insisting on seeing her home, he took her hand and led her up the spiral staircase to his bedroom.

  She had been in this room many times before, with its white walls, stripped floors, minimal furniture, but only during the day, with the sun pouring through the windows. Now, at night, with the lights down low, it took on a different feel. Under the eaves of the building, it had a slanting roof, and the beams that ran across cast eerie shadows. She could feel her heart starting to race as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Lucien didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong. Instead, he came to sit beside her, stroking her hair away from her face, as he said, “You can’t imagine how much I’ve been looking forward to this, chérie.”

  Her mouth felt too dry to respond. Instead, she closed her eyes as he bent his head and started to kiss her. She tried to make her mind go blank, to imagine she was somewhere else. If she could get through tonight, everything would be fine, she was sure of that.

  Outside, the weather had turned, and a storm had taken hold. As she lay back against the pillows, she could hear the rain beating against the skylight. She was aware of his hands roaming over her body and forced herself to lie still as he kissed and stroked her. Even then, Lucien didn’t notice her lack of respon
se. He was too caught up in his own illusion of how the evening would turn out to see the reality of what was going on.

  He was kneeling over her now, pinning her arms back with one hand, while the other started to work on the buttons of her dress. She didn’t like that, the feeling of being trapped. The alcohol wasn’t helping either—it only made her feel more out of control. She twisted her head away from him, trying to speak.

  “No, Lucien . . .”

  But he didn’t seem to hear her. His lips were on her neck, his body stretched along hers, the weight of him making it impossible for her to move. She started to struggle then, but Lucien seemed to think this was part of the game and gripped her wrists harder.

  “Lucien, please!” She bucked under him and he chuckled softly, misinterpreting her resistance for ardor.

  Later, she couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. One minute they were lying together, making out, the next she had scrambled across to the other side of the bed and was doing her buttons up, while Lucien was sitting back on his haunches, rubbing his cheek, looking at her as though she’d gone quite mad.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Caitlin?” His words tore through her, concern and confusion masked by his obvious irritation.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I need to go,” she said quietly, almost absently. She finished straightening her clothes, jammed her feet into her shoes, then headed for the stairs.

  “Caitlin, wait . . .” He followed her back down to the living room, saw that she was making for the front door, and moved to block her.

  “Please Caitlin,” he implored her, trying to keep calm. “Tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand.”

  “Get out of my way, Lucien.”

  She started to pass him. He grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Don’t!” She flinched at his touch.

  “Jesus.” He dropped his grip and backed away, shaking his head.

  Reaching for the handle, she opened the door, then forced herself to look back at him, trying to ignore the hurt and confusion in his eyes.