Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

In an elegant Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo, Sandra Bernhard played host for the evening. As always, it was a long night—although thankfully not running to the seven hours of the previous year. There were few surprises, with Tom Ford being named Womenswear Designer of the Year and the Lifetime Achievement Award going to Calvin Klein.

  “Now the Award for Emerging Talent in Womenswear,” Sandra Bernhard said. Alexis glanced over at Caitlin, who was trying hard not to look hopeful but failing miserably. Alexis reached down and took her hand.

  “And the winner is . . .” There was a pause. In the vast auditorium the only noise was the rustle of paper as she opened the envelope. “Caitlin O’Dwyer!”

  It was four in the morning by the time Caitlin left the after-party at the Gramercy Park Hotel. The rest of the evening had passed in a whirl of interviews and well-wishing. When her longtime hero Michael Kors came up to offer his congratulations—“a well-deserved win, darling,” he’d said, kissing her on each cheek—she thought she might die of pleasure.

  “The press coverage is going to be unbelievable,” Alexis had said excitedly. “This could take you international.”

  Caitlin thought of all the people she hoped would see her achievement tonight: Lucien, William . . . Childish, she knew, but still. . . What was the point of success if you couldn’t flaunt it?

  The journey home was far quicker. Caitlin leaned back in the leather seat, golden trophy in hand, and watched the city slip by . . . past the brownstones of Greenwich Village and the cast-iron façades of SoHo, and on to her TriBeCa loft. She had moved there two years earlier, when she’d started making serious money. Originally a textile warehouse, the building had been converted during the eighties, before the area had made the transition from trendy to exclusive. Caitlin had fallen in love with the duplex the moment she’d seen it. She used the lower floor as her workroom, while upstairs was a huge living-sleeping area.

  Inside, she stepped out of her heels, unzipped the gown. It had been fun to wear for one night, she thought, hanging it away carefully. But she was glad to take it off now. Something so grand and formal wasn’t her usual choice. She’d only worn it tonight for the publicity shots. Alexis would have killed her otherwise.

  Ten minutes later, all trappings of the evening were gone. Once she was dressed in brushed cotton pajamas, her face scrubbed clean, there was no trace of the sophisticated designer left. Too keyed up to sleep, she made herself a mug of tea and took it outside onto the fire escape. The heat had gone out of the day now, and the air was pleasantly warm. Below her, there were the familiar sounds of the city waking up: a truck delivering to the deli on the corner, an NYPD squad car racing by, siren blaring.

  As she sipped her tea, she reflected on the evening. It had been a triumph for her, but still she felt . . . unsettled. Coming back to her empty apartment, it had hit her—how alone she was. All the success in the world meant nothing if you had no one to share it with. Sure, she had friends who had called to congratulate her, who wished her well. Alexis, Alain . . . But she had no family to call, and there was no one special in her life right now. Sure, there had been a few men since she’d arrived in New York. Occasionally she allowed friends to fix her up. She would go out with the guy once, maybe twice. They were usually good-looking men with interesting jobs and the best of intentions. But they weren’t Lucien.

  Even now, just thinking his name, she winced.

  She had thought about him a lot after she first arrived in New York. She’d intended to call, to write, to explain. Once she had gotten her head sorted out. But somehow it had never felt like the right time. It was something she needed to do face to face. The first chance she’d had was six months later, when she’d gone back to Paris for Alain’s fortieth birthday.

  She’d spent the weeks beforehand planning what to wear, what to say. Time and distance had helped her realize that she’d made a dreadful mistake running out on him that night.

  The party took place at Café des Amis. Caitlin got there early and spent the first part of the evening catching up with old friends, while keeping one eye on the door so as not to miss Lucien’s arrival.

  It was nearly midnight by the time he finally turned up. Caitlin was so pleased to see him that it took her a moment to register the Icelandic blonde on his arm. Tall and leggy, she was Caitlin’s polar opposite. It changed everything. When Caitlin finally came face to face with him, they exchanged no more than a polite nod of acknowledgement.

  Caitlin was relieved when the party ended and even more relieved to return to New York the next day. She hadn’t been back to Paris since then. She wasn’t planning a trip any time soon.

  So much for her love life.

  With that less-than-positive thought, she went inside and to bed.

  The phone jarred her awake the next morning. Thinking it was going to be Alexis wanting a postmortem of the evening, she answered. But it wasn’t her publicist. It was William.

  Caitlin’s heart sank when she heard his voice. It had been months since they’d last spoken, even longer since they’d seen each other. She didn’t need him ruining her good mood.

  “Congratulations on your win last night,” he said, after the preliminary greetings were out of the way.

  “Thanks,” she said shortly. She just wanted to get him off the phone as quickly as possible.

  “But I’m not just calling to say well done,” he continued. “I actually wanted to know how your schedule was looking the next few weeks.”

  “Busy,” she said automatically.

  “Not so busy that you can’t manage a trip to London, I hope.”

  There was a silence.

  “You see,” he went on, “there’s something I want to discuss with you. Something important.”

  Caitlin frowned. “Can’t we do it over the phone?”

  This time he was firm. “No, we can’t.” There was a pause. “Caitlin, please. I don’t ask much. I would like you to do this for me.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed to come over the following week. As she replaced the receiver, she tried to quash the feeling of foreboding.

  34

  _________

  Elizabeth padded across the tatami mat to where her husband lay sleeping, belly down, on their futon. He was naked, the only way he ever slept during the muggy Tokyo summers, milk-chocolate skin against crumpled white cotton sheets, tight muscles glistening with sweat. She wasn’t looking forward to the week apart. Being away from him was torture.

  They’d been in the apartment for four years now, ever since their wedding. By mutual agreement, they’d decided against a Western-style building and had chosen somewhere typically Japanese—with sliding shoji doors, minimalist furnishings, and flexible living/sleeping areas. The location suited them both. In the small, exclusive neighborhood of Shoto, the apartment had easy access to the shopping and restaurants of Shibuya—Cole’s choice—but was also within walking distance of Yoyogi Park, Western Tokyo’s version of Central Park, where Elizabeth liked to jog on weekends.

  Outside in Shoto, dawn was breaking. Early-morning light chinked through the blinds, reminding Elizabeth it was time to go. She bent to kiss Cole good-bye, assuming he was still asleep. But, without any warning, his eyes flew open, he whipped over onto his back and reached out to grab her around the waist. She let out a little yelp of surprise as he pulled her down on top of him.

  “Trying to sneak out without a proper good-bye?” In another swift move he flipped her onto her front, so he was lying stretched across her, pinning her from behind. “You should know better, Lizzie.”

  He pressed his weight against her. She could feel his erection through the thin material of her skirt.

  “Cole!” Elizabeth did nothing to disguise her outrage.

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Beneath him, she’d started to struggle, but he held her fast. “A whole week without you? You gotta give me something to remember.”

  “I can’t . . .” she protested. “The car’s outside—my suit . . .”

 
“Screw the suit.” He was moving against her now, rubbing gently, insistently, back and forth. She could feel herself giving in.

  “I don’t have time for this,” she objected weakly.

  “Don’t worry,” Cole murmured, his hands already pushing her pencil skirt up over her thighs. “It won’t take long.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Just what every girl wants to hear—” But the last word died on her lips as Cole began to ease her panties down.

  She felt him hard against her. Anticipation flooded her groin. Instinctively she parted her legs, already wet for him. As she felt him pushing inside her, she forgot all about the plane she was supposed to be catching.

  Five minutes later it was all over. Mutual satisfaction achieved.

  “Bastard,” Elizabeth muttered good-naturedly as she climbed off the bed. She straightened her clothes and then walked over to the dressing table. Her cheeks were flushed, and she dabbed on some powder, trying to get the heat out of her face. “It’s all your fault if I miss the plane . . .” She snapped the compact shut.

  Cole laughed. “Come on. You loved it and you know it.” He propped himself up on his elbows, watching as she retouched her lipstick, straightened her clothes, gathered her bag and passport.

  “It’s not too late, you know,” he said, serious now. “I can still come with you.”

  She smiled at his concern. She liked the way he worried about her. Who’d have thought that Elizabeth Melville, who had always prided herself on her independence and strength, would enjoy having a protective husband?

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.” She blew him one last kiss before she left.

  Outside, her driver stood waiting by a black Lexus. He held the door open as she slid into the backseat. Then they were on their way to Narita Airport.

  It was still early, so traffic was mercifully light. As they sped along the highway, Elizabeth thought about how happy Cole made her. A year after Rosalind’s funeral, they had married—a quiet ceremony, just the two of them, under the cherry blossoms in Kyoto. They’d kept their relationship secret, only telling everyone after they were wed. Reactions had been mixed. William had been furious, mostly because he still hadn’t forgiven Cole for “leaving him in the lurch” at Melville, after he’d quit to set up his own business. Caitlin had sent a polite card but had shown no interest in meeting Cole. Amber had arranged for an extravagant bouquet to be delivered—or, rather, her assistant had—congratulating Elizabeth on her marriage to Colin. That had amused both her and Cole.

  Settling in Tokyo had been the natural choice. Elizabeth had spent the past six years growing Melville’s Far East and Southeast Asia business, opening branches in Singapore, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. Six months ago, as head of the most profitable territory in the company, she had finally been awarded a place on Melville’s board.

  Meanwhile, Cole had opened up Kobe, a chain of sushi and sashimi bars in London. He’d put a strong management team in place and oversaw the business from Japan, flying back to England once or twice a month.

  To say he was doing well was something of an understatement. Turnover had already hit fifteen million, and Forbes had recently run a glowing profile on him. He planned to open a more elegant offering soon: a high-end, upscale restaurant.

  Right now, Elizabeth and Cole were the epitome of the young, successful couple. They were also extremely happy together.

  But, on a professional level, Elizabeth felt she still had more to achieve—namely, making fundamental changes to Melville’s business model. She planned to run the place one day, if her father ever deigned to step down. She just needed to make sure there was still a company left by the time that happened. Because at this rate it looked doubtful.

  While Caitlin’s star had been rising over the past six years, Melville’s had been fading. Elizabeth’s side of the business had been doing well, but overall, sales were declining. Melville just wasn’t drawing in the customers anymore. Not that William would admit there was a problem. Elizabeth had tried talking to him about it. The last time she was in London, she had proposed setting up a team to analyze the drop in retail traffic, but her father had dismissed the suggestion. “All businesses go through cycles. This is simply a phase. It will reverse itself soon.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. Nor was she sure they could afford to take this “wait-and-see” approach. With sales down, they were struggling to pay suppliers. And employees were beginning to leave. The latest casualty had been Melville’s head designer the previous month. That’s when Elizabeth had suggested asking Caitlin over to meet with them.

  Elizabeth had tracked her half sister’s success. Her dramatic designs weren’t Elizabeth’s style—or Melville’s either, which had stayed firmly conservative and classic. “But she’s got talent,” Elizabeth had said to her father the previous month, after the current head designer had handed in his resignation. “And we could definitely use some of that.”

  William had loved the idea, mostly because it was an excuse for him to contact Caitlin. It hurt Elizabeth, the way he lamented her half sister’s absence from his life. But it was to be expected, she told herself. She was the one he saw all the time, while Caitlin remained distant. And, whatever his motivation for agreeing to ask Caitlin to see them, it was a step in the right direction. Maybe it would be the start of his agreeing to some of her other suggestions, too.

  Cole didn’t agree. He thought she was wasting her breath. In fact, he wanted Elizabeth to quit Melville altogether. He reckoned William was an autocrat, who was never going to let his little bit of power go. It was the one dispute in their otherwise perfect marriage. And Elizabeth was determined to prove him wrong. After all, she would be running the business one day. She should have some say in the direction it was going now. She just needed to convince her father of that.

  A few hours after Elizabeth left Tokyo, Caitlin boarded a plane for Heathrow, too. William had offered to book her flight, but Caitlin had insisted on doing it herself. When was he going to understand that she didn’t want, or need, his charity? He had invited her to stay with him at Eaton Square. Elizabeth would be there, apparently. Again, Caitlin had said no. Instead, she’d booked into Baglioni, a boutique hotel in Kensington where she stayed whenever she was in town. She arrived there in the late afternoon and found a message asking her to phone him when she got in. She had a shower first, then made the call.

  He sounded conciliatory. “I thought perhaps we could meet for dinner tonight. Elizabeth’s just arrived. You could come over here.”

  Caitlin told him she was too tired. Whatever he had to talk to her about, it could wait. She would rather face him when she was fresh.

  If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Fine. Let’s make it tomorrow instead.”

  Caitlin agreed to lunch at the Mirabelle. Neutral ground, at least. The thought didn’t help her sleep any more easily.

  The following day, at quarter to one, William and Elizabeth arrived together at the Mirabelle in Mayfair. It was a particular favorite of William’s, who never tired of its intimate, clubby atmosphere. Located on Curzon Street, it was conveniently within walking distance of Melville, but still far enough away to mean they weren’t likely to be spotted by anyone from the head office. That was the main reason he’d chosen the venue. That was also why it would just be the three of them for lunch—William, Elizabeth, and Caitlin. He had decided against inviting Piers. He wanted as few people as possible to know what they were asking of Caitlin, in case she turned them down.

  The maitre d’ led William and Elizabeth past the piano lounge and into the mirrored dining room. As always these days, the restaurant was packed. Businessmen in charcoal suits talked intently over foie gras complemented by sauternes. William wasn’t surprised to see that Caitlin was already there. Experience told him she would want to get this over with as soon as possible.

  He hadn’t seen her for a while. At—what was it now?—twenty-six she had grown into her looks, developed a strong sense of style.
She’d let her dark hair grow out again, and it hung thick and loose around her shoulders. In linen trousers and a billowing sleeveless smock, she looked casual and creative—couldn’t have looked more different, in fact, from Elizabeth, in her dark gray Joseph trouser suit, blonde hair tied neatly back from her face.

  After rather formal greetings, they busied themselves with ordering. By unspoken agreement, they skipped appetizers and just went for main courses and mineral water. No one could be bothered to pretend that this was going to be a long, sociable lunch.

  Once they’d ordered, an uneasy silence settled over the table. They had never been the type of family to engage in small talk, and no one was about to start now.

  It was Caitlin who broke first. She sipped her water, returned the glass to the table, and then asked the question that had been on her mind for the past week, ever since the meeting had been arranged.

  “So are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

  William and Elizabeth exchanged meaningful glances. It was William who answered.

  “You’re here because I have a business proposition for you.” She looked at him warily. He took a deep breath and then said what she’d known he would. “I want you to come to work as head designer at Melville.”

  Caitlin sliced into her Dover sole. She had no intention of eating it—her appetite had deserted her as soon as she’d sat down. It was just to stall for time. She wanted to savor the moment. Revenge didn’t get any sweeter than this. To be sitting opposite William, on his turf, having him ask—no, she corrected herself—beg her to come and work for him.

  She listened patiently as he tried to put a positive spin on the offer.

  “I know you’ve been making a name for yourself in New York,” he said, “but heading up the design team for an international fashion house . . . that would be a real opportunity.”

  Opportunity? He must think she was an idiot. The fashion community was a small one. She’d heard about the dire situation at Melville—the walkouts, the decimated design department. Right now, no one with talent would go to work there if they could possibly help it.