For a few fleeting moments, she allowed her mind to fly back there, to linger on each image, on every remembered smell and sound and touch of her home. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the rooks cawing in the treetops of the Great Park, and smell the dampness of the early-morning mist, intertwined with the sour smoke of the previous night’s bonfire. She could feel the smooth, polished wood of the banisters under her hand and see the vast, faded tapestries of hunting scenes that hung, so exquisite and yet almost unnoticed, against the cool stone walls.
She pictured her old Nanny Chapman chasing her out of the cavernous larder, remembered the “slap, slap” sound of her bare feet as she ran across the cold flagstone floor of the scullery and out into the kitchen garden, with a slice of cook’s apple pie still clenched tightly in her sticky fist.
Her father had sold Amhurst. It was gone.
Silently, lovingly, Caroline folded away each of her precious memories. If she were going to survive this, she knew she could never, ever look back. She also knew, somewhere very deep inside herself, that her childhood had come to an end in that instant.
Getting up slowly, she put her arms around her father’s neck and held him while he wept. The rose garden, always such a peaceful place, was racked by the sound of Sebastian’s sobbing. Caroline felt she would never be able to set foot there again.
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” she whispered. “It’s all right. Really it is. We’ll get through it together. We’ll find somewhere else to live, maybe a lovely cottage like Granny’s or something? It’ll be gorgeous and cozy, and I can bring you your pipe and slippers by the fire every night, just like a really old man.”
That, she realized, was exactly what he looked like, slumped and shivering beside her on the cold stone bench. Overnight, her strong, invincible father had become a broken old man.
Sebastian stared at his daughter in wonder, deeply touched by her desire to comfort him, overwhelmed with gratitude for her forgiveness. “I’m afraid it isn’t just the house, you know,” he forced himself to continue. “I’m . . . the thing is, you see . . . well, there are some debts. A lot of debts, in fact.” Her heart felt wrenched with love and pity for him as he stared abjectly down at his shoes, all glistening and wet from the dewy grass. “I can pay them, of course. There’s no question of anything not being honored, of shirking anything.”
“Of course there isn’t, Pa,” she assured him. “I know that.”
“It’s just that after everybody’s been paid off, well, I’m afraid there’s really very little left. A couple of the paintings I should be able to hang on to, and your great-grandfather’s Egton chest. But everything else . . . Oh, Caroline, darling.” He was crying again now. “Your inheritance, and the boys’. It’s all gone. All of it. I am so terribly, terribly sorry.”
Caroline was surprised to find herself feeling angry. Not at her father—heaven knew how he had gotten himself into such a mess, but he had obviously tried his best. He must have been struggling for years, she realized, not wanting to worry any of them with his troubles, hoping against hope that this dreadful day of reckoning would never come.
No, she was angry with fate, angry at whoever it was who had dealt them this card, who had dared to take their beloved Amhurst.
A powerful sense of resolve and strength surged through her. From now on it would be up to her to make her own way in life. And by God, she was going to do it. Her father was too old and too filled with guilt and shame to do what needed to be done. But Caroline Berkeley was not about to become a common pauper. She would have to find her own fortune, make her own way as her Berkeley ancestors had done so long before her. And she already had a pretty shrewd idea of just how she might do it.
After an horrific, miserable Christmas with her family, Caroline had returned to Massingham and begun, belatedly, to apply herself to her studies.
A private education was, she realized, essential if she were to mix in the sort of monied circles that might help to restore her fortunes, and she astounded her family by winning a much-coveted scholarship that would enable her to stay on at school. (The headmaster had generously agreed to give a devastated Sebastian a term’s grace in which to make “alternative arrangements” for his daughter’s education. But clearly there was no way he could continue to afford her fees.)
Growing up at Amhurst as the only girl in an otherwise all-male family, Caroline had become exceptionally skilled in the art of manipulating men. This skill, she decided, would be her fastest and surest route back to the lifestyle that she had not only become accustomed to but considered her God-given right.
She would marry money.
She’d thought it all through quite logically. Building a successful career involved a high degree of uncertainty; plus she had no real idea what she wanted to do. Besides, working her way back to wealth would take years and Caroline was not prepared to wait that long. Far better to find herself a rich old man she could wrap around her little finger, just as she had always done with her father. With her golden, shoulder-length hair, perfect peaches-and-cream complexion, and a body already in full, glorious bloom, at fifteen she was well accustomed to the gratifyingly dramatic effect her looks seemed to have on the opposite sex.
She started to approach her social life like a military campaign, angling for invitations to St. Tropez or Sardinia, only ever befriending girls whose parents were rich enough to look indulgently on such blatant freeloading.
Her natural intelligence rapidly helped her to develop finely tuned social antennae. She learned to judge exactly when she was in danger of outstaying her welcome with any particular group, and needed to move on to newer, more fertile pastures. She adroitly avoided paying for herself at dinner or on holiday without ever drawing her companions’ attention to the fact. And she perfected using the combination of her aristocratic family name, youth, and striking good looks to manipulate potential sugar daddies.
By the time she finished school, Caroline Berkeley reigned supreme among the smart young set as the undisputed brightest star in their social firmament. Penniless or not, she was the queen of “Swinging London.”
Her twenty-first-birthday party was a lavish champagne reception in Eaton Square, courtesy of a besotted, fifty-four-year-old Greek shipping magnate whom she had befriended the previous summer.
“Spyros, be an angel and do up my zipper, would you?” she asked him coquettishly, preening in front of the bathroom mirror.
She was looking typically foxy that evening, in a bottom-skimming velour minidress in baby pink, teamed with spiky black PVC boots. She wore her long blond hair in schoolgirl bunches, which she knew both her father and her lover would appreciate, though for very different reasons.
“I’ll fix your zipper if you’ll fix mine.” Spyros’s eyes locked with hers, and they both looked down at his enormous erection, clearly outlined against his tight brown trousers. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “That dress is just too much.”
“Darling, I’d love to. Help you, I mean,” said Caroline. “But there really isn’t time.” She finished applying her lipstick. “People will start arriving any minute.”
“So let them arrive.” He pulled her toward him and placed her hand on his fly, trying to banish the thought that he had a daughter almost exactly Caroline’s age. “Maria can show them in. Besides, I promise you, this won’t take long.”
He was right, it didn’t. Less than a minute after Caroline had sunk to her knees on the cold blue-tiled floor and gotten to work on his huge, throbbing dick, he had come gratefully into her mouth. Grimacing slightly, she swallowed, anxious not to smudge her perfect makeup before the party.
Really, she wished Spyros would learn to pick slightly more convenient moments.
Five minutes later, after a brief gargle of mouthwash, she was downstairs greeting her brother George and his wife, Lucy. George was always the first to arrive and the first to leave any party—you could set your watch by him.
“Hello, sweetie, glad you could make
it,” she said, and gave him one of her most gracious, hostesslike smiles.
He glared disapprovingly at her dress. “Happy birthday, Caro. You look”—he searched around for an appropriate word—“cold.”
Grumpy bastard. She noticed that his ancient tweed suit was beginning to fray at the cuffs, and wondered why his sour-faced wife never did anything to try and smarten him up. Caroline was not a fan of impoverished gentility.
“Do I?” She forced a smile. “I expect I need a drink to warm me up. Can I get either of you a glass of champagne?”
“Thank you, I’d love one,” said Lucy. “George can’t I’m afraid, he’s driving.”
George shot his wife a look of annoyance. “Just an orange juice for me, please, if you’ve got one,” he said to Caroline, who was glad for an excuse to shimmy off to the bar and leave them.
She badly resented the way both her brothers tried to make her feel guilty all the time. They despised Spyros and made no secret of their disapproval of her lifestyle. Well, screw the pair of them. If they wanted to spend the rest of their lives in drafty old rooms, nursing single whiskeys and crying over Amhurst, that was up to them. Caroline had bigger plans for her life, and no one was going to stand in her way.
At least Pa understood her.
Sebastian, looking frail and elderly, was the guest of honor at the party and spent most of the evening chatting animatedly with Spyros about Greek history. Caroline loved the way he could do that, mingle with everybody, try to see the good in people no matter what their background. He wasn’t a small-minded snob, like George or William.
Later, as her huge pink birthday cake was wheeled into the room, its twenty-one candles flickering merrily, Sebastian cleared his throat ostentatiously and announced that he would like to propose a toast “to the birthday queen.”
“To my darling Caroline.” He raised his glass, his rheumy old eyes scanning the roomful of strangers. He did wish his daughter wouldn’t mix with quite such a racy crowd. “You have given me twenty-one years of happiness. Here’s to many, many more happy years!”
“To Caroline!” the room erupted in echo.
Two weeks later, Sebastian was dead.
The meager remnants of the Berkeley estate looked even more pitiful when split three ways. In an uncharacteristic display of generosity, Caroline eschewed her share in favor of her brothers, both of whom had young families to support. Besides, it was 1967. One thousand, three hundred pounds barely amounted to the proverbial drop in the ocean of Caroline’s living expenses. She may as well let them have it.
Not that they were remotely grateful.
“I hope, now that dear old Pa is gone, you’re finally going to start pulling your finger out and get a job,” said William sanctimoniously over lunch at Rules one Sunday.
It was just the sort of restaurant he would like, reflected Caroline bitterly, glancing around at the florid-faced, overweight establishment types greedily slurping their port.
“You can’t just keep on sponging off that ghastly Greek fellow, you know,” her brother continued. “People are starting to talk.”
“Oh are they?” she bit back angrily, stabbing at her venison with a fork. “And what have they been saying exactly?”
William removed a piece of steak and kidney pie from between his teeth and ran his fingers through his thinning sandy hair. God, he was unattractive, a sort of weaker, scrawnier version of George. “I don’t think I really need to spell it out for you, do I?”
“Well actually, William, yes, I think you probably do,” she said. She was getting thoroughly fed up with his mealy-mouthed insinuations. If he had something to say, why didn’t he damn well say it?
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Caroline.” He put down his knife and fork and lowered his voice to what he hoped was a discreet whisper. “You aren’t married. More to the point, he is married. Just because you managed to pull the wool over Pa’s eyes doesn’t mean that the rest of the world doesn’t know what you’re up to. I’m sorry, but it’s just not on.”
Caroline let out a short mirthless laugh, loud enough for the two old buffers at the table next to them to turn and give her a filthy look. She ignored them. “Just listen to yourself, would you? ‘It’s just not on.’” William flushed as she loudly mimicked his hectoring tone. “Have you any idea how pompous you sound? You’re ridiculous, William, quite ridiculous, you and George. It’s 1967, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m hardly the first woman to be having an affair. Besides, this has nothing to do with my morality, does it? You just don’t like Spyros because he’s Greek, and he’s older than me, and because he’s a self-made man.”
“Nouveau riche you mean?” William sneered.
“Well, better nouveau riche than stinking bloody poor, William.” Flinging her napkin down on the table, she got to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I need some air.”
And with that she strode out of the restaurant, leaving her brother spluttering with outrage, his full, flabby lips opening and closing wordlessly like a stunned mullet.
Outside, the cool afternoon air hit Caroline’s face with a welcome, refreshing blast.
What the hell was wrong with everybody?
Marching down toward the Strand, her face flushed with defiance, blond hair dancing in the wind behind her, she ignored the wolf whistles of the builders and the stares of the businessmen as she passed.
She felt stung, again, by William’s ingratitude. How dare he accept her share of Pa’s money with one hand and then try to slap her down with the other, make her feel guilty for enjoying her life, for making her own way?
As it happened, her brothers didn’t know the half of it. Spyros, in fact, was only one in a long line of lovers whom Caroline used to support a lifestyle that many a wealthy London housewife would have envied. If William thought she was going to give all that up to become somebody’s bloody secretary, and live in some poky flat in Clapham like him and his holier-than-thou friends, he could go to hell.
She never went back to the restaurant in the end, but hailed a cab and took herself shopping in Knightsbridge instead, with a mental two fingers to William.
As things turned out, she wasn’t to see either of her brothers again for a very, very long time.
For six happy years after Sebastian’s death and her acrimonious parting from her brothers, Caroline lived a life devoted solely to the pursuit of her own pleasure.
She appeared at all the exclusive society parties, dressed head to toe in the discarded designer clothes of her rich acquaintances, and often dripping in (borrowed) diamonds. She holidayed on friends’ yachts off Capri, and spent Christmases with an indulgent former lover on Mustique. If people disapproved of her, she neither knew nor cared. She was young, free, beautiful, and having the time of her life. What else mattered?
Her only niggling concern was that she remained utterly bereft of any capital of her own. Sure, she collected the odd gift as she moved like a nomad from one married playboy to the next—Fabien had given her the most exquisite Fabergé egg before he broke it off—but ultimately, she knew she needed to actually marry money in order to achieve the lasting financial security she craved.
Getting a rich man to fuck you and buy you gifts was a piece of cake. Getting one to marry you, especially if that would embroil him in a costly divorce, was proving altogether more difficult.
At twenty-eight, Caroline still looked fabulous, and every penny she received was spent on maintaining her appearance. But everyone on the scene in London knew her, and knew what her brothers had insisted on calling her “reputation.”
She had heard that Americans were suckers for an upper-class English accent.
Perhaps, she wondered, it was time to move on?
CHAPTER FOUR
Caroline arrived in Los Angeles in November 1974, in the middle of a blazing winter heat wave, with the addresses of two old school friends and one ex-boyfriend in her Chanel shoulder bag, thirteen hundred dollars in the bank, and a pair of the ti
niest frayed denim hot pants that the guy at the immigration desk had ever seen.
“How long you stayin’ in the States, sugar?” He leered at her appreciatively from behind his bulletproof plastic screen.
“Well, I’m not too sure,” she replied. “That sort of depends on how nice people are to me.”
“Baby”—he stared down blatantly at her crotch, enticingly shrink-wrapped in denim—“I think there’s a lot of people gonna be very nice to you here in L.A.”
“Well, I hope so,” said Caroline, smiling.
Every head turned as she strutted through LAX to baggage claim.
“Can I help you with your luggage, miss?” A voice came from behind her. “That suitcase must be heavier than you are.”
She swung around to find herself face-to-face with one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He was tall, dark, slightly overly tanned, and his white teeth blazed down at her in a wolfish grin as he effortlessly swung her enormous bag off the carousel. He was exactly what she had imagined Californian men to look like: fit, masculine, and well groomed.
It was difficult, Caroline felt, not to admire a man like that.
“Well, thank you so much, how kind.” She smiled gratefully up at this plastic Adonis, thinking how much more impressive he looked than most of the chinless wimps who offered her their gentlemanly services back home in London. “I’m Caroline. Caroline Berkeley.”
She gave him her hand and he crushed it.
“Brad Baxter. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.”
Meeting Brad turned out to be an extraordinary piece of luck. Over the next six weeks, he helped to introduce Caroline to the myriad pleasures and vices that Hollywood had to offer, none of which were new to her, as well as to many of the movers and shakers in the business, who were. He was, it emerged, a PR whiz kid from West Hollywood who ran a sideline “talent-spotting” for a soft-porn producer in the Valley and was a regular on the starry, decadent social scene that was to become Caroline’s natural milieu and favored hunting ground.
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