Adored

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Claire honked her horn loudly, and Siena grinned at her and waved excitedly, tearing through the gates and across the street without so much as a glance at the oncoming traffic.

  “Mom!” she said, leaning forward to give Claire a kiss. “How come you’re here? I thought Leila was getting me?”

  Claire was so thrilled by this warm reception that she forgot to tell Siena off for not looking before she crossed the road. “Well, I thought I’d do it for a change,” she said with a smile. “If you like, we could stop for an ice cream at Gianni’s on the way home?”

  “Cool,” said Siena. This was all very out of character. Normally, her mom was obsessed with homework and didn’t allow any fun at all until all her assignments were done and dusted. Sensing an opportunity, she thought she’d see how far she could push it. “You picked a good day, actually,” she observed as nonchalantly as she could, while Claire pulled onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “Mr. Di Clemente said we all did so well on last week’s math assignment that he wouldn’t give us any homework for tonight.”

  “Really?” Claire was surprised. Not only did the teacher almost never not give homework, but as Claire remembered it, Siena’s math assignment last week had been somewhat less than fabulous.

  “Uh-huh.” Siena didn’t miss a beat. “So I was thinking . . .”

  “Yess?” said Claire warily.

  “Since I don’t have any work to do . . .”

  “Yess?” She knew exactly what her daughter’s wheedling tone meant.

  “Maybe we could go to Tumblorama?”

  Tumblorama was an indoor kids’ adventure center on the borders of Los Feliz, a mile or so north of Hancock Park. It consisted of a maze of multicolored plastic tunnels, ladders, and slides, all interconnected, through which exhausted parents would chase their overexcited children with a heroic disregard to middle-aged bad backs, aching muscles, and bruised limbs. It was Siena’s favorite place in the world after the studios, and a popular venue with all the local kids for birthday parties or holiday treats.

  It was, needless to say, the sort of place that gave poor Claire nightmares. But Siena sounded so sweet and hopeful. And she had wanted the two of them to have some quality time together . . .

  “Oh, all right then,” she said, with a last lingering look at her freshly manicured nails and her newly pressed Laura Ashley skirt, knowing that neither would survive the coming ordeal.

  “Really? You’ll take me?” Siena couldn’t believe her luck and started bouncing up and down in the backseat with excitement, like a broken jack-in-the-box. Mom never did stuff like this, especially not on a school night.

  “Sure,” said Claire. “Why not?” She smiled back indulgently at her ecstatic daughter in the rearview mirror. “We moms may be old and boring most of the time, but we can still keep a few surprises up our sleeves.”

  When they finally got home, three hours later than expected, Pete’s first thought was that they must have been in an accident.

  Claire’s usually immaculate hair was all over the place, standing on end with static, as if she’d rubbed it with a balloon. Her face was flushed and red, her nail polish chipped, and her new skirt—one of those dreadful milkmaid, flowery things that he couldn’t stand—had thankfully been ripped right along the hem, probably beyond repair.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, taking in his wife’s disheveled appearance but also the matching grins that she and Siena wore plastered across their faces and relaxing slightly.

  “Tumblorama,” panted Claire, picking up Siena’s school bag on autopilot and extracting the half-eaten remnants of her packed lunch.

  “You’re kidding?” His tone was quizzical but also amused. It was nice to see his two girls looking so happy together. Particularly to see Siena looking so happy, without Duke or that snotty little brother of his anywhere around. “You took her to Tumblorama? On a school night?”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Siena jumped in quickly, anxious to avert the anger she had come to expect from him. “I didn’t have any homework. Mr. D. let us off.” She had quite forgotten that this was not, in fact, true, and fluttered her eyelashes at her father like a bona fide innocent.

  “Well,” said Pete, still smiling at both of them. “Aren’t you the lucky one?”

  What, no shouting? What was up with her parents today? Had they both taken a happy pill or something?

  Pete moved over to Claire and put his arm around her in a rare display of tenderness. “Off you go upstairs now and change,” he said to Siena. “You can tell me all about it at dinner.”

  Claire put Siena’s lunch box down and reached up with both arms, wrapping them around his neck and nuzzling against him. They watched their daughter disappear noisily up the stairs, about as ladylike and graceful as a drunken baby hippo.

  “Don’t you wish things could always be like this?” Claire sighed, once Siena was out of sight and out of earshot. “Just the three of us, relaxed and happy, like this?”

  He could feel her warm breath against his neck, quickened from the exertion of chasing Siena through endless plastic tunnels. “Yes,” he said, stroking her hair and smoothing it back into place. “I do.”

  He thought about Caroline. If his suspicions were right—if she was cheating on Duke—then maybe her days at Hancock Park were numbered. What he wouldn’t give to be rid of her and her wretched son. “But you never know, darling, maybe it will be like this one day.”

  Claire looked up at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

  “Who knows?” said Pete, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Maybe life around here is about to change for the better.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I’m so sorry, Duke. I don’t know what to say.”

  David Rowe sat awkwardly in the low leather armchair in Duke’s study, watching his client flip slowly through eight black-and-white pictures. Duke’s face was completely impassive as he studied one image after another, occasionally tracing something on one of the prints with a long bony finger, as though trying to make it out more clearly. But the pictures were already clear as crystal. David knew, because he’d seen them all an hour before he drove over to Hancock Park, and he was still reeling from what he saw.

  In the first shot, Caroline was getting into the car with Charles Murray, David’s young protégé. The next two pictures showed the two of them holding hands, kissing, and laughing as they went into what looked like a bungalow at the Hotel Bel-Air. After that came six pictures that left nothing to the imagination, two taken at the hotel and another four in various other locations, including the backseat of Duke’s own midnight-blue Bentley. The PI had done a horrifically good job; he’d only been following Caroline for a week.

  David felt his chest constricting with stress as he watched his powerful client slowly leafing through this damning evidence. He didn’t consider himself a friend of Duke’s. In fact if truth be told, he had never much liked him, but as his contemporary—David was a dynamic seventy-eight, a mere two years younger than Duke—he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for an old man, betrayed and humiliated by such a beautiful young woman. He was also livid with Charlie for putting him in such an embarrassing position, and all because he couldn’t keep his johnson in his goddamn pants.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Duke, without taking his eyes off a picture of Caroline sitting on a hotel bed, her legs wrapped around the kid’s waist and her head thrown back in undisguised delight.

  David squirmed in his seat. “Look, Duke, it’s none of my business,” he began, but Duke raised his hand for silence.

  “There’s no fool like an old fool. That’s what you’re thinking, David. Am I right?” He could see his lawyer opening his mouth to protest. “And no, don’t apologize. You’re right to think that. You’re absolutely right.” He frowned and rubbed at his temples as though trying to erase the picture of Caroline’s betrayal from his memory bank. “She’s played me for a damn fool.”

  He replaced the photograp
hs in the unmarked brown envelope David had handed him. Unlocking the second drawer of the desk with a miniature key that he produced from his pocket, he slipped the offending package inside, then closed and locked the drawer again, repocketing the key.

  David cleared his throat awkwardly. It had to be asked. “So, what do you want me to do about Murray?”

  Duke stared blankly ahead.

  “You’re one of the firm’s oldest and most valued clients,” David continued. “We don’t want to lose you. Now, if you tell me you want us to let this young man go”—he paused and looked Duke squarely in the eye—“I want you to know that we wouldn’t hesitate.”

  Duke stood up and walked slowly over to the window. Outside on the lawn, he could see Hunter swinging Siena around by her feet. Her arms were outstretched and her long dark curls were flying in the wind like the tail of a comet. Beautiful.

  He noticed that his son was laughing, black hair flopping over his tanned forehead, cheeks glowing with exertion as he spun his niece around and around. Duke felt a slight stabbing sensation in his chest as he looked at Hunter, and raised his hand to his heart. He guessed that the boy must think him a pretty heartless father.

  At fifteen, Hunter looked more like him every day. It was funny how none of his genes seemed to have passed themselves on to Pete and Laurie, his legitimate children, while Caroline’s son, the little cuckoo in the nest, was every inch his child. Sometimes Duke wished he had been able to connect with the boy, had tried harder to love him. He was such a good-natured kid too. But for some reason, he had always felt compelled to keep himself at a distance.

  Maybe, deep down, he had always known this day would come with Caroline. After all, he had never intended to start a second family with her. She’d never had Minnie’s unflinching loyalty. But then why on earth should she?

  Duke had hurt Minnie because she let him, and he had always despised her for that weakness. Caroline, on the other hand, had been a breath of fresh air, a kindred spirit. He remembered how much he had once loved her for her independence, for that selfish, ruthless energy that reminded him so much of himself.

  The fact was, she was not his wife. He had never wanted her to be. And as a result, he had never really thought of her child as his son.

  He turned around and looked at his lawyer’s pained, anxious face. “Don’t fire him on my account, David,” he said.

  “Really?” The old man looked shocked.

  “Really,” said Duke. “The kid’s a good lawyer, isn’t he?”

  David smiled a little despite himself. “He’s a great lawyer. Most talented guy in a trial situation I’ve seen in thirty years.”

  “Well then.” Duke smiled back. “It’d be a shame to let him go.” He noted David’s look of bewilderment and, opening a battered leather box on the side table, took out two of his finest Cuban cigars and offered him one. “Look. The way I see it, the boy only did what I would have done myself when I was his age.” He clipped the tip off his own cigar and lit it, inhaling deeply before passing the silver cutter to David. “She’s still a terrific-looking woman. And she fucks like a bunny.”

  David wished that Duke wouldn’t use such profanities. As a devout Methodist, he found his client’s brutal language both offensive and unnecessary. Still, he supposed those pictures must have come as a terrible shock.

  “Well, all right, Duke,” he said. “I must say, I think that’s very big of you. And you can rest assured that I will be speaking to Charles in the strongest possible terms about his behavior. We take breaches of trust very seriously at Carter.”

  “Oh, believe me, David,” said Duke ominously, “I take them very seriously too. Very seriously indeed.”

  He looked outside again for the children, but they were gone.

  Siena woke up early the next morning to the familiar blinding glare of sunlight bursting through her window onto walls completely plastered with Mel Gibson posters. She was ten now, and her crush on the rugged Australian had developed into a full-blown obsession. On the back of her bedroom door—the only space not devoted to Mel—hung a framed black-and-white picture of Duke from Tales of the Desert, one of his early westerns. He had worn his hair in a ponytail for the movie, which Siena thought incredibly romantic and Byronesque, and in the poster he was doffing his hat to his crinolined leading lady while his horse reared up, shadowboxing with its powerful forelegs. She had always loved that picture of her grandfather. He looked so wild and glamorous.

  Siena sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes blearily. Blowing a kiss to Mel, she slipped into yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt that she had conveniently left screwed up in a heap on the floor. The school year had ended the week before and months of glorious freedom stretched ahead of both her and Hunter.

  Hunter was such a slug in the mornings, though. He was growing so fast, all he ever wanted to do was sleep. Siena, on the other hand, couldn’t jump out of bed fast enough. There were bikes to be ridden, pools to be swum in, slumber parties to be arranged—she couldn’t wait to get started.

  Going over to her desk, she picked up a handful of colored pencils and the half-finished “Get Well Soon” card she’d begun making for Aunt Laurie last night. Laurie had twisted her ankle a few days ago while out jogging and was now confined to bed.

  Siena didn’t always see eye to eye with her aunt, but she had started to feel increasingly sorry for her, especially when Grandpa kept making mean jokes about her being so fat, and how she couldn’t even go for a run without falling on her big fat behind. Siena didn’t think that was very nice of him, especially now that Laurie’s ankle had swollen up like a big purple and black balloon. Anyway, she hoped the card might cheer Laurie up, particularly as it featured the excellent swans that Hunter had recently taught her how to draw by starting with a giant number two and then sketching in the folded wings and beak on top.

  Clenching the card and pencils in one hand, she clambered up onto the banister rail in the hallway and slid all the way down the polished wood of the grand staircase.

  “Er, excuse me, young lady, but what do you think you’re doing?”

  Claire was looking immaculate, as always, in a pale yellow pantsuit and white shirt with fashionably ruffled collar. She had a wicker pocketbook over her arm and Ray-Ban sunglasses on, and was obviously on her way out when her daughter had come hurtling down into the entrance hall and landed with a thud on Minnie’s perfectly polished marble.

  “Sorry,” said Siena, though she didn’t look it.

  “Well so you should be,” chided her mother automatically. “How many times have I told you not to slide down those darned banisters? It’s dangerous, Siena, that must be a forty-foot drop.”

  “God,” Siena moaned, the picture of petulance. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

  Claire knew she ought to tell her daughter off for using such an impertinent tone, but she was late enough as it was and really didn’t have time for a full-blown confrontation now. “Yes, well,” she said with what she hoped was a stern expression, “please try to use the stairs next time, like any normal person.” She fumbled in her purse for the keys to the Saab. “I’m running to the Beverly Center, and Leila and Suzanna both left early for the beach, so you can ask Conchita to fix you some breakfast if you’re hungry.”

  “What about Caroline?” asked Siena, trying to provoke her mother and succeeding admirably. “Couldn’t she do it for me?”

  “Don’t push it, Siena,” said Claire. “Her car’s not here anyway. I guess she must have made an early start, too. Now go get some breakfast. And don’t forget to brush your teeth afterward.” She gave her a perfunctory kiss on the top of the head and scurried off to the car. “And brush your hair!” she called behind her.

  Siena wandered into the kitchen. She was just heading for the fridge when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. The colored pencils she’d been grasping so tightly clattered to the ground, followed by the creased white “Get Well Soon” card for her aunt. She stared ahead of her in shock. />
  Duke was lying slumped across the table, still in his dark purple robe. His left arm had been flung wide and had evidently knocked over a carton of milk, the contents of which had formed a white pool in the center of the table, with little rivulets trickling out to the edges and dripping onto the floor like anemic waterfalls. His right hand seemed to be pressed against his chest. It must have been pinned in position by the table when he fell forward. But it was his face that Siena would never forget.

  Still screwed up as though he were either in severe pain or deep concentration, his skin looked white-blue, like moonlight. Siena had never seen a corpse before, but she knew immediately that he was dead.

  “Mom! Mommy!”

  She ran screaming back into the hall and out the front door, but Claire’s dark blue tailgate was already disappearing through the gates. Turning around, her eyes blinded by tears as she stumbled numbly back inside, Siena ran straight into her grandmother.

  “Siena, darling, what on earth is the matter?”

  Minnie had heard the child’s screams from her dressing room, as had the rest of the household, and had rushed downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. One look at Siena’s face told her that this was not just another one of her attention-seeking pranks. She was sobbing and shaking as though she’d just stumbled out of a car wreck.

  “He’s dead.” Siena’s voice was almost a whisper.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around Minnie’s waist and pressed her tear-stained face against the familiar crisp linen shirt.

  “Who, darling? Who’s dead?” asked Minnie softly.

  For one hideous moment she thought it might be Pete. But before she had time to get anything more coherent out of Siena, Seamus, Duke’s assistant and lifelong friend, emerged from the kitchen looking ashen.

  “You’d best come in here,” he said. “It’s Duke.”