Adored

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Charlie Murray looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. They’d be starting in ten minutes. Hell, why did he have to be there?

  Outside his fifth-floor window, the hustle and bustle of Beverly Hills life continued on the streets below him. He glanced down absently. Bored, overblown housewives, their once natural beauty long since lost beneath layers of surgery and ghoulish makeup, flitted from store to store with their spookily frozen faces and permanent expressions of surprise. Maybe they were surprised to wake up one morning and realize they looked like a freakin’ experiment?

  Charlie couldn’t help but compare the women to Caroline, so self-assured in her sexiness, so beautiful still, at least in his eyes. Who cared if she had a few crow’s-feet or her breasts didn’t explode out of her T-shirt like water balloons? No surgeon could give a woman what Caroline had.

  He picked up a bright purple executive stress ball from the desk and gave it a desultory squeeze. Fucking useless.

  She was outside right now in Carter & Rowe’s conference room, looking suitably demure and grief-stricken in a chocolate-brown Dolce & Gabbana suit, along with the rest of the McMahon clan. He’d seen her arrive earlier, before he made a bolt for the temporary safety of his office. Even here though, images of her lying naked and desirous, spread-eagled on his desk, lingered like old smoke all around him, and he found it impossible to concentrate.

  They’d all arrived for the reading of Duke’s will, Caro, Minnie, Pete, and Laurie. The atmosphere in the building oscillated between tense and electric, with the press gathered outside on the street, chomping at the bit to find out how the McMahon fortune was to be divided between the old man’s wife, mistress, and children. The official line was that the will had been settled over a decade ago, and there would be no surprises. But a long series of delays, combined with a couple of deliberately cryptic leaked comments from Pete’s office, had whetted appetites for scandal. A rumor was flying around about a last-minute letter of wishes. Something was up.

  Charlie felt it too. He was scared for Caroline and had told her so in one of only two furtive phone calls they’d made to each other since Duke’s death.

  “I just feel uneasy, like Pete’s up to something,” he’d told her. “Watch your back, honey, okay? That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Honestly, Charlie, you worry too much,” she laughed. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’d have heard something. David would have said something, surely, if there were anything to worry about?”

  “He can’t,” said Charlie. “Not until the public reading of the will. It’s illegal.”

  “Baby, relax,” she reassured him. “Just think, in two weeks the money will be sitting snugly in my account, and then you and I can finally go public.”

  But he wasn’t relaxed. His reverie was broken by Marlene, who stuck her concerned, motherly face around the door.

  “Everyone’s here,” she told him. “David wants you in conference room two pronto.”

  Charlie groaned. It was perfectly normal for him to attend important client meetings with David, but he wished he could have been spared this one. He knew his boss could have fired him over the Caroline affair, and was grateful that he hadn’t, but he still felt the weight of David’s disapproval and disappointment whenever they were alone together. That would have made him uncomfortable enough, but now he had to sit through a meeting in front of the whole McMahon clan, including Caroline, whom he hadn’t seen for almost three weeks. Was this David’s idea of a suitable punishment?

  “Marlene, can’t you tell him I’m sick?”

  “Oh, now, come along,” she chided him, “you’ll be fine. And I’m sure Miss Berkeley will be happy to see you,” she added with a knowing smile.

  “Ah, Charlie, sit down,” said David Rowe, unsmiling, when he walked into the conference room a few minutes later. “I think we’re ready to begin.”

  The one remaining chair was between his boss and Caroline. Talk about the hot seat. Charlie slipped quietly into it, briefly acknowledging Caroline and nodding formally to the three black-clad figures on the opposite side of the table.

  Pete, whom he’d met once or twice up at the house with David and always found utterly charmless, looked older than he remembered and in need of a good night’s sleep. With his spreading paunch, pallid complexion, and receding red hair, he looked like every middle-management heart attack waiting to happen, and absolutely nothing like his father. Laurie, the fat sister, appeared to be on the verge of tears. And on David’s left, Minnie McMahon sat as regally elegant as ever in a severely cut black jacket and pillbox hat. Her face was somewhat drawn, but unlike her daughter she appeared completely composed, hands folded on the table in front of her, ready for business. Charlie didn’t dare sneak so much as a glance at Caroline.

  “What I am about to read to you all,” began David, adjusting his reading glasses slightly as he fingered the sheaf of papers in front of him, “is the last will and testament of Patrick Connor McMahon, otherwise known as Duke McMahon, of Hancock Park, Los Angeles.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Minnie.

  Laurie looked up, bewildered. Caroline, forgetting herself, turned to Charlie with a look of pure terror. Pete just smiled.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. McMahon?” said a flustered-looking David.

  Minnie carefully removed a slim white envelope from her capacious, worn leather handbag and placed it on the table, smoothing it down almost lovingly with her long, slender fingers.

  “I think, after thirty years of acquaintance, David, you might call me Minnie,” she said, allowing herself a small smile.

  Caroline squirmed. Thirty years of acquaintance, indeed. Who did she think she was, the duchess of bloody Devonshire?

  “I’m sorry, er, Minnie,” said David. “ I don’t think I quite understand.”

  “I don’t either, Mother. What’s going on?” asked Laurie.

  Pete opened his mouth to speak but Minnie put her hand on his arm to stop him. She’d waited sixteen long years for this moment, and no one was going to steal her thunder.

  “Let me explain.” She smiled graciously around the table, lingering for a moment on Charlie, who was beginning to fear that his heartbeat might be audible. “The night before Duke died, he came to see me. He told me that he had decided to make one or two changes to his previous will.”

  The color drained from Caroline’s face as Minnie removed the document from its envelope.

  “You see, he had recently come into possession of some information—some rather hurtful and shocking information”—she looked directly at Charlie—“as I believe you are already aware, Mr. Rowe.”

  David blushed scarlet. He had no idea that Duke had let his wife, of all people, in on their little secret.

  “Mrs. McMahon. Minnie,” he said, “I don’t know if this is really the time or the place to talk about this matter.” He laughed weakly. “I’m afraid that, whatever Duke’s intentions might have been, the fact is that he did not make any formal changes to his will before his death. If he had, I would have been asked to witness those changes. You see, without an impartial witness—someone who is not a beneficiary—well, any new document would not be legally enforceable. Duke knew that.”

  “He did indeed,” said Minnie, passing the document to David. “As you can see, it was impartially witnessed.”

  “By whom?” blurted out Caroline, suddenly indignant.

  “By me,” came a voice from the back of the room.

  Seamus, Duke’s old pal and confidant, must have been standing there all along, leaning against the wall in his slightly crumpled suit. He looked reproachfully at Caroline and she felt her stomach lurch with guilt, as if someone had just cut the elevator cable. Of all the people in the room, she realized, Seamus may have been the only one who had loved Duke without any of the complications, reservations, and self-interest that the rest of them had.

  “He loved you, you know,” he said to her, and she was shocked to find her eyes stinging with tears. Charlie gave h
er hand a surreptitious squeeze under the table.

  “Not really, Seamus,” she said sadly. “Not always.”

  “I think you’ll find it holds water,” announced Minnie briskly, niftily steering the conversation back to the subject of the will. She was in no mood for Caroline’s crocodile tears, or Seamus’s sentimentality for that matter.

  “She’s right,” piped up Pete, leaning back in his chair and cracking his knuckles gleefully. “It’s valid. So, David, do you want to read it out to us? Or shall I?”

  David glanced at Duke’s elder son, who had an ecstasy of spite written across his face. He could quite see why the old man had never liked him. “Very well,” he said. “As this does appear to be a legitimate, revised will, I am obliged to proceed.”

  He adjusted his spectacles a second time, and began reading directly from the paper in front of him. Charlie could make out only two paragraphs of print, followed by a long series of signatures and endorsements. It was going to be brutally brief.

  “‘I, Duke McMahon, wish to make the following changes to my last will and testament. With the exception of the changes and provisions outlined below, my previous will (dated June twelfth, 1977) shall remain effective in its entirety.

  “‘I hereby revoke any and all gifts, endowments, or benefits of any kind previously made to Miss Caroline Berkeley.’”

  Caroline sat motionless, a brown Dolce & Gabbana mannequin, her face impassive. So he did know about her and Charlie, the wily old sod. How could she have expected anything less of Duke? She could feel Pete and Minnie’s eyes boring into her, slavering like wolves for a reaction, but she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

  “‘All payments from the Innovation Trust to Miss Berkeley will also cease in the event of my death. All benefits, whether in cash, stock, or property, formerly bequeathed to Miss Berkeley, are to revert to the Innovation Trust, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my three children, Peter, Laurie, and Hunter McMahon.’”

  Thank God, thought Caroline. If Hunter was still inheriting, she’d be okay. Relief flooded through her veins so violently that she thought she might be sick.

  “‘In addition,’” David went on in his deep, oddly soothing baritone, “‘I hereby appoint my wife, Minnie McMahon, as the sole trustee of all trusts benefiting my children.’”

  He paused, looking across at Caroline.

  “‘Including my younger son, Hunter.’”

  “What?” Caroline leaped to her feet, unable to contain herself a second longer. Minnie was going to have control of Hunter’s trust? That meant she would never see a penny. Sixteen years of her life she had given to that bastard. Sixteen years and he was leaving her penniless.

  “That’s not possible.” She looked frantically from David to Charlie for support. “That’s not legal, it can’t be.” She waved her arm wildly toward Minnie. “She despises my son. How can she possibly take legal responsibility for his interests? She’ll beggar him, for God’s sake, she’ll beggar us both! How could Duke do this to us?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Berkeley,” replied David quietly, “but I’m afraid Duke was quite within his rights to bequeath his estate as he saw fit.”

  “It’s breach of fucking contract!” Caroline shouted. “I want to challenge the will. Charlie”—she turned to her lover, who sat with his handsome blond head in his hands—“I want to fight this.”

  “Be my guest,” said Minnie, smiling. Pete and Laurie sat beside her like two smug sentries. Even Seamus had walked over to the McMahons’ side of the table, his hands placed protectively on Laurie’s shoulders. Caroline was on her own. “But I think you will discover that since you and my husband never married, and given that your bastard child has been more than generously provided for, you haven’t got a leg to stand on.” Minnie got to her feet. “Still, I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. I’m sure your little toy boy here will be happy to support you, although perhaps not in quite the manner you’ve grown accustomed to.”

  Charlie stood up and put his arm around Caroline. God knew he hadn’t bargained on playing happy families with her and her son, but he was damned if he was going to let Duke McMahon’s frigid crone of a wife dismiss him like that. He was nobody’s toy boy.

  “Well, ma’am”—he grinned at Minnie—“I’ll sure do my best.”

  “We want you and your son out of the house by tomorrow,” snarled Pete, gathering up his briefcase and jacket.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Caroline. Even from across the table she could smell his fetid breath, like putrefied hatred. “That house is Hunter’s home. He and Siena are like brother and sister, Pete, you know that. You can’t just banish him like some sort of outlaw.”

  “Just watch me,” said Pete.

  “For God’s sake, think of the children.” Caroline could hear the desperation in her own voice. “However much you want to hurt me, you can’t seriously want to split up the kids. Think about Siena.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me about my daughter,” Pete spat at her. “Think of the children? When did you ever think about the children? When did you ever think about anyone except yourself? The only reason you gave birth to that little shit in the first place was to get your hands on Dad’s money, you fucking whore. Well, guess what? It backfired. I want my daughter as far away from you and that bastard son of yours as possible.”

  “Hey, enough,” said Charlie, squaring up to Pete, his powerful linebacker’s shoulders clearly apparent beneath his immaculately cut suit.

  While the two men faced each other down, Minnie had walked over toward Caroline. Pulling on her black gloves, she looked her former rival in the eye. Sixteen years of enmity and bitterness hung in the air between them. But they had both loved Duke once. For just a moment, the two women stared at each other in silence. Then Minnie broke the spell.

  “It killed him, you know. The shock. You two.” She gestured toward Charlie. “That’s what killed him.”

  And turning on her heel, she strode out of the room.

  Part II

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND, JULY 1998

  “God, he really is gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  Janey passed the magazine back to Siena, who lay scowling on the library sofa in Janey’s parents’ house, her long legs draped nonchalantly over Patrick’s. Patrick was Janey’s older brother and Siena’s boyfriend of the moment.

  “Hmm,” replied Siena, doing her best to sound bored as she looked at Hunter’s face smiling at her from the front of the June issue of Hello! All black hair and smoldering blue eyes. “I guess so.”

  Janey Cash was a great school friend of Siena’s and had invited her to spend two weeks at her family’s tumbledown Georgian rectory in Yorkshire. The girls had taken their last A-level together ten days ago, and waved a joyous goodbye to St. Xavier’s. They were still recovering from the epic hangover that had followed a drunken week of post-exam celebrations, and Siena decided that two weeks in the peace of the Yorkshire countryside, watching TV and filling up on Mrs. Cash’s delicious sticky toffee pudding, was exactly what the doctor ordered. Of course, the fact that Patrick would be there too was just an added bonus.

  She dropped the magazine, making sure Hunter’s face was floor side down. She was sick of seeing his picture everywhere, sick of all her friends telling her how gorgeous he was. Ever since he’d landed the role of Mike Palumbo in Counselor, the hottest new TV series since Dynasty, it was like she couldn’t escape him. The fact that she hadn’t laid eyes on him, or even spoken to him since she was ten years old, didn’t stop people from asking her endless questions, raking over her memories with razor blades.

  What made it worse was that Hunter seemed to be living her dream, fulfilling her destiny. For as long as she could remember, Siena had wanted to be an actress. Although she knew you weren’t supposed to say it, what she longed for above everything else was to be famous. Not just Duke McMahon’s granddaughter or Pete McMahon’s little girl—she wanted serious,
fuck-off fame, the real deal, in her own right. She wanted the whole world to love her, to have people scream out her name. To be adored, just like Duke had been adored. That was her dream.

  She was the one who should have had her face splashed all over the magazines, not Hunter. She knew she shouldn’t begrudge him his success, not after everything he’d been through. But it was so hard, being forced to watch him make a name for himself in Hollywood while she was stuck in England, being pushed into seven more grindingly dull years of medicine at Oxford. Just because her mom had given up medical school, and now both her parents wanted to live vicariously through her. She didn’t want to be a goddamn doctor!

  Patrick picked up one of her bare feet in his hands and gave it a comforting squeeze. She smiled at him. He really was very sweet, and he seemed instinctively to understand that she found it painful to talk about Hunter, or any of her family for that matter. If only everyone else were so tactful.

  After Duke died, her father had wasted no time in packing her off to boarding school. By the time she came home for her first long vacation at Christmas, Caroline and Hunter had moved out of Hancock Park into a modest apartment somewhere in Los Feliz. Siena had begged Pete to let her see Hunter, but he wouldn’t even give her an address so she could write. She’d pleaded to everyone, Minnie, Aunt Laurie, her mother, but out of either malice or fear, none of them would help her.

  Once, when she was back in L.A. for the summer, she could have sworn she’d seen an envelope with Hunter’s handwriting on it at her dad’s office. He used the very rounded letters of a young girl, and finished his i’s with cartoonish circles rather than dots. You could almost smell the effort that went into his spelling and punctuation, poor lamb. But Tara, Pete’s vile, anorexic bitch of a PA, had snatched up the letter before Siena could take a closer look and locked it away in her confidential file.

  When she’d asked Pete about it later, he told her that he kept the letter from her for her own protection.