The Angel Tree

by Lucinda Riley

  LJ had spent many hours since contemplating how a woman such as Cheska could have produced such a sensible, balanced child. When Cheska had left for LA all those years ago, she hadn’t even had the decency to call to let David and LJ know she was all right. A few days later, David, having been caught up with Greta coming out of her coma, had been due to fly out and bring her home.

  Then a letter had arrived, addressed to LJ at Marchmont, written in Cheska’s childish script.

  The Beverly Wilshire Hotel

  Beverly Hills

  90212

  18th September 1962

  Dearest Aunt LJ,

  I know you must think very badly of me for what you will see as me abandoning Ava. But I have spent a long time thinking about what to do, and I don’t think I would make a very good mother for her just now. The only thing I’m good at is acting, and the studio has offered to place me under a five-year contract.

  At least this way I will be paying for Ava’s keep and her future, but I will be very busy making the films, which will mean I wouldn’t have a lot of time to spend with her. I’d have to get a nanny and, besides, I don’t think Hollywood is a very nice place for a baby to be brought up in.

  I know it’s a lot to ask you, but I’d like Ava to stay at Marchmont and have the kind of childhood in the beautiful countryside that I wish I’d had. Will you care for her, Aunt LJ? I always felt so safe and secure when I was with you there and I’m sure you will do a much better job of bringing up Ava than I would.

  If you feel it’s too much for you, I can send money for you to employ a nursemaid. Please let me know what you need.

  Also, you will probably think I don’t love or care about Ava. I swear I do, which is why I’m trying to do what’s best for her, not me, for a change.

  I will miss her terribly. Please tell her I love her, and I will come home to see her as soon as I can.

  Please forgive me, Aunt LJ, and write back when you can.

  Cheska

  LJ had read and reread the letter, trying to decide whether she thought the best or worst of her niece. It was only when she called David and read him the letter that he confirmed her worst fears.

  ‘Ma, I hate to say it, but I’m afraid Cheska may be thinking of her career rather than Ava. The studio almost certainly doesn’t know about the baby. They have a strict moral code for their actors and actresses and put all sorts of clauses in contracts so they have to adhere to them. If Cheska or her agent were to mention she was an unmarried mother at the age of sixteen, she’d be on the next flight home.’

  ‘I see. Oh dear, David. I mean, of course I don’t mind at all looking after Ava – she’s such a dear little thing – but I’m no spring chicken and hardly a substitute for her real mother.’

  There had been a pause at the other end of the line before David answered.

  ‘You know, Ma, under the circumstances, I actually think it’s the best thing for Ava. Cheska is . . . Cheska and, to be blunt, if Ava went to live with her in LA, we’d both be worried sick. The bigger question is can you cope?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ LJ had retorted. ‘I have Mary to help me, and she adores her. I’ve managed to run the estate and the farm, so I doubt one little baby will make much difference.’

  David was, as usual, in awe of his mother’s self-belief. She was truly indomitable. ‘Well then. I’ll cancel my flight, and you should write back to Cheska saying you agree. Of course, Cheska must pay for Ava’s upkeep. I’ll write, too, and tell her that myself. To be honest, Ma, I’m relieved. What with Greta’s slow rehabilitation, the last thing I needed was to get on a plane to Los Angeles.’

  ‘How is Greta?’

  ‘Currently having physiotherapy to strengthen her muscles. She’d been in bed so long, they’d practically wasted away. Yesterday, she managed to stand up for a few seconds.’

  ‘And her memory?’

  ‘Nothing much at the moment still, I’m afraid. There’s been the odd mention of her childhood, but beyond that it seems to be a complete blank. Honestly, Ma, I’m not sure which is worse, talking to her for months and never getting a response, or now, when she stares at me as though I’m a complete stranger.’

  ‘Dear boy, what a time you’ve had.’ LJ swallowed her frustration. What she thought about her son’s continuing devotion to Greta was best kept to herself. ‘Let’s hope she remembers soon.’

  Since then – over seventeen years ago – Cheska had not returned. And, sadly, neither had Greta’s memory.

  The only contact from Cheska in the early years had been a monthly cheque and the occasional parcel for Ava containing large boxes of American candy and dolls with over-painted faces that Ava would discard in favour of her tatty teddy bear. The message was always the same: ‘Tell Ava I love her and I’ll see her soon.’

  When Ava was old enough to understand, LJ explained that the parcels from America were from her mother. For a few weeks after that Ava had asked when her mummy would be coming back, as she had written it would be soon in the letters that accompanied the parcels. There was nothing LJ felt she could do but smile brightly and reassure her that her mother loved her.

  Eventually, the parcels stopped coming and Ava stopped asking. LJ continued to talk about Cheska, when appropriate. She wanted the child to understand, just in case – though the thought appalled her – Cheska ever did come back for her daughter.

  LJ had heard from David that Cheska was doing very well. She’d made a number of big films that had been shown in British cinemas – LJ had declined to watch them – and then, five years ago, she’d landed the lead in a new American soap opera. It had become internationally successful and Cheska was now a global television superstar.

  Although LJ disapproved of television, she thought it unfair to stop Ava having a set, as all her friends at school did. One night, when Ava was thirteen, she’d walked into her bedroom and seen Cheska’s face filling the screen. She’d sat down next to Ava on the bed and watched the programme with her.

  ‘You know who that is, don’t you, darling?’ she’d asked her.

  ‘Of course I do, Aunt LJ. It’s Cheska Hammond, my mother.’ She turned her attention calmly back to the screen. ‘The show is called The Oil Barons and it’s absolutely brilliant. The girls at school love it. Cheska is very beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she is. Do you tell your friends that she’s your mother?’

  Ava had turned to her, an expression of astonishment on her face. ‘Of course I don’t! They’d think I was making it up, wouldn’t they?’

  LJ had wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. ‘Yes, I suppose they would, dear girl.’

  She had sat there for the rest of the episode, watching the woman she’d once known as a young girl strut around in an array of exquisite clothes, making her way through a stunning selection of apartments and houses, and, LJ noted, a number of beds.

  When the programme had finished LJ turned to Ava. ‘Is this really suitable for you, Ava? It looks a bit spicy.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt LJ, don’t be so old-fashioned. I know all about sex. They taught it to us at school when we were twelve. They even showed us a video.’

  ‘Did they, indeed?’ She’d raised an eyebrow and reached for Ava’s hand. ‘When you watch your mother, do you wish you were with her in Hollywood, leading that sort of glamorous life?’

  ‘Goodness, no!’ Ava had laughed. ‘I know Cheska is my mother by birth, but I’ve never met her and I can’t say I miss her at all. You’re my mother and Marchmont is my home.’ She’d thrown her arms round LJ. ‘And I love you very, very much.’

  Over the years Ava had become LJ’s life, an intrinsic part of her being. The maternal instinct was as powerful as it had been with David. She sometimes chided herself for living through the child, just the way Greta had done with Cheska, but she couldn’t help herself. Ava was such a darling and she’d do anything for her.

  Now, LJ heard Ava’s quick footsteps coming along the passage towards her bedroom and shook
herself out of her reverie. Maybe it was to do with the operation, but recently, she’d experienced an impending feeling of doom. She’d tried to shake it off, but she’d trusted her instincts for eighty-four years. And they had rarely been wrong.

  38

  Los Angeles

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Cheska spoke tersely into the receiver, removed her satin eye mask and glanced at the clock by her bed. ‘What the hell are you doing calling me at this hour of the morning, Bill? You know it’s the only day I get to lie in.’

  ‘Sorry, honey, but it’s half past eleven and we need to talk. Urgently.’

  ‘Does that mean they’ve agreed to the extra twenty grand per episode?’

  ‘Look, Cheska, can we meet for lunch and I’ll explain?’

  ‘You know I rest on Sundays, Bill. If it’s that urgent, you’d better come over. My masseuse is coming at two, so make it three.’

  ‘Okay. See you then, honey.’

  Cheska dropped the receiver back onto its ornate gilt-and-cream stand and sank into her pillows, feeling irritable. Saturday night was the only evening she could stay up into the early hours. The rest of the week she was awake with the birds at four thirty and the studio limousine collected her at five.

  And last night had been . . . well, it had been . . .

  Cheska patted the other side of the kingsize bed and felt only rumpled sheets. She looked across and saw a piece of paper on one of the pillows. She picked it up and read it: ‘Last night was sweet. Hugs, Hank.’

  Cheska stretched like a cat, remembering the night she and Hank had just shared. Hank was the lead singer with a great new band. He’d been guesting in the club she’d gone to last night with a couple of friends, and Cheska had known the minute she’d seen his lean body, blue eyes and dirty-blond hair that she had to have him.

  Later that evening, as usual, Cheska got what she wanted.

  Normally, the thrill of the chase was the thing that set her nerve endings tingling; the sex itself was a let-down. But last night had been fantastic. Maybe, just maybe, she’d agree to see him again. Cheska climbed out of bed and padded into the en suite marble bathroom to run a deep tub.

  When she’d first moved into the house high up on Chalon Road in Bel Air, just after she’d won the part of Gigi in The Oil Barons, it hadn’t had any security. Now, there was a ten-foot brick wall with twenty-four-hour cameras and alarms between her and the outside world. Even though the view from the upper storeys was spectacular – all Los Angeles spread out in the valley below – Cheska didn’t open the blinds to let the glorious sunshine pour into the room. They were always kept firmly closed until she was fully dressed, because once, an enterprising photographer had climbed a ladder and snapped her wrapped only in a towel. He’d sold the shot to a couple of tabloid newspapers for a fortune. After all, she was now one of the best-known celebrities in America, and possibly the world.

  Cheska turned off the taps, pressed the jacuzzi button and stepped into the tub. She sank down and the jets gently buffeted her body. She had no idea why it was so urgent that Bill saw her. Surely there wasn’t a problem with the new contract? She shook her head, chasing away the thought. Of course there wasn’t. Gigi was the most popular female character in The Oil Barons. Cheska got more fan mail than any other cast member, was asked to make more public appearances and stole more headlines than all the other actors put together.

  Cheska knew it was partly due to her notorious private life. The studio had admonished her on various occasions when she was photographed with yet another young, blond lover, mumbling about the morals clause in her contract, but she took no notice. How could they possibly complain when it was more publicity for the show, anyway? And her private life was just that: private, and none of the studio’s goddamned business.

  Cheska gazed at her reflection in the mirror and noticed a couple of lines under her eyes. She was tired, worn out from nine months’ non-stop filming. Thank God the summer sabbatical was only a few weeks away. She needed to take off, get some rest and relaxation. Maybe her messy and much-publicised divorce six months back had taken more of a toll than she realised. Under Californian law, the husband or wife was entitled to half of everything their spouse owned. As she owned a lot, and her rock-musician shit-of-an-ex-husband had had nothing, she hadn’t come out of it well. She had lost the Malibu beach house and half her cash and other investments to Gene ‘Bastard’ Foley. He hadn’t worked a day while they’d been married but spent his time hanging out at the beach house with his long-haired friends, smoking dope, drinking beer and using her hard-earned money to rage round seedy joints in LA. Cheska rued the day she’d decided to marry him, but they’d been high in Las Vegas and it had seemed like a gas to wake a minister at three in the morning and demand he marry them then and there. Gene had used a discarded ring-pull from a beer can to put on her finger. The publicity had been staggering. Their picture had been on the front of all the major newspapers across the world the following day.

  The truth was, he’d reminded her of Bobby . . .

  Because of one moment of madness, Cheska had lost a great deal financially. And she had always lived extravagantly. She bought expensive designer clothes and threw enormous parties, catered for by the best in the business, whenever the mood took her. Before the divorce, she’d had the money to pay for those things. Now she was running up what her accountant called a ‘magnificent’ overdraft.

  He’d called to see her last week and suggested she start cutting down on her expenses. The bank was prepared to extend her overdraft by another fifty thousand dollars but only after they’d taken out a further charge on her house. She’d signed the papers he handed to her without even reading the small print.

  All this was why she needed the raise on her new contract. As Gigi, she was indispensable to The Oil Barons and she’d wanted to negotiate aggressively. Bill, her American agent, had urged caution. He’d said the studios were volatile, that they didn’t like actors feeling they were bigger than the show they starred in.

  Cheska reached for a towel as she stepped out of the tub. She thought how ridiculous it was that the hottest TV star in Hollywood was having to penny-pinch. As she dressed, she comforted herself that the new contract should sort out all her financial problems.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Cheska waved at Bill from the sofa, as her Mexican maid showed him into the large, comfortable sitting room overlooking the pool. ‘I can’t move, darling. I’ve just had a massage and my toes painted. Drink?’

  ‘Iced tea would be swell,’ Bill said to the maid.

  ‘Make that two,’ Cheska added as the maid left the room.

  Bill walked over and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘How you doing, honey?’

  Cheska smiled and stretched as he placed his briefcase on the glass coffee table and sat down. ‘Fine, just fine. So, what’s the news that’s so urgent you had to leave your wife and kids on a Sunday?’

  ‘It’s about the show.’

  ‘Well, I gathered it would be.’ She studied Bill’s face, and saw the tension written on it. ‘Nothing’s wrong, is it, Bill?’

  ‘Look, the thing is, Cheska, I’m afraid the studio isn’t going to renew your contract.’

  Cheska drew in her breath. At that moment the maid returned with the iced tea and they sat silently as she put the two glasses on the table then left the room.

  ‘You must have heard them wrong, Bill, surely?’

  ‘Irving called me in to see him on Friday. They, well—’ Bill paused, trying to think how to phrase it. ‘The new head of the studio is a clean-living family man, and he wants his stars to set an example.’

  ‘Hold on a moment, Bill. So you’re telling me that even though the characters in The Oil Barons jump in and out of bed with each other on a regular basis, have illegitimate children, drug problems and violent husbands, its stars have to live like saints? Jesus!’ Cheska shook her head then gave a bitter laugh. ‘How hypocritical can you get?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Bill sooth
ed. ‘But the show will be cleaned up in the next series. A bunch of those things you’ve just mentioned will be taken out.’

  ‘Along with the high ratings,’ she murmured. ‘Why the hell does he think the great American public watches the show?’

  ‘I agree, Cheska, and I can only say I’m real sorry you’ve been caught in the crossfire. But I’ve warned you time and again that the studio—’

  ‘—the studio doesn’t like its leading stars being seen in nightclubs, drinking, dancing or, in fact, having any kind of fun or life of their own,’ finished Cheska angrily.

  ‘Look, let’s get real here, honey. During the past few months you’ve been late on set, you’ve forgotten your lines—’

  ‘I was going through a divorce, for Chrissakes!’ Cheska thumped a cushion hard and threw it on the floor. As she stared out of the window, those old, familiar feelings, the ones that she’d hoped were a distant memory, threatened to surface. She pushed them down inside her, swallowed hard and looked back at Bill.

  ‘So, how does Gigi, I mean . . . ?’

  It was the crucial question. If the studio had Gigi flying off into the sunset with a man, it meant there was room for a return. If not . . .

  Bill took a deep breath. ‘A car crash. Dead on arrival at the hospital.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was another long silence. Cheska struggled to keep herself under control. ‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘that’s it, then? Washed up, finished, at the age of just thirty-four.’

  ‘Oh come on, you’re exaggerating,’ countered Bill. ‘The studio thinks it best if they announce that you want to leave the series of your own accord to develop various projects. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t move straight on to other things. I’ve already got a couple of ideas.’

  Bill spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. Bad news travelled fast on the intimate inside track of Hollywood. And Cheska had picked up a reputation as being ‘trouble’.

  ‘They don’t honestly expect me to let them fire me without fighting back?’ Cheska shouted.