Books > Daughters of Fortune > Excerpts

Prologue

London, December 1974

The young woman hurried along the street. It was the fourth time she'd passed through Eaton Square in the last hour. She knew that because she'd kept count, and she had a nagging suspicion that the policeman on the corner had, too. She tossed her head back, trying to look as though she belonged here, among the elegant rows of stucco townhouses that characterised Belgravia. But she had no hope. In her cheap coat and threadbare mittens, it was clear Katie O'Dwyer had no business in a place like this.

As she reached the middle of the street, her pace slowed until she came to a halt outside one of the grand Georgian residences. A clone of its neighbours, it stood six storeys high and was painted virgin white. Wrought-iron railings separated the neat front garden from the pavement. At the top of five marble steps there was a formidable black door with a heavy brass knocker, which the housemaid polished every Wednesday without fail. Katie knew the routine well, even though she had never lived in the house – never officially been a visitor there, if she was honest.

She saw straight away that he still wasn't home. The only light came from the basement, the staff quarters, where a television could be seen flickering through the net curtains. Upstairs, where he lived, remained in darkness. Part of her wanted to knock and ask if she could wait in the warmth, but she knew her presence would raise questions, and she wouldn't risk doing that to him. Instead she crossed to the park bench opposite. The wooden seat was cold and hard, but with a clear view of the house, it was as good a place as any to wait.

A light drizzle began to fall. Despite herself, Katie smiled. It had been raining the night she'd arrived in England, a little over a year ago. She remembered stepping off the boat at Holyhead, her stomach still churning from the journey, and feeling the first droplets on her skin. She had thought of it as a cleansing rain, washing away the memories of her life in Ireland and opening the way to the future.

Not that life back home had been bad – it was simply dull. She had grown up in a small village in County Mayo, the conservative west of the country, the only child of overprotective parents. Having spent fifteen years trying to conceive, they had pretty much given up hope of ever having a baby when little Katie came along, just after her mother's fortieth birthday. Their Miracle Child, they'd treated her as though she was liable to break at any moment. By the time Katie turned eighteen, she craved freedom and excitement; longed to go to London, to see Carnaby Street and the King's Road. Telling her parents wasn't easy. But after weeks of pleading and shouting, they finally bade her a tearful farewell at DÚn Laoghaire docks.

Katie arrived at the Catholic hostel in Kilburn full of excitement. But finding work proved more difficult than she'd imagined. The optimism of the early seventies had faded. Inflation and unemployment were on the rise; the IRA's terror campaign was in full swing, making it even harder to find a job if you were Irish. She was on the verge of giving up and going home, when Nuala, one of the girls in her dorm, mentioned hearing about a vacancy where she worked.

'The hours are long and the pay's shite,' Nuala said cheerfully. 'But it's a job, right?'

In fact, Katie thought it sounded terribly glamorous, working as a sales assistant at Melville. The exclusive English fashion house was internationally renowned for its handmade leather shoes, exquisite bags and delightful scarves, its name synonymous with taste and breeding. Katie's heroines, Audrey Hepburn and Jackie Onassis, had both recently been photographed clutching Melville handbags sporting the signature m-shaped clasp.

The following morning, Katie put on her smartest clothes and headed over to Old Bond Street, home to the most elegant and exclusive shops in London. Wide-eyed, she passed art galleries and fine jewellers, designer shops like Gucci and Chanel ... until she finally found Melville. Even from the outside it was intimidating. Darkened glass and huge velvet curtains at the windows made it impossible to see inside. A liveried porter held the gold-crested doors open for her. Taking a deep breath, Katie walked inside.

That was her first mistake.

'Salesgals must use the rear entrance,' Anne Harper, the Store Manager, told Katie later that morning as she gave her a brief tour of the store. Nuala had put in a good word for her and, after a cursory interview, Mrs Harper had agreed to take Katie on for a trial period. It was said in a way that suggested she didn't expect Katie's employment to last any longer than that.

'If I catch you coming in through the front entrance again, you will be dismissed,' Mrs Harper went on. 'You will also be immediately dismissed if you are late or if a customer complains about you.'

Katie was quickly cured of the notion that working at Melville would be glamorous. Nuala had been right: the hours were long, the pay poor, and the people unfriendly – customers and colleagues alike. She hardly ever saw Nuala, who worked as a secretary in the adjoining Head Office building, and the other shop girls were for the most part from wealthy families, the job merely a diversion until they were married off. Katie knew they looked down on her, the simple Irish country girl. When they made plans to go out at the weekend – plans that never included her – Katie pretended not to hear.

In the face of such open hostility, Katie probably would have looked around for a position elsewhere. But then something unexpected happened. She fell in love.

It began with a spate of thefts. Five handbags disappeared from the stockroom, followed by a dozen silk scarves. But when twenty pounds went missing from the till, Management finally decided to crack down. Mrs Harper called a staff meeting as soon as the store closed, warning that a spot check would be carried out on all bags as employees left that night.

Katie joined the queue with everyone else. As she waited, someone jostled her arm. She looked round to see Fiona Clifton, a horse-faced country-set type, who was always especially unpleasant to her. Fiona's narrow face split into a toothy grin. 'Sorry, darling,' she brayed.

Katie was about to tell her not to worry. But just then she was called forward to open up her bag. Katie looked on as Melville's Head of Security removed her umbrella, Max Factor lipstick and hankie. Finally, he went through her coat pockets. With Mrs Harper and the other staff looking on, he pulled out a twenty-pound note. He turned it over to reveal an orange highlighter mark slashed across it, identifying it as the float from the till.

'That isn't mine,' Katie protested.

But no one believed her story. After all, why would any of the well-to-do young ladies who worked in the store steal money and then plant the evidence on her ...

Mrs Harper hauled Katie up by her arm. 'You'll have to come with me. Mr Melville wants to deal with this himself.'

Katie's heart sank. She had heard whispers about William Melville, the great-grandson of the founder. Rumoured to be a formidable man, he never made time to visit the shop floor, and the store staff only ever saw him at the Christmas party, at which he made the briefest of appearances. Katie had never even laid eyes on him before, but she couldn't imagine he was the type to give her a fair hearing.

Melville's Head Office was located directly behind the store. Katie had never had any reason to venture over there before, but she had expected it to resemble the stark, soulless backrooms of the store. Instead, it was like stepping into a stately home. She followed Mrs Harper along dimly-lit corridors, complete with deep-pile carpets and original oil paintings adorning the walls. Finally, they reached a heavy door at the top of the building. A gold-lettered nameplate announced that it belonged to 'William Melville, Chief Executive'. Mrs Harper rapped loudly, and a gruff voice invited them inside.

The room was every bit as imposing as the hallway. Walnut wainscoting, polished floorboards and a bookcase crammed with first editions gave a grand, impersonal feel. In the centre stood a handsome Louis XIV desk, made of solid dark oak, the top covered in burgundy leather. Katie guessed correctly that the man sitting behind it was William Melville. Tall and well-built; strong, serious and uncompromising: the kind of man born to run a company like this. He didn't look up as they entered.

'One moment,' he murmured.

Katie shifted uneasily. Mrs Harper still had a firm grip on her arm and it was beginning to hurt, but she didn't dare twist away. It felt like forever before Mr Melville closed the file in front of him and deigned to look up. 'So what can I do for you, Anne?' His voice was strong and clear and, to Katie's ears, terrifyingly posh.

She stared straight ahead as Mrs Harper ran through the events of the evening. William Melville didn't glance in her direction once. She couldn't help feeling despondent. He would undoubtedly believe everything Mrs Harper said, and probably call the police. The thought of being sent back to Ireland in disgrace, of her parents' shame ... She felt tears welling in her eyes, but blinked them away. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Mrs Harper finished speaking. William's eyes flicked to Katie. She made sure to meet his gaze – after all, she had no reason to be ashamed. He was only in his early thirties, but his sober face, bespoke Savile Row suit and greying temples made him seem older. He stared at her for a long moment, as though getting the measure of her. Finally his eyes dropped to where Mrs Harper still had hold of Katie's arm. He frowned. 'I think you can let go of the young lady, Anne,' he said mildly. 'I doubt she's going to run off.'

The Store Manager did as she was told. Then William turned to Katie, and what he said next took her completely by surprise.

'Now, Katie,' he addressed her as though they were old acquaintances, 'why on earth did you put Mrs Harper to all this trouble?' His tone was filled with mild reproof.

He waited for a moment, as if expecting her to answer. Katie stayed silent. She had no idea what he was talking about. When she didn't speak up, he shook his head and turned to Mrs Harper.

'I'm so sorry about all this, Anne. But I know for certain that Katie didn't steal this money. You see, I gave it to her from the petty cash box myself so that she could pick up my dry cleaning on her way into work tomorrow morning. My secretary would usually do it, but she's been away.'

Katie looked on in disbelief as he forced a reluctant Mrs Harper to apologise to her. She had no idea why he would lie for her, but if it meant she got to keep her job then she was happy to keep quiet.

Mrs Harper didn't stay around for very long after that. Clearly humiliated, she bade William a brisk goodnight, and then hurried off. Katie waited until the other woman's footsteps had faded, before turning to the Chief Executive. 'Why did you do that?' she asked.

William shrugged with the nonchalance of a man who is used to having his orders obeyed without question. 'You looked as though you could use someone on your side.'

She took a moment to digest what he'd said.

'Thank you,' she said finally.

'You're welcome.' His eyes hardened. 'Just make sure nothing like this happens again. I won't be so lenient next time.'

It dawned on her then that he still thought she was guilty.

'I didn't—' she began to explain. But he cut her off.

'All I ask is that it doesn't happen again,' he repeated crisply.

He turned back to his file, signalling that as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Katie wanted to say more but knew there was no point. Instead, she slipped from the room.

As she hurried down the stairs and out into the brisk winter night, she knew she should feel relieved – she'd had a lucky escape. But for some reason the incident depressed her. She hated to think that this kind man, who had taken a chance on her, still believed that she was a thief.

A month later, the real culprit was caught. Security discovered Fiona Clifton in the stockroom sneaking five pairs of shoes into a backpack. Apparently, Daddy's monthly allowance wasn't enough to fund her burgeoning cocaine habit. She was sacked on the spot.

With her name fully cleared now, Katie received a second, somewhat stilted apology from Mrs Harper ... and a handwritten note from William Melville inviting her to dinner that night.

He hadn't asked her to keep their rendezvous quiet. But Katie didn't share her news with the other girls, not wanting them to gossip. Instead, she stuck to her routine, leaving the shop at seven, then whiling away the next hour in a nearby cafÉ.

Katie couldn't help feeling nervous as she waited. She had little experience with men. She'd had her share of admirers, drawn to her striking Gaelic looks – glossy blue-black hair and snow-white skin – as much as her full figure, but she'd never had a proper boyfriend. Back home, her father's fierce stare had kept suitors away. London had brought more freedom, but her strict Catholic upbringing meant any dates always ended the same – with Katie pushing away eager hands and then being walked home in sullen silence. She had already decided that if William acted in any way forward she would head straight home – even if it meant losing her job. After all, she wasn't that type of girl.

She was back outside the shop entrance by five to eight. William was already there. Early, she noted, and looking fabulously affluent in a navy cashmere coat. She glanced down at her own attire. Dressed in her polyester bow blouse and calf-length cord skirt, she wasn't exactly an ideal dinner companion for him. She waited, uncertain how to greet him.

'I'm glad you came, Katie,' he said, in his deep, cultured voice that made her so aware of her own Irish lilt.

'It was nice of you to invite me, Mr Melville.'

He smiled down at her. 'If we're going to have dinner together, then I must insist you call me William.'

She hesitated for the briefest of moments before smiling back at him.

'Thank you ... William,' she said.

It was a magical evening for Katie. William whisked her off to the Ritz. Given its proximity to the office, he dined there often, apparently. At first, when they entered the hotel's rather formal dining room, Katie felt a moment of dread. She was bound to do something stupid, commit some awful social gaffe. But William, seeming to sense her fears, went out of his was to put her at ease. He direced the maitre d' to seat them at a table tucked into a discreet corner, away from the prying eyes of other guests. And he must have seen her look of horror, upon realizing the menu was in French, because he offered to order for her. 'I'm here so often that I know what's good,' he said smoothly, clearly wanting to spare her any embarrassment.

After that, she began to relax. She devoured every bit of the delicious food – lobster bisque followed by Boeuf Bourguignon – and even allowed him to pour her a small glass of the Bordeaux he'd carefully selected. Talking to him was easier than she'd expected, too, since he seemed so genuinely interested in what she had to say. She found herself telling him about her upbringing, how stifled she'd felt at home; he reciprocated by opening up to her about the pressure he had always felt to go into the family business. It was strange to find they had more in common than she could have ever imagined.

At the end of the evening he insisted on having his chauffeur drop her home. As they leaned back against the smooth leather seats of the Rolls-Royce, watching the bright lights of the West End fade into the less salubrious surroundings of North London, Katie was certain that she would remember this as one of the best nights of her life.

When they reached the hostel, he got out of the car to open the door for her, like a real gentleman should.

'Goodnight, Katie,' he said.

He bent to kiss her hand. She felt his lips brush against her skin and shivered. Without another word, she turned and ran into the house, carrying her memories with her.

They made no plans to meet again. But the following Thursday Katie received another note from William in her staff pigeonhole, asking whether she was free for dinner that night.

This time, she hesitated. She knew he was married. She also knew he had an eighteen-month-old daughter. He had told her all about his wife and child last week. They resided at his country estate in Somerset. During the week he stayed in his Belgravia residence, and at weekends he travelled down to be with them. Katie had no idea what this invitation meant to him, but she knew what it meant to her. And that was enough to make her consider turning it down.

But, despite her good intentions, she found herself standing outside the shop entrance at ten to eight that evening. Once again, he was already there, and he smiled when he saw her.

'I thought we could go somewhere else tonight,' he said, as they walked along the street. 'Somewhere ... less formal.'

She guessed he meant somewhere that they were less likely to be spotted.

The little French bistro was, as he had promised, less formal. And, whatever his reason for choosing it, Katie found she felt more at ease.

When another invitation arrived the following week, she wasn't remotely surprised.

They ate dinner together every Thursday for the next two months. On the surface, they had nothing in common. But they found each other mutually fascinating. William never mentioned his wife again, and Katie saw no reason to bring her up, either. In fact, she was surprised at how easy it was to forget who he was. She would find herself telling him about her day, about the other girls being horrible to her, as though he was a friend.

'I could do something,' he said once. 'Have you moved to another section ...'

'No,' she said firmly. 'No. I don't want you to do anything.' What she meant was that she didn't want him to do anything that would draw attention to them.

Katie had no idea what he saw in her, or where he thought they were headed. Other than kissing her hand, he never made any move to touch her. The only person she had confided in about their meetings was Nuala. Her friend made no secret of her disapproval.

'There's only one thing he'll be wanting from you, Katie,' she told her time and again.

'No,' Katie insisted. 'It's not like that.'

Nuala gave a sceptical sniff. She was in the midst of planning her wedding to a young chap she'd met at one of London's many Irish clubs, and didn't like hearing about a married man wining and dining a pretty single girl. 'Ah, Katie, you eejit. You don't really believe that now, do you?'

In fact, Katie had almost convinced herself that she and William were friends, nothing more. Then one bitter January night they were walking back to his car when she slipped over on the icy pavement. He helped her up, but when she looked down to check the damage, she found her tights were torn and her knees skinned. Tears filled her eyes.

'Are you all right?' he asked, concerned.

'I'm fine,' she sniffed.

'No, you're not.'

As if to prove her wrong, he reached out to brush a tear from her wet cheek. That only made it worse. Suddenly she couldn't stop crying.

William didn't say anything. He simply put his arms around her and drew her to him. She knew she ought to resist, but for some reason she couldn't pull away. Instead, she closed her eyes and relaxed against his chest.

'Oh, Katie, Katie,' he murmured into her hair. 'What are we going to do?'

That night, instead of having his driver drop her home, William brought her back to his place.

Katie knew it was wrong. She knew that she was likely to burn in hell for eternity, but she couldn't stop herself. That night, Katie O'Dwyer, who had sworn to the nuns that she would save herself for her wedding night, gave herself entirely to another woman's husband. On the embossed silk sheets of a strange bed, with his wife and child gazing down at her from the photos on the wall, she opened herself up to William.

The blood and pain disappeared after the first time. And from then on they stopped meeting in restaurants. He rented a little flat for her in Clapham and every Thursday – and Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, too – they would skip dinner and head straight back there to spend the evening in each other's arms.

They had eight months together. Eight blissful months pretending the world didn't exist.

Then one night he told her about his forthcoming trip to Italy – the annual family holiday. He couldn't get out of the two weeks at Lake Como, somewhere she hadn't even heard of. The thought of not seeing William for fourteen days bothered Katie more than knowing he would be with his wife. Kissing away her tears, he promised to come and see her the night that he returned.

That was Katie's first experience of men's duplicity. Two days after William left, she was summoned into Anne Harper's office and told that she was being let go.

'But that can't be right!' she burst out. 'You can't do that. Just ask—' She was about to say 'William', but caught herself in time.

The Store Manager smiled unpleasantly. 'Ask Mr Melville, is that what you were going to say?' Katie could see that she was enjoying herself. 'I don't think that's going to do you any good, Miss O'Dwyer. After all, he was the one who instructed me to get rid of you.'

Katie listened in a daze as the woman told her that, along with losing her job, she would also be expected to vacate her flat by the end of the week. The manageress then slid an envelope across the desk. 'This should compensate you for any undue distress,' she said coolly. 'And I'm sure I don't need to tell you to keep this conversation to yourself?'

Katie heard the warning note in Anne's voice. Somehow she managed to mumble something about not wanting to cause any trouble, and then, still in a daze, she got to her feet and stumbled to the door.

Upstairs, alone in the staffroom, she opened the heavy cream envelope. Some part of her had hoped it would contain a letter from William, with some explanation for what he had done. But there was only a brisk, formal note on company headed paper from Personnel, outlining the terms of her termination, and pointing her towards the enclosed redundancy cheque for one thousand pounds. It was clearly such a ridiculous sum relative to her pay and duration of employment that she nearly laughed. Instead, she tucked the envelope, letter and cheque into her pocket, and cleared out her locker. Then, without speaking to another soul, she left Melville for good.

That night, Katie did what William wanted – she got out of his life. He was right, she decided, as she packed her belongings. A clean break was the best way. If she wished he'd had the courage to tell her face-to-face, she consoled herself with the thought that he had feared his resolve would weaken. It was easier than thinking the alternative: that he had never cared.

She never went back to Melville. She found cheaper lodgings and convinced the owner of a small cafÉ to take her on. And William was right, she told herself every night as she cried herself to sleep. It had had to end between them. She needed to forget him so that he could forget her, and be with his wife. However much it hurt, it was the right thing to do.

That had been three months ago. And now here she was, waiting outside his house, where they had spent that first night together.

The familiar purr of a car engine broke into Katie's thoughts. She looked up from her place on the park bench. Sure enough, it was William's Rolls. Her heartbeat quickened. Despite everything that had happened, she was longing to see him again.

The car slowed, pulling up in front of his house. The chauffeur got out first, putting on his peaked cap before going round to open the rear door for William.

Then William stepped out onto the pavement. In the shadowy light from the streetlamp, Katie could still make out his broad shoulders and solemn expression. She stood up, shivering with cold and anticipation. She was about to call his name – but then he turned back to the car and held out his hand. Katie watched as slender fingers gripped his strong wrist.

She recognised the elegant blonde in the fox fur straight away: it was his wife, Isabelle. Katie wondered idly where they had been tonight. The opera? Dinner with friends? Not that it was her business.

She watched as they walked up the steps together and disappeared into the house. A moment later, the Christmas-tree lights flickered on in the front window. In the half-light, she saw William draw Isabelle into his arms. He pointed up at the mistletoe above them and she giggled. He brushed her fair hair back and bent his head.

Katie couldn't watch any longer. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of them together. Then she reached down to touch the gentle swell of her belly. She could never tell him now. She had been foolish to come here tonight; just as she had been foolish to get involved with a married man. Now she would have to deal with the consequences alone.