Daughters of Fortune: A Novel (2 page)

“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 upper class.

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 would 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.

At last, 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, made-to-measure Savile Row suit, and graying 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 apologize 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, signaling 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 blouse and calf-length corduroy 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 way to put her at ease. He directed 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 embarassment.

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 that 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 ever have imagined.

At the end of the evening he insisted on having his chauffeur drive 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 on weekends he traveled 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 were 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 idiot. 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 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 take 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 staff room, she opened the heavy cream envelope. Some part of her had hoped it would contain a note from William, with some explanation for what he had done. But there was only a brisk, formal note on company paper from personnel, explaining the
terms of her termination and pointing her toward the enclosed severance check 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 check 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.