Her heart gave a sudden, sickening lurch. Could it be?
Silfen.
Siena didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was Jamie bloody Silfen, it had to be. He had noticed her after all. He’d seen the show, seen how the audience had loved her, but instead of contacting her directly, he’d gone and called her fucking father! The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Jamie knew Pete, both professionally and socially. In her excitement and surprise at seeing him in the audience, she’d completely overlooked the connection with her father. Pete, in fact, was the one person she’d been trying hardest all week to forget.
For almost a minute, she sat motionless on her bed trying to take it all in. Eventually, she reached across for the phone and began to dial her parents’ number.
0-0-1—she pressed each digit with infinite reluctance—3-1-0-8-2 . . .
But it was no good. She couldn’t do it. Gently but firmly, she replaced the receiver.
Stamping down her anxiety with a supreme effort of will, she returned to her packing. Her father could wait till tomorrow morning. This trip to Paris had been the start of something wonderful for her, a real rite of passage. She couldn’t place it exactly, but she felt sure it marked the first step back toward Hollywood, Hollywood on her own terms, and everything that Grandpa Duke had told her she could become.
With her own talent.
In her own right.
No one, least of all Pete, was going to spoil it for her.
At six o’clock that evening in Los Angeles, Pete McMahon signed the bottom of a document and handed it solemnly to his attorney.
He was sitting at his father’s old desk, one of the few artifacts he had requested from Hancock Park after the old man died. The lawyer hastily scribbled his witnessing signature below his client’s and scurried out of the room, anxious to leave before the storm brewing between Pete and his wife erupted.
Claire was standing at the window looking out over the lights of West Hollywood, with her back to her husband. In her worsted tweed skirt and white turtleneck, she looked more like a contemplative nun than a Hollywood mogul’s wife. Although Pete couldn’t see it, her face was as white as a ghost’s.
“Please don’t say anything,” said Pete, still seated, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “Please. It’s over.”
Claire turned to look at him, scanning his face for any sort of emotion or weakness, any doubts about this terrible decision that she could cling to, or use to try and change his mind. But the expression she saw was one she remembered well. It was the same expression he’d had back in the study at Hancock Park, when he’d insisted on sending Siena away to England: desolate, blank, unreachable. She knew in her heart it was hopeless.
“Oh, Pete. What do you mean? How can it ever be over?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? “And what if I said I won’t let you do this? She’s my child, Peter. My only child.”
He could hear the terrible anguish in her voice and wished he could comfort her. But it was all too late. Siena wasn’t their child anymore. She had proved that now beyond any doubt.
Duke had stolen her from them, turned her against them forever. Even from beyond the grave, he had plunged his hated, destructive hand into the heart of Pete’s own family and poisoned it with misery from within.
Claire was shaking. “What if I said I’d leave you?”
The words hung in the air between them.
Pete put his head in his hands. For almost a minute, neither of them spoke.
“Will you?” he said at last. His right hand, still holding the pen, had started shaking violently, and heavy globules of black ink spilled onto his white linen cuffs. “Will you leave me?”
Claire was so overwhelmed with sorrow, she almost felt she might hear her heart cracking open. But even in the depths of her own misery, when she looked at her beloved husband’s stricken face, she knew that she could not abandon him.
She realized in that moment, with searing clarity, that she was all he had. And for all the pain he caused her, she loved him.
“No,” she said softly. “No, Pete. I won’t leave you.”
“Never?” he whispered. “Whatever happens?”
She walked over and put her arms around him.
“Never.”
It was raining in Knightsbridge when Siena finally came to, and the dull, cloudy English light of late morning spluttered rather than streamed through her bedroom window. So much for Boiling Britain. She seemed to be bringing the shitty weather with her wherever she went.
Groggily, she made her way into the kitchen, where she found a note from Isabella, the McMahons’ Spanish housekeeper in London, explaining that she had run out to the dry cleaners but that Siena’s breakfast was all laid out and ready for her on the table in the dining room.
Siena wandered through, picking up the Saturday Times and a letter addressed to her as she went, and was soon settled down to a feast of fresh-ground coffee, wheat toast, and her favorite crunchy peanut butter.
The letter was from Oxford, nothing important, just a bunch of information about the week she had already missed, various college societies and events and a lecture schedule for the Michaelmas term. Siena pushed it all to one side and started skimming the fashion section of the Saturday Magazine. She was deeply engrossed in a piece about the revival, yet again, of the micro-mini when an overburdened Isabella burst through the door, weighed down with a whopping armful of dry cleaning.
“Belli, let me help you with that,” she said, jumping up to take the clothes before the housekeeper gave herself a hernia.
Isabella was one of the few people in Siena’s life whom she unconditionally adored. Fat and warm and motherly, she had done everything in her power to make the London flat seem like home when, as a lonely little girl, Siena had been abandoned there for endless half-terms and Easter holidays. Not having any children of her own, she found it easy to coddle and indulge Siena in a way that the child’s own parents never would have dreamed of. Home cooking, constant physical affection, ceaseless praise for every achievement, no matter how small, and comfort for every setback—these were the things that Siena associated with Isabella.
“Ees okay,” the stocky little woman protested as Siena lifted coat after coat from her arms. “There ees something else for you. Take these.” She handed her four sheets of A4 that she had carefully stapled together at the top left-hand corner. “Eets a fox,” she said gravely.
“Is it?” asked Siena seriously, trying not to laugh. “From the fox machine? I’d better have a look, then.”
Dumping the clothes unceremoniously on the sofa, she returned to the table and her fourth piece of toast. God, she was in demand at the moment! It must be from the agency, hopefully with some decent jobs for next season. Siena started to read.
“Last Will and Testament . . .”
No. Oh, no, no, no. He couldn’t be serious.
“My daughter, Siena Claire . . . disinherited . . .”
The words blurred before her eyes.
“Immediate effect . . . to quit the premises, 88 Sloane Gardens, London, SW3 . . . wish no further contact . . .”
Siena put her hand to her mouth. She thought she might be going to throw up, but the feeling passed. Angrily, she hurled the fax onto her pile of Oxford papers. Melodramatic bastard. No further contact indeed. Who did he think he was, Lord fucking Capulet?
She picked up the phone and punched out her parents’ number, before her rage had time to dissipate into fear. She would not grovel to that bastard. If that’s what he was waiting for, he’d be waiting one hell of a long time.
“McMahon residence?”
It was Mary, the stupid pseudo-English housekeeper Pete had hired two years ago, to howls of derision from Siena, who insisted she must have been born Maria-Elena, her British accent was so terrible.
“Hey, Mary.” She tried to sound cheery. “It’s Siena. Is my mom home?”
“Er . . . just a
moment, please.”
Siena heard the unmistakable frantic scrabbling of someone trying to cover the receiver with one hand while whispering and signaling instructions with the other. Something was definitely up.
“I’m sorry, Siena,” she said after a few long seconds. “Your mother is unavailable at the moment.”
Siena could feel her hackles rising. Stupid, pretentious little cow. “What do you mean, unavailable?” she snapped. “Do you mean she’s out?”
Another long pause.
“Yes,” said Mary.
“I see,” said Siena. This was like pulling teeth. “Well, when will she be back?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. I’m not sure,” answered Mary cautiously.
Siena hung up. This was getting her nowhere. With her heart in her mouth, she dialed Pete’s office.
“McMahon Pictures, please hold,” said a voice before she’d had a chance to draw breath.
A rather tinny version of James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” began playing. James had gotten as far as “lonely times when I could not find a friend” before a female voice picked up again. “Sorry to keep you waiting, this is Mr. McMahon’s office. How may I help you?”
“Tara?”
“Yes?” The unexpected use of her own name had thrown the girl completely. Her tone instantly became more guarded. “Who is this?”
“It’s Siena.”
More silence. It was the first time Siena could ever remember the poisonous Tara being lost for words. It was Tara who had so delighted in keeping Hunter’s letter from her when they had first been separated, Tara who had gone out of her way to reinforce Pete’s own view of his daughter as spoiled, difficult, and in need of a firm hand. Tara enjoyed a place very close to the top of Siena’s fantasy hellfire wish list.
“You can’t speak to your father, I’m afraid,” she said firmly. It hadn’t taken her long to regain her composure. “He’s in a meeting and won’t be out till two.”
Siena longed to insist that she interrupt him, but knowing it wouldn’t do any good, she decided not to give her the satisfaction. “Fine,” she said curtly. “I’ll call back then.”
“If you like,” said Tara.
“Tell him I called,” said Siena, hanging up before Tara had a chance to sneak in some spiteful last word.
She wondered how much Tara knew about what had happened. She’d probably sat there and redrafted the will for him, evil little nothing that she was. Siena had never fathomed what it was that made her dad’s PA hate her so much. Normally, she put down female hostility to envy, of her looks, her wealth, and her so-called jet-set lifestyle. But Tara had had it in for her since she was ten years old. This particular hatred evidently ran deeper.
Feeling a little panicked now, she tried calling home again. This time Claire picked up herself. “Pete?”
Siena heard the apprehension in her mother’s voice. She must have called in the middle of a difficult conversation between her parents.
“No, Mom. It’s me, Siena.”
Relief at hearing her mother’s voice had temporarily eclipsed her usual anger and resentment. It was the first time in years Claire had heard her daughter sounding so warm.
“Hello, Mom?” she repeated, panic surging up again like lava from her stomach to her throat in the face of Claire’s silence. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, Siena, I’m here.” Her voice sounded odd, almost as if it were breaking. When she spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “What do you want?”
The lava of fear suddenly erupted into a much more familiar volcano of rage. What kind of a stupid question was that?
“What do I want?” she yelled. “What do you mean, what do I want? This is your daughter calling, you know, your daughter, the one you don’t give a shit about?”
“Siena—”
“What do you think I fucking want? Isabella just gave me Dad’s fax. I want to know what the fuck is going on. Did you put him up to this?”
“Oh, Siena, of course I didn’t,” pleaded Claire desperately. “I warned you, darling. I tried to get you to see sense about this McQueen business, to call your father at least . . .” Her voice was breaking with the effort of trying to suppress so much emotion.
“And what?” said Siena. “I didn’t call you back in time, so hey, guess what, I’ve been disinherited? You don’t have a fucking daughter anymore? Is that it?”
The biting sarcasm in her voice failed to conceal her pain. Claire felt for her, but what words of comfort could she possibly offer her daughter now? She’d made her choice and she was just going to have to live with it.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is?” Siena continued. “How insane? I mean, have you actually read this, Mom?” Claire could hear the pages of Pete’s fax rustling from six thousand miles away. “He says he wants me out of the apartment. No further contact. He’s fucking evicting me! Did you know about this?”
“Yes, I knew about it.” Claire sobbed quietly. “He showed me last night. I’m sorry, Siena.”
“Great.” Siena gave an empty laugh. “He showed you last night, did he? And what did you say, Mom? ‘Oh, that’s nice, dear, go ahead and cut her off like some fucking infected limb’?” Claire winced at Siena’s temper. It wasn’t making this any easier. “‘She won’t go to Oxford, she won’t become the little English lady we all wanted. So why don’t we just erase her altogether?’ Is that it, Mom? Cut your losses and just move on?”
Siena could feel her heart pounding so violently she half expected it to burst through her ribs and land with a thud on the table. The dining room, which only minutes ago had seemed as homey and familiar as an old toy, now looked strange and surreal. Was this conversation really happening?
“I’m sorry, darling,” Claire said again hopelessly. Her voice had reverted back to eerie desolation. “It’s not as if we haven’t tried. Why did you have to push him? Your father has given you chance after chance.”
“To what?” said Siena disdainfully. “To be someone else?”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Claire. “You went to France, you did that show, in absolute defiance of him. You have to take some responsibility for that, Siena.”
“Right,” said Siena, drawing her pride and anger around her like a shield. “So just let me get this straight. Dad has decided I’m no longer his child. And you agree with him? Is that what you’re saying?”
Claire had never hated herself more than she did at that moment. She loved her daughter. But Siena had never understood Pete or the terrible scars that Duke’s behavior had inflicted on him. She had never seen the ways in which, unwittingly, her rebelliousness and her love for Duke had deepened his pain until it was no longer bearable.
“Your father has made his decision,” Claire said. “I have to respect that.”
“No, Mom,” said Siena, furious with herself for trembling. “You don’t. You don’t have to respect it. You choose to respect it.”
“Siena—”
“So don’t lay this all on Dad, okay? You chose this, Mom. You chose it.”
Claire was silent. There was nothing else to say.
Siena, feeling strangely empowered suddenly, hung up. It seemed ludicrous, somehow, to say goodbye to your own mother. She took one deep breath and exhaled slowly, waiting for the enormity of what had just happened to hit her. But the odd thing was, she felt fine, she really did.
That was it, then. It was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BATCOMBE, ENGLAND, THREE YEARS LATER . . .
“Right, shut up please, everyone shut up, I’ve got a joke.”
Henry Arkell was sitting at the head of the table, trying to make himself heard over the excited rabble of his assorted children and dogs. “Two horses, sitting in the field,” he began, reading from the white slip that had fallen out of his cracker.
“Horses don’t sit, Daddy,” piped up a voice to his right, belonging to a child whose entire face appeared to be covered in a combination
of chocolate sauce and icing sugar.
“Be quiet, Madeleine,” Henry continued, wiping ineffectually at the goo with his napkin, “you’re putting me off. Right, two horses, sitting in a field, and one of them turns to the other and says—”
“Horses don’t speak either, Dad,” interrupted another voice from the far end of the table, this time his elder son, Charlie.
“They do if they’re Mr. Ed,” said Bertie, the six-year-old.
“Can I have some more Coke?”
“Mr. Ed isn’t real, you doofus,” pronounced Charlie scornfully.
“Well, nor are the horses in Dad’s joke, doofazoid.” Bertie hurled a plastic whistle in his brother’s direction. “Are they, Dad? Your horses aren’t real, are they?”
Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Madeleine had already begun to wail. “Horses are real! Blackie’s definitely real. She’s the best pony in the world, and in the universe and in space. You can’t say she isn’t real, can he, Mummy?”
“I don’t think he meant that Blackie wasn’t real, darling.” Muffy, nominated family peacekeeper, tried in vain to placate her daughter.
“Space is the universe,” said Bertie authoritatively.
“Blackie is real!” maintained Madeleine.
“Jesus Christ,” said Henry, who was by now looking rather defeated, with his yellow paper crown askew above his springy light brown hair. “I’m trying to tell a fucking joke here. Is anyone going to let me finish my bloody joke?”
“I don’t think so, darling,” Muffy smiled at him lovingly. “Why don’t you have another glass of claret?”
She handed the decanter to Max, who passed it along to his brother. He loved Christmas lunches at Batcombe.
“Daddy said ‘fucking,’” Charlie pointed out with a grin. “He has to put a pound in the swearing tin.”
“Two pounds,” said Bertie, watching with delight as his Coke foamed up over the rim of his glass and began to form a pool on the mahogany table. “He said ‘bloody’ as well. He said no one would let him finish his ‘bloody’ joke. Didn’t you, Dad?”