The Angel Tree (42 page)

But it had given her a new lease of life. Ava was the daughter she’d never had. Quite by coincidence, they shared the same love of the outdoors, of nature and animals. The age gap was
wide, but it had never seemed to matter.

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.

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.

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.