SIDNEY SHELDON
THE STARS SHINE DOWN

Dedication

This one is for Morton Janklow,A Man for All Seasons

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Two

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Part Three

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Part Four

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Acknowledgements

Books By Sidney Sheldon

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Epigraph

The stars shine down

And watch us live

Our little lives

And weep for us.

MONET NODLEHS

Part One

Chapter One

Thursday, September 10, 1992 8:00 p.m.

The 727 was lost in a sea of cumulus clouds that tossed the plane around like a giant silver feather. The pilot’s worried voice came over the speaker.

‘Is your seat belt fastened, Miss Cameron?’

There was no response.

‘Miss Cameron … Miss Cameron …’

She was shaken out of a deep reverie. ‘Yes.’ Her thoughts had been drifting to happier times, happier places.

‘Are you all right? We should be out of this storm soon.’

‘I’m fine, Roger.’

Maybe we’ll get lucky and crash, Lara Cameron thought. It would be a fitting end. Somewhere, somehow, it had all gone wrong. It’s the Fates, Lara thought. You can’t fight the Fates. In the past year her life had spun wildly out of control. She was in danger of losing everything. At least nothing else can go wrong, she thought wryly. There is nothing else.

The door of the cockpit opened and the pilot came into the cabin. He paused for a moment to admire his passenger. The woman was beautiful, with shiny black hair swept up in a crown, a flawless complexion, intelligent eyes, cat-grey. She had changed clothes after they had taken off from Reno, and she was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder Scaasi evening gown that accented a slender, seductive figure. Around her throat was a diamond and ruby necklace. How can she look so damn calm with her world collapsing around her? he wondered. The newspapers had been mercilessly attacking her for the past month.

‘Is the phone working yet, Roger?’

‘I’m afraid not, Miss Cameron. There’s a lot of interference because of the storm. We’re going to be about an hour late getting into La Guardia. I’m sorry.’

I’m going to be late for my birthday party, Lara thought. Everyone is going to be there. Two hundred guests, including the Vice President of the United States, the Governor of New York, the Mayor, Hollywood celebrities, famous athletes, and financiers from half a dozen countries. She had approved the guest list herself.

She could visualize the Grand Ballroom of the Cameron Plaza, where the party was being held. Baccarat crystal chandeliers would hang from the ceiling, prisms of light reflecting a dazzling diamond-like brilliance. There would be place settings for two hundred guests, at twenty tables. The finest linens, china, silver and stemware would adorn each place setting, and in the centre of each table would be a floral display of white orchids mixed with white freesias.

Bar service would have been set up at both ends of the large reception hall outside. In the middle of the hall would be a long buffet with an ice carving of a swan, and surrounding it, Beluga caviar, gravlax, shrimps, lobster and crab, while buckets of champagne were being iced. A ten-tier birthday cake would be in the kitchen waiting. Waiters, maître d’s and security guards would all be in position by now.

In the ballroom, a society orchestra would be on the bandstand, ready to tempt the guests to dance the night away in celebration of her fortieth birthday. Everything would be in readiness.

The dinner was going to be delicious. She had chosen the menu herself. Foie gras to begin with, followed by a cream of mushroom soup under a delicate crust, fillets of John Dory, and then the main course: Lamb with rosemary and pommes soufflées with French beans and a mesclun salad with hazelnut oil. Cheese and grapes would be next, followed by the birthday cake and coffee.

It was going to be a spectacular party. She would hold her head high, and face her guests as though nothing were wrong. She was Lara Cameron.

When the private jet finally landed at La Guardia, it was an hour and a half late.

Lara turned to the pilot. ‘We’ll be flying back to Reno later tonight, Roger.’

‘I’ll be here, Miss Cameron.’

Her limousine and driver were waiting for her at the ramp.

‘I was getting worried about you, Miss Cameron.’

‘We ran into some weather, Max. Let’s get to the Plaza as fast as possible.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Lara reached for the car phone and dialled Jerry Townsend’s number. He had made all the arrangements for the party. Lara wanted to make sure that her guests were being looked after. There was no answer. He’s probably in the ballroom, Lara thought.

‘Hurry, Max.’

‘Yes, Miss Cameron.’

The sight of the huge Cameron Plaza Hotel never failed to give Lara a glow of satisfaction at what she had created, but on this evening, she was in too much of a hurry to think about it. Everyone would be waiting for her in the Grand Ballroom.

She pushed through the revolving door and hurried across the large spectacular lobby. Carlos, the assistant manager, saw her and came running to her side.

‘Miss Cameron …’

‘Later,’ Lara said. She kept walking. She reached the closed door of the Grand Ballroom and stopped to take a deep breath. I’m ready to face them, Lara thought. She flung open the door, a smile on her face, and stopped in shock. The room was in total darkness. Were they planning some kind of surprise? She reached for the switch behind the door and flicked it up. The huge room was flooded with incandescent light. There was no one there. Not one single person. Lara stood there, stunned.

What in the world could have happened to two hundred guests? The invitations had read eight o’clock. It was now almost ten o’clock. How could that many people disappear into thin air? It was eerie. She looked around the enormous empty ballroom and shivered. Last year, at her birthday party, this same room had been filled with her friends, filled with music and laughter. She remembered that day so well …

Chapter Two

One year earlier, Lara Cameron’s appointment schedule for the day had been routine.

September 10, 1991

5:00 a.m. | Workout with trainer
7:00 a.m. | Appearance on ‘Good Morning America’
7:45 a.m. | Meeting with Japanese bankers
9:30 a.m. | Jerry Townsend
10:30 a.m. | Executive Planning Committee
11:00 a.m. | Faxes, overseas calls, mail
11:30 a.m. | Construction meeting
12:30 p.m. | S & L meeting
1:00 p.m. | Lunch – Fortune Magazine Interview – Hugh Thompson
2:30 p.m. | Metropolitan Union bankers
4:00 p.m. | Zoning Commission
5:00 p.m. | Meeting with Mayor – Gracie Mansion
6:15 p.m. | Architects meeting
6:30 p.m. | Housing Commission
7:30 p.m. | Cocktails with Dallas Investment Group
8:00 p.m. | Birthday party at Grand Ballroom – Cameron Plaza

She had been in her workout clothes impatiently waiting when Ken, her trainer, arrived.

‘You’re late.’

‘Sorry, Miss Cameron. My alarm didn’t go off and …’

‘I have a busy day. Let’s get started.’

‘Right.’

They did stretches for half an hour and then switched to energetic aerobics.

She’s got the body of a twenty-one year old, Ken thought. I’d sure love to get that into my bed. He enjoyed coming here every morning just to look at her, to be near her. People constantly asked him what Lara Cameron was like. He would answer, ‘The lady’s a ten.’

Lara went through the strenuous routine easily, but her mind was not on it this morning.

When the session was finally over, Ken said, ‘I’m going to watch you on “Good Morning America”.’

‘What?’ For a moment Lara had forgotten about it. She had been thinking about the meeting with the Japanese bankers.

‘See you tomorrow, Miss Cameron.’

‘Don’t be late again, Ken.’

Lara showered and changed and had breakfast alone on the terrace of the penthouse, a breakfast of grapefruit, cereal, and green tea. When she had finished, she went into her study.

Lara buzzed her secretary. ‘I’ll do the overseas calls from the office,’ Lara said. ‘I have to be at ABC at seven. Have Max bring the car around.’

The segment on ‘Good Morning America’ went well. Joan Lunden did the interview and was gracious, as always.

‘The last time you were on this programme,’ Joan Lunden said, ‘you had just broken ground for the tallest skyscraper in the world. That was almost four years ago.’

Lara nodded. ‘That’s right. Cameron Towers will be finished next year.’

‘How does it feel to be in your position – to have accomplished all the incredible things you’ve done, and to still be so young and beautiful? You’re a role model for so many women.’

‘You’re very flattering,’ Lara laughed. ‘I don’t have time to think about myself as a role model. I’m much too busy.’

‘You’re one of the most successful real estate developers in a business that’s usually considered a man’s domain. How do you operate? How do you decide, for instance, where to put up a building?’

‘I don’t choose the site,’ Lara said. ‘The site chooses me. I’ll be driving along and I’ll pass a vacant field – but that’s not what I see. I see a beautiful office building or a lovely apartment building filled with people living comfortably in a nice atmosphere. I dream.’

‘And you make those dreams come true. We’ll be right back after this commercial.’

The Japanese bankers were due at 7:45. They had arrived from Tokyo the evening before and Lara had arranged the meeting at that early morning hour so that they would still be jetlagged after their twelve hour and ten minute flight. When they had protested, Lara had said, ‘I’m so sorry, gentlemen, but I’m afraid it’s the only time I have. I’m leaving for South America immediately after our meeting.’

And they had reluctantly agreed. There were four of them, diminutive and polite, with minds as sharp as the edges of Samurai swords. In an earlier decade, the financial community had wildly underestimated the Japanese. It no longer made that mistake.

The meeting was held at Cameron Center on Sixth Avenue. The men were there to invest a hundred million dollars in a new hotel complex Lara was developing. They were ushered into the large conference room. Each of the men carried a gift. Lara thanked them and in turn gave each of them a gift. She had instructed her secretary to make certain the presents were wrapped in plain brown or grey paper. White, to the Japanese, represented death, and gaudy wrapping paper was unacceptable.

Lara’s assistant, Tricia, brought in tea for the Japanese and coffee for Lara. The Japanese would have preferred coffee, but they were too polite to say so. When they had finished their tea, Lara made sure their cups were replenished.

Howard Keller, Lara’s associate, came into the room. He was in his fifties, pale and thin, with sandy hair, wearing a rumpled suit, and managing to look as though he had just got out of bed. Lara made the introductions. Keller passed around copies of the investment proposal.

‘As you can see, gentlemen,’ Lara said, ‘we already have a first mortgage commitment. The complex will contain seven hundred and twenty guest units, approximately thirty thousand square feet of meeting space, and a one-thousand car parking garage …’

Lara’s voice was charged with energy. The Japanese bankers were studying the investment proposal, fighting to stay awake.

The meeting was over in less than two hours and it was a complete success. Lara had learned long ago that it was easier to make a hundred-million-dollar deal than it was to try to borrow fifty thousand dollars.

As soon as the Japanese delegation left, Lara had her meeting with Jerry Townsend. The tall, hyper, ex-Hollywood publicity man was in charge of public relations for Cameron Enterprises.

‘That was a great interview on “Good Morning America” this morning. I’ve been getting a lot of calls.’

‘What about Forbes?’

‘All set. People has you on the cover next week. Did you see the New Yorker article on you? Wasn’t it great?’

Lara walked over to her desk. ‘Not bad.’

‘The Fortune interview is set for this afternoon.’

‘I changed it.’

He looked surprised. ‘Why?’

‘I’m having their reporter here for lunch.’

‘Soften him up a little?’

Lara pressed down the intercom button. ‘Come in, Kathy.’

A disembodied voice said, ‘Yes, Miss Cameron.’

Lara Cameron looked up. ‘That’s all, Jerry. I want you and your staff to concentrate on Cameron Towers.’

‘We’re already doing …’

‘Let’s do more. I want it written about in every newspaper and magazine there is. For God’s sake, it’s going to be the tallest building in the world. In the world! I want people talking about it. By the time we open, I want people to be begging to get into those apartments and shops.’

Jerry Townsend got to his feet. ‘Right.’

Kathy, Lara’s executive assistant, came into the office. She was an attractive, neatly dressed black woman in her early thirties.

‘Did you find out what he likes to eat?’

‘The man’s a gourmet. He likes French food. I called Le Cirque and asked Sirio to cater a lunch here for two.’

‘Good. We’ll eat in my private dining room.’

‘Do you know how long the interview will take? You have a two thirty with the Metropolitan bankers downtown.’

‘Push it to three o’clock, and have them come here.’

Kathy made a note. ‘Do you want me to read you your messages?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘The Children’s Foundation wants you to be their guest of honour on the twenty-eighth.’

‘No. Tell them I’m flattered. Send them a cheque.’

‘Your meeting has been arranged in Tulsa for Tuesday at …’

‘Cancel it.’

‘You’re invited to a luncheon next Friday for a Manhattan Women’s Group.’

‘No. If they’re asking for money, send them a cheque.’

‘The Coalition for Literacy would like you to speak at a luncheon on the fourth.’

‘See if we can work it out.’

‘There’s an invitation to be guest of honour at a fund-raiser for muscular dystrophy, but there’s a conflict in dates. You’ll be in San Francisco.’

‘Send them a cheque.’

‘The Srbs are giving a dinner party next Saturday.’

‘I’ll try to make that,’ Lara said. Kristian and Deborah Srb were amusing, and good friends, and she enjoyed being with them.

‘Kathy, how many of me do you see?’

‘What?’

‘Take a good look.’

Kathy looked at her. ‘One of you, Miss Cameron.’

‘That’s right. There’s only one of me. How did you expect me to meet with the bankers from Metropolitan at two thirty today, the Zoning Commission at four, then meet with the mayor at five, the architects at six fifteen, the housing commission at six thirty, have a cocktail party at seven thirty and my birthday dinner at eight? The next time you make up a schedule, try using your brain.’

‘I’m sorry. You wanted me to …’

‘I wanted you to think. I don’t need stupid people around me. Reschedule the appointments with the architects and the housing commission.’

‘Right,’ Kathy said stiffly.

‘How’s the baby?’

The question caught the secretary by surprise. ‘David? He’s … he’s fine.’

‘He must be getting big by now.’

‘He’s almost two.’

‘Have you thought about a school for him?’

‘Not yet. It’s too early to …’

‘You’re wrong. If you want to get him into a decent school in New York, you start before he’s born.’

Lara made a note on a desk pad. ‘I know the principal at Dalton. I’ll arrange to have David registered there.’

‘I … thank you.’

Lara did not bother to look up. ‘That’s all.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Kathy walked out of the office not knowing whether to love her boss or hate her. When Kathy had first come to work at Cameron Enterprises, she had been warned about Lara Cameron. ‘The Iron Butterfly is a bitch on wheels,’ she had been told. ‘Her secretaries don’t figure their employment there by the calendar – they use stopwatches. She’ll eat you alive.’

Kathy remembered her first interview with her. She had seen pictures of Lara Cameron in half a dozen magazines, but none of them had done her justice. In person, the woman was breathtakingly beautiful.

Lara Cameron had been reading Kathy’s résumé. She looked up and said, ‘Sit down, Kathy.’ Her voice was husky and vibrant. There was an energy about her that was almost overpowering.

‘This is quite a résumé.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How much of it is real?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Most of the ones that come across my desk are fiction. Are you good at what you do?’

‘I’m very good at what I do, Miss Cameron.’

‘Two of my secretaries just quit. Everything’s snowballing around here. Can you handle pressure?’

‘I think so.’

‘This isn’t a guessing contest. Can you handle pressure or can’t you?’

At that moment Kathy was not sure she wanted the job. ‘Yes, I can.’

‘Good. You’re on a one-week trial. You’ll have to sign a form saying that at no time will you discuss me or your work here at Cameron Enterprises. That means no interviews, no books, nothing. Everything that happens here is confidential.’

‘I understand.’

‘Fine.’

That was how it had begun five years earlier. During that time Kathy had learned to love, hate, admire and despise her boss. In the beginning Kathy’s husband had asked, ‘What is the legend like?’

It was a difficult question. ‘She’s larger than life,’ Kathy had said. ‘She’s drop-dead beautiful. She works harder than anyone I’ve ever known. God only knows when she sleeps. She’s a perfectionist, so she makes everyone around her miserable. In her own way, she’s a genius. She can be petty and vengeful and incredibly generous.’

Her husband had smiled. ‘In other words, she’s a woman.’

Kathy had looked at him and said, unsmiling, ‘I don’t know what she is. Sometimes she scares me.’

‘Come on, honey, you’re exaggerating.’

‘No. I honestly believe that if someone stood in Lara Cameron’s way … she would kill.’

When Lara finished with the faxes and overseas calls, she buzzed Charlie Hunter, the ambitious young man in charge of accounting. ‘Come in, Charlie.’

‘Yes, Miss Cameron.’

A minute later, he entered her office.

‘Yes, Miss Cameron?’

‘I read the interview you gave in the New York Times this morning,’ Lara said.

He brightened. ‘I haven’t seen it yet. How was it?’

‘You talked about Cameron Enterprises and about some of the problems we’re having.’

He frowned. ‘Well, you know, that reporter fellow probably misquoted some of my …’

‘You’re fired.’

‘What? Why? I …’

‘When you were hired, you signed a paper agreeing not to give any interviews. I’ll expect you out of here this morning.’

‘I … you can’t do that. Who would take my place?’

‘I’ve already arranged that,’ Lara told him.

The luncheon was almost over. The Fortune reporter, Hugh Thompson, was an intense, intellectual-looking man with sharp brown eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses.

‘It was a great lunch,’ he said. ‘All my favourite dishes. Thanks.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

‘You really didn’t have to go to all that trouble for me.’

‘No trouble at all,’ Lara smiled. ‘My father always told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.’

‘And you wanted to get to my heart before we started the interview?’

Lara smiled. ‘Exactly.’

‘How much trouble is your company really in?’

Lara’s smile faded. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Come on. You can’t keep a thing like that quiet. The word on the street is that some of your properties are on the verge of collapse because of the principal payments due on your junk bonds. You’ve done a lot of leveraging, and with the market down, Cameron Enterprises has to be pretty over-extended.’

Lara laughed. ‘Is that what the street says? Believe me, Mr Thompson, you’d be wise not to listen to silly rumours. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send you a copy of my financials to set the record straight. Fair enough?’

‘Fair enough. By the way, I didn’t see your husband at the opening of the new hotel.’

Lara sighed. ‘Philip wanted so much to be there, but unfortunately he had to be away on a concert tour.’

‘I went to one of his recitals once about three years ago. He’s brilliant. You have been married a year now, haven’t you?’

‘Yes – the happiest year of my life. I’m a very lucky woman. I travel a lot, and so does Philip, but when I’m away from him, I can listen to his recordings wherever I am.’

Thompson smiled. ‘And he can see your buildings wherever he is.’

Lara laughed. ‘You flatter me.’

‘It’s pretty true, isn’t it? You’ve put up buildings all over this fair country of ours. You own apartment buildings, office buildings, a hotel chain … How do you do it?’

She smiled. ‘With mirrors.’

‘You’re a puzzle.’

‘Am I? Why?’

‘At this moment, you’re arguably the most successful builder in New York. Your name is plastered on half the real estate in this town. You’re putting up the world’s tallest skyscraper. Your competitors call you the Iron Butterfly. You’ve made it big in a business traditionally dominated by men.’

‘Does that bother you, Mr Thompson?’

‘No. What bothers me, Miss Cameron, is that I can’t figure out who you are. When I ask two people about you, I get three opinions. Everyone grants that you’re a brilliant businesswoman. I mean … you didn’t fall off a hay wagon and become a success. I know a lot about construction crews – they’re a rough, tough bunch of men. How does a woman like you keep them in line?’

She smiled. ‘There are no women like me. Seriously, I simply hire the best people for the job, and I pay them well.’

Too simplistic, Thompson thought. Much too simplistic. The real story is what she’s not telling me. He decided to change the direction of the interview.

‘Every magazine on the stands has written about how successful you are. I’d like to do a more personal story. There’s been very little printed about your background.’

‘I’m very proud of my background.’

‘Good. Let’s talk about that. How did you get started in the real estate business?’

Lara smiled and he could see that her smile was genuine. She suddenly looked like a little girl.

‘Genes.’

‘Your genes?’

‘My father’s.’ She pointed to a portrait on a wall behind her. It showed a handsome-looking man with a leonine head of silver hair. ‘That’s my father – James Hugh Cameron.’ Her voice was soft. ‘He’s responsible for my success. I’m an only child. My mother died when I was very young, and my father brought me up. My family left Scotland a long time ago, Mr Thompson, and emigrated to Nova Scotia – New Scotland, Glace Bay.’

‘Glace Bay?’

‘It’s a fishing village in the north-east part of Cape Breton, on the Atlantic shore. It was named by early French explorers. It means ice bay. More coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘My grandfather owned a great deal of land in Scotland and my father acquired more. He was a very wealthy man. We still have our castle there near Loch Morlich. When I was eight years old, I had my own horse, my dresses were bought in London, we lived in an enormous house with a lot of servants. It was a fairytale life for a little girl.’ Her voice was alive with echoes of long-ago memories.

‘We would go ice skating in the winter, and watch hockey games, and go swimming at Big Glace Bay Lake in the summer. And there were dances at the Forum and the Venetian Gardens.’

The reporter was busily making notes.

‘My father put up buildings in Edmonton, and Calgary, and Ontario. Real estate was like a game to him, and he loved it. When I was very young, he taught me the game, and I learned to love it, too.’

Her voice was filled with passion. ‘You must understand something, Mr Thompson. What I do has nothing to do with the money or the bricks and steel that make a building. It’s the people who matter. I’m able to give them a comfortable place to work or to live, a place where they can raise families and have decent lives. That’s what was important to my father, and it became important to me.’

Hugh Thompson looked up. ‘Do you remember your first real estate venture?’

Lara leaned forward. ‘Of course. On my eighteenth birthday, my father asked me what I would like as a gift. A lot of newcomers were arriving in Glace Bay and it was getting crowded. I felt the town needed more places for them to live. I told my father I wanted to build a small apartment house. He gave me the money as a present, but two years later, I was able to pay him back. Then I borrowed money from a bank to put up a second building. By the time I was twenty-one, I owned three buildings, and they were all successful.’

‘Your father must have been very proud of you.’

There was that warm smile again. ‘He was. He named me Lara. It’s an old Scottish name that comes from the Latin. It means “well known” or “famous”. From the time I was a little girl, my father always told me I would be famous one day.’ Her smile faded. ‘He died of a heart attack, much too young.’ She paused. ‘I go to Scotland to visit his grave every year. I … I found it very difficult to stay on in the house without him. I decided to move to Chicago. I had an idea for small boutique hotels, and I persuaded a banker there to finance me. The hotels were a success.’ She shrugged. ‘And the rest, as the cliché goes, is history. I suppose that a psychiatrist would say that I haven’t created this empire just for myself. In a way, it’s a tribute to my father. James Cameron was the most wonderful man I’ve ever known.’

‘You must have loved him a lot.’

‘I did. And he loved me a lot.’ A smile touched her lips. ‘I’ve heard that on the day I was born, my father bought every man in Glace Bay a drink.’

‘So, really,’ Thompson said, ‘everything started in Glace Bay.’

‘That’s right,’ Lara said softly, ‘everything started in Glace Bay. That’s where it all began, almost forty years ago …’

Chapter Three

Glace Bay, Nova Scotia September 10, 1952

James Cameron was in a whorehouse, drunk, the night his daughter and son were born. He was in bed, sandwiched between the Scandinavian twins, when Kirstie, the madam of the brothel, pounded on the door.

‘James!’ she called out. She pushed open the door and walked in.

‘Och, ye auld hen!’ James yelled out indignantly. ‘Can’t a mon have any privacy even here?’

‘Sorry to interrupt your pleasure, James. It’s about your wife.’

‘Fuck my wife,’ Cameron roared.

‘You did,’ Kirstie retorted, ‘and she’s having your baby.’

‘So? Let her have it. That’s what you women are guid for, nae?’

‘The doctor just called. He’s been trying desperately to find you. Your wife is bad off. You’d better hurry.’

James Cameron sat up and slid to the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed, trying to clear his head. ‘Damned woman. She niver leaves me in peace.’ He looked up at the madam. ‘All right, I’ll go.’ He glanced at the naked girls in the bed. ‘But I’ll nae pay for these two.’

‘Never mind that now. You’d just better get back to the boarding house.’ She turned to the girls. ‘You two come along with me.’

James Cameron was a once-handsome man whose face reflected fulfilled sins. He appeared to be in his early fifties. He was thirty years old and the manager of one of the boarding houses owned by Sean MacAllister, the town banker. For the past five years, James Cameron and his wife Peggy had divided the chores: Peggy did the cleaning and cooking for the two dozen boarders, and James did the drinking. Every Friday it was his responsibility to collect the rents from the four other boarding houses in Glace Bay owned by MacAllister. It was another reason, if he needed one, to go out and get drunk.

James Cameron was a bitter man, who revelled in his bitterness. He was a failure, and he was convinced that everyone else was to blame. Over the years he had come to enjoy his failure. It made him feel like a martyr. When James was a year old, his family had emigrated to Glace Bay from Scotland with nothing but the few possessions they could carry, and they had struggled to survive. His father had put James to work in the coal mines when the boy was fourteen. James had suffered a slight back injury in a mining accident when he was sixteen, and had promptly quit the mine. One year later his parents were killed in a train disaster. So it was that James Cameron had decided that he was not responsible for his adversity – it was the Fates that were against him. But he had two great assets: He was extraordinarily handsome and, when he wished to, he could be charming. One weekend in Sydney, a town near Glace Bay, he met an impressionable young American girl named Peggy Maxwell, who was there on vacation with her family. She was not attractive, but the Maxwells were very wealthy, and James Cameron was very poor. He swept Peggy Maxwell off her feet, and against the advice of her father, she married him.

‘I’m giving Peggy a dowry of five thousand dollars,’ her father told James. ‘The money will give you a chance to make something of yourself. You can invest it in real estate, and in five years it will double. I’ll help you.’

But James was not interested in waiting five years. Without consulting anyone, he invested the money in a wildcat oil venture with a friend, and sixty days later, he was broke. His father-in-law, furious, refused to help him any further. ‘You’re a fool, James, and I will not throw good money after bad.’

The marriage that was going to be James Cameron’s salvation turned out to be a disaster, for he now had a wife to support, and no job.

It was Sean MacAllister who had come to his rescue. The town banker was a man in his mid fifties, a stumpy, pompous man, a pound short of being obese, given to wearing vests adorned with a heavy gold watch chain. He had come to Glace Bay twenty years earlier, and had immediately seen the possibilities there. Miners and lumbermen were pouring into the town, and were unable to find adequate housing. MacAllister could have financed homes for them, but he had a better plan. He decided it would be cheaper to herd the men together in boarding houses. Within two years, he had built a hotel and five boarding houses, and they were always full.

Finding managers was a difficult task because the work was exhausting. The manager’s job was to keep all the rooms rented, supervise the cooking, handle the meals, and see that the premises were kept reasonably clean. As far as salaries were concerned, Sean MacAllister was not a man to throw away his money.

The manager of one of his boarding houses had just quit, and MacAllister decided that James Cameron was a likely candidate. Cameron had borrowed small amounts of money from the bank from time to time, and payment on a loan was overdue. MacAllister sent for the young man.

‘I have a job for you,’ MacAllister said.

‘You have?’

‘You’re in luck. I have a splendid position that’s just opened up.’

‘Working at the bank, is it?’ James Cameron asked. The idea of working in a bank appealed to him. Where there was a lot of money, there was always a possibility of having some stick to one’s fingers.

‘Not at the bank,’ MacAllister told him. ‘You’re a very personable young man, James, and I think you would be very good at dealing with people. I’d like you to run my boarding house on Cablehead Avenue.’

‘A boarding house, you say?’ There was contempt in the young man’s voice.

‘You need a roof over your head,’ MacAllister pointed out. ‘You and your wife will have free room and board, and a small salary.’

‘How sma’?’

‘I’ll be generous with you. James. Twenty-five dollars a week.’

‘Twenty-fi …?’

‘Take it or leave it. I have others waiting.’

In the end, James Cameron had no choice. ‘I’ll tak’ it.’

‘Good. By the way, every Friday I’ll also expect you to collect the rents from my other boarding houses, and deliver the money to me on Saturday.’

When James Cameron broke the news to Peggy, she was dismayed. ‘We don’t know anything about running a boarding house, James.’

‘We’ll learn. We’ll share the work.’

And she had believed him. ‘All right. We’ll manage,’ she said.

And, in their own fashion, they had managed.

Over the years, several opportunities had come along for James Cameron to get better jobs, employment that would give him dignity and more money, but he was enjoying his failure too much to leave it.

‘Why bother?’ he would grumble. ‘When Fate’s agin you, naething guid can happen.’

And on this September night, he thought to himself, they won’t even let me enjoy my whores in peace. Goddamn my wife.

When he stepped out of Madame Kirstie’s establishment, a chilly September wind was blowing.

I’d best fortify myself for the troubles aheid, James Cameron decided. He stopped in at the Ancient Mariner.

One hour later, he wandered toward the boarding house in New Aberdeen, the poorest section of Glace Bay.

When he finally arrived, half a dozen boarders were anxiously waiting for him.

‘The doctor is in wi’ Peggy,’ one of the men said. ‘You’d better hurry, mon.’

James staggered into the tiny, dreary back bedroom he and his wife shared. From another room, he could hear the whimpering of a newborn baby. Peggy lay on the bed, motionless. Dr Patrick Duncan was leaning over her. He turned as he heard James enter.

‘Wa’s goin’ on here?’ James asked.

The doctor straightened up and looked at James with distaste. ‘You should have had your wife come to see me,’ he said.

‘And throw guid money away? She’s only havin’ a baby. Wa’s the big …?’

‘Peggy’s dead. I did everything I could. She had twins. I couldn’t save the boy.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ James Cameron whimpered. ‘It’s the Fates agin.’

‘What?’

‘The Fates. They’ve always been agin me. Now they’ve taine my bairn frae me. I dinna …’

A nurse walked in, carrying a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket. ‘This is your daughter, Mr Cameron.’

‘A daughter? Wha’ the hell will I dae wi’ a daughter?’ His speech was becoming more slurred.

‘You disgust me, mon,’ Dr Duncan said.

The nurse turned to James. ‘I’ll stay until tomorrow, and show you how to take care of her.’

James Cameron looked at the tiny wrinkled bundle in the blanket and thought, hopefully: Maybe she’ll die, too.

For the first three weeks, no one was sure whether the baby would live or not. A wetnurse came in to tend to her. And finally, the day came when the doctor was able to say, ‘Your daughter is going to live.’

And he looked at James Cameron and said under his breath, ‘God have mercy on the poor child.’

The wetnurse said, ‘Mr Cameron, you must give the child a name.’

‘I dinna care wha’ the hell ye call it. Ye gie her a name.’

‘Why don’t we name her Lara? That’s such a pretty …’

‘Suit your bloody self.’

And so she was christened Lara.

There was no one in Lara’s life to care for her or nurture her. The boarding house was filled with men too busy with their own lives to pay attention to the baby. The only woman around was Bertha, the huge Swede who was hired to do the cooking and handle the chores.

James Cameron was determined to have nothing to do with his daughter. The damned Fates had betrayed him once again by letting her live. At night he would sit in the living room with his bottle of whiskey and complain. ‘The bairn murdered my wife and my son.’

‘You shouldn’t say that, James.’

‘Weel, it’s sae. My son would hae grown up to be a big strapping mon. He would hae been smart and rich, and taine good care of his father in his auld age.’

And the boarders let him ramble on.

James Cameron tried several times to get in touch with Maxwell, his father-in-law, hoping he would take the child off his hands, but the old man had disappeared. It would be just my luck the auld fool’s daid, he thought.

Glace Bay was a town of transients who moved in and out of the boarding houses. They came from France and China and the Ukraine. They were Italian and Irish and Greek, carpenters and tailors and plumbers and shoemakers. They swarmed into lower Main Street, Bell Street, North Street and Water Street, near the waterfront area. They came to work the mines and cut timber and fish the seas. Glace Bay was a frontier town, primitive and rugged. The weather was an abomination. The winters were harsh with heavy snowfalls that lasted until April, and because of the heavy ice in the harbour, even April and May were cold and windy, and from July to October it rained.

There were eighteen boarding houses in town, some of them accommodating as many as seventy-two guests. At the boarding house managed by James Cameron, there were twenty-four boarders, most of them Scotsmen.

Lara was hungry for affection, without knowing what the hunger was. She had no toys or dolls to cherish nor any playmates. She had no one except her father. She made childish little gifts for him, desperate to please him, but he either ignored or ridiculed them.

When Lara was five years old, she overheard her father say to one of the boarders, ‘The wrong child died, ye ken. My son is the one who should hae lived.’

That night Lara cried herself to sleep. She loved her father so much. And she hated him so much.

When Lara was six, she resembled a Keane painting, enormous eyes in a pale, thin face. That year, a new boarder moved in. His name was Mungo McSween, and he was a huge bear of a man. He felt an instant affection for the little girl.

‘What’s your name, wee lassie?’

‘Lara.’

‘Ah. ’Tis a braw name for a braw bairn. Dae ye gan to school, then?’

‘School? No.’

‘And why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Weel, we maun find out.’

And he went to find James Cameron. ‘I’m tauld your bairn does nae gae to school.’

‘And why should she? She’s only a girl. She dinna need nae school.’

‘You’re wrong, mon. She maun have an education. She maun be gien a chance in life.’

‘Forget it,’ James said. ‘It wad be a waste.’

But McSween was insistent, and finally, to shut him up, James Cameron agreed. It would keep the brat out of his sight for a few hours.

Lara was terrified by the idea of going to school. She had lived in a world of adults all her short life, and had had almost no contact with other children.

The following Monday, Big Bertha dropped her off at St Anne’s Grammar School, and Lara was taken to the principal’s office.

‘This is Lara Cameron.’

The principal, Mrs Cummings, was a middle-aged grey-haired widow with three children of her own. She studied the shabbily dressed little girl standing before her. ‘Lara. What a pretty name,’ she said smiling. ‘How old are you, dear?’

‘Six.’ She was fighting back tears.

The child is terrified, Mrs Cummings thought. ‘Well, we’re very glad to have you here, Lara. You’ll have a good time, and you’re going to learn a lot.’

‘I can’t stay,’ Lara blurted out.

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘My papa misses me too much.’ She was fiercely determined not to cry.

‘Well, we’ll only keep you here for a few hours a day.’

Lara allowed herself to be taken into a classroom filled with children, and she was shown to a seat near the back of the room.

Miss Terkel, the teacher, was busily writing letters on a blackboard.

‘A is for apple,’ she said. ‘B is for boy. Does anyone know what C is for?’

A tiny hand was raised. ‘Candy.’

‘Very good! And D?’

‘Dog.’

‘And E?’

‘Eat.’

‘Excellent. Can anyone think of a word beginning with F?’

Lara spoke up. ‘Fuck.’

Lara was the youngest one in her class, but it seemed to Miss Terkel that in many ways she was the oldest. There was a disquieting maturity about her.

‘She’s a small adult, waiting to grow taller,’ her teacher told Mrs Cummings.

The first day at lunch, the other children took out their colourful little lunch pails and pulled out apples and cookies, and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

No one had thought to pack a lunch for Lara.

‘Where is your lunch, Lara?’ Miss Terkel asked.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Lara said stubbornly. ‘I had a big breakfast.’

Most of the girls at school were nicely dressed in clean skirts and blouses. Lara had outgrown her few faded plaid dresses and threadbare blouses. She had gone to her father.

‘I need some clothes for school,’ Lara said.

‘Dae ye now? Weel, I’m nae made of money. Get yourself something frae the Salvation Army Citadel.’

‘That’s charity, Papa.’

And her father had slapped her hard across the face.

The children at school were familiar with games Lara had never even heard of. The girls had dolls and toys, and some of them were willing to share them with Lara, but she was painfully aware that nothing belonged to her. And there was something more. Over the next few years, Lara got a glimpse of a different world, a world where children had mothers and fathers who gave them presents and birthday parties and loved them and held them and kissed them. And for the first time, Lara began to realize how much was missing in her life. It only made her feel lonelier.

The boarding house was a different kind of school. It was an international microcosm. Lara learned to tell where the boarders came from by their names. Mac was from Scotland … Hodder and Pyke were from Newfoundland … Chiasson and Aucoin were from France … Dudash and Kosick from Poland. The boarders were lumbermen, fishermen, miners and tradesmen. They would gather in the large dining room in the morning for breakfast and in the evening for supper, and their talk was fascinating to Lara. Each group seemed to have its own mysterious language.

There were thousands of lumbermen in Nova Scotia, scattered around the peninsula. The lumbermen at the boarding house smelled of sawdust and burnt bark, and they spoke of arcane things like chippers and edging and trim.

‘We should get out almost two hundred million board feet this year,’ one of them announced at supper.

‘How can feet be bored?’ Lara asked.

There was a roar of laughter. ‘Child, board foot is a piece of lumber a foot square by an inch thick. When you grow up and get married, if you want to build a five-room, all wood house, it will take twelve thousand board feet.’

‘I’m not going to get married,’ Lara swore.

The fishermen were another breed. They returned to the boarding house stinking of the sea, and they talked about the new experiment of growing oysters on the Bras d’Or lake, and bragged to one another of their catches of cod and herring and mackerel and haddock.

But the boarders who fascinated Lara the most were the miners. There were 3,500 miners in Cape Breton, working the collieries at Lingan and Prince and Phalen. Lara loved the names of the mines. There was the Jubilee and the Last Chance and the Black Diamond and the Lucky Lady.

She was fascinated by their discussion of the day’s work.

‘What’s this I hear about Mike?’

‘It’s true. The poor bastard was travelling inbye in a man-rake, and a box jumped the track and crushed his leg. The sonofabitch of a foreman said it was Mike’s fault for not gettin’ out of the way fast enough, and he’s having his lamp stopped.’

Lara was baffled. ‘What does that mean?’

One of the miners explained. ‘It means Mike was on his way to work – going inbye – in a man-rake – that’s a car that takes you down to your working level. A box – that’s a coal train – jumped the track and hit him.’

‘And stopped his lamp?’ Lara asked.

The miner laughed. ‘When you’ve had your lamp stopped, it means you’ve been suspended.’

When Lara was fifteen, she entered St Michael’s High School. She was gangly and awkward, with long legs, stringy black hair, and intelligent grey eyes still too large for her pale, thin face. No one quite knew how she was going to turn out. She was on the verge of womanhood, and her looks were in a stage of metamorphosis. She could have become ugly or beautiful.

To James Cameron, his daughter was ugly. ‘Ye hae best marry the first mon fool enough to ask ye,’ he told her. ‘Ye’ll nae hae the looks to make a guid bargain.’

Lara stood there, saying nothing.

‘And tell the poor mon nae to expect a dowry frae me.’

Mungo McSween had walked into the room. He stood there listening, furious.

‘That’s all, girl,’ James Cameron said. ‘Gae back to the kitchen.’

Lara fled.

‘Why dae ye dae that to yeer daughter?’ McSween demanded.

James Cameron looked up, his eyes bleary. ‘Nane of your business.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Aye. And what else is there? If it isn’t women, it’s the whiskey, isn’t it?’

McSween went into the kitchen where Lara was washing dishes at the sink. Her eyes were hot with tears. McSween put his arms around her. ‘Niver ye mind, lassie,’ he said. ‘He dinna mean it.’

‘He hates me.’

‘Nae, he doesna.’

‘He’s never given me one kind word. Never once. Never!’

There was nothing McSween could say.

In the summer, the tourists would arrive at Glace Bay. They came in their expensive cars, wearing beautiful clothes, and shopped along Castle Street and dined at the Cedar House and at Jasper’s, and they visited Ingonish Beach and Cape Smoky and the Bird Islands. They were superior beings from another world, and Lara envied them and longed to escape with them when they left at the end of summer. But how?

Lara had heard stories about Grandfather Maxwell.

‘The auld bastard tried to keep me frae marryin’ his precious daughter,’ James Cameron would complain to any of the boarders who would listen. ‘He was filthy rich, but do ye think he wad gie me aught? Nae. But I took guid care of his Peggy, anyway …’

And Lara would fantasize that one day her grandfather would come to take her away to glamorous cities she had read about: London and Rome and Paris. And I’ll have beautiful clothes to wear. Hundreds of dresses and new shoes.

But as the months and the years went by, and there was no word, Lara finally came to realize that she would never see her grandfather. She was doomed to spend the rest of her life in Glace Bay.

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