Priceless
A wonderfully entertaining riches-to-rags story with the glitz of a celebrity mag exposé, mixed with an old-fashioned tale of comeuppance and self discovery.Meet Charlotte Williams…Rich, gorgeous, blonde and a talented singer, she has everything going for her. Spoiled and indulged, her life has always revolved around fashion, gossip, partying and men.When Charlotte's father – her only family since her mother's tragic death years ago – is arrested on fraud charges, her glittering world shatters around her. Alone and penniless, she must make her own way for the very first time.Harassed by paparazzi and the outraged victims of her father's crimes, Charlotte flees to New Orleans to escape the scandal. But what happens when a Park Avenue Princess is forced to fend for herself? How will she adapt to the Big Easy's bohemian lifestyle? And in the face of anonymous death threats, can she keep herself out of danger?From the stylish avenues of Manhattan and dark clubs of the French Quarter to the bright lights of Los Angeles, Nicole Richie's scintillating tale shows that the very life you run from is the one that won't let you hide.
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PRICELESS
NICOLE RICHIE
To the priceless moments in your life
CONTENTS
As the beautiful young woman strode through the international arrivals terminal at JFK, several people turned to look. A flight attendant noticed the way she carried herself, the clothes she wore, her shoes, and guessed she’d just walked out of first class. She was right. A young man pulling espresso paused, distracted by the girl’s obvious sexuality and lovely figure. She felt his gaze and turned slightly, favoring him with a brief smile that made his hand jump, causing him to scald himself. A man in a Savile Row suit lowered his Wall Street Journal and raised his eyebrows. Hmm. Charlotte Williams was back. Her father would be happy. The market would go up. He folded his paper and called his broker.
Charlotte descended the escalator, scanning the crowd waiting for arrivals. She smiled; there was Davis. He caught her eye and smiled back. He already had her bags.
“Hello, Davis, how nice to see a familiar face so soon.” She shook his hand.
“Miss Charlotte, it’s a pleasure to have you back in New York. The city has been very quiet without you.”
She laughed. “I doubt that, Davis, but thanks. Is the car very far? My shoes are killing me.” She’d worn sweats for the flight, but just before they began their descent, she’d changed into her city clothes. Louboutins, which were pinching her feet after only a hundred yards, a Marc Jacobs dress from spring ‘09, with a wide wrapped belt, a cashmere sweater coat. Still comfortable and easy to wear but appropriate for public viewing.
He shook his head. “Just outside, Miss.”
Indeed, the long, low Mercedes was parked right in front, in a red zone, a cop very slowly writing a ticket for it. He saw them coming and looked around, making sure no one saw Davis slipping him a folded bill. Charlotte kicked off her shoes and relaxed as Davis expertly navigated the traffic back into town.
It was very good to be home.
—————
HOWEVER, NO ONE except the staff was home to welcome her. The housekeeper was the same, but a young man she hadn’t seen before was working on the plants. She looked him over and decided to save him for later. Sitting on her bed, she surveyed her room.
“Your father had it repainted for you.” The housekeeper was unpacking her things, silently evaluating and appreciating the silken underwear, the fine labels: La Perla, Aubade, Eres.
“How did he manage to do that and yet have it look exactly the same?” Every doll, every picture, every photo was precisely where she had left it the year before.
Greta shrugged. “He spent a lot of time in here while you were away.” She looked around. “And he paid a designer to draw a map of where everything was.” She smiled at the memory. “It was quite a task.”
Charlotte frowned, tucking her long blond hair behind her ears. “Why was he in here so much?” She pulled her feet up onto her bed, pausing at a glance from Greta, removing her shoes.
Greta smoothed her gray uniform over her hips, before heading out the door. “He misses your mother, and he missed you. He’s going to be very glad to see you tonight.”
“Do you expect him for dinner?”
“No. I think later than that.”
Charlotte nodded. It was rare that her father was home before ten; it had always been that way. She’d eaten dinner alone every night, once she no longer had a nanny. She would curl up in his study, after her homework was done, and fall asleep waiting for him. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember the feeling of being lifted from the chair, the smell of whiskey and cigars, the roughness of his stubble as he kissed her, the smooth wool of his suit jacket. They would sit by the fire while he told her about his day, spinning fairy tales about the world of money and the knights and dragons that lived there. He was wonderful, when he was with her, and Charlotte loved him deeply. He just wasn’t there very much.
But while his work had kept them apart, it had also paid for this triplex on the park, a pony stabled at 89th Street (until the stable closed), a new Jaguar for her eighteenth birthday, an apartment in Le Marais for her year in Paris, and all the clothes and jewelry she could ever want. She had a lot to be grateful for. If she felt she’d missed out on a lot, too, she never said so.
CHARLOTTE CALLED SOME friends and set up an impromptu welcome-home dinner for herself. Then she threw open her closet doors and walked in, stepping between the racks, flipping hangers. The closet was nearly twenty feet long and curated like a gallery. On one side were pants, suits, jackets. The other held dresses, skirts, shirts. Everything from Abercrombie to Alaïa. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held four dozen pairs of shoes, each in a clear plastic box. Sometimes, when she’d been a bored teen, she would rearrange her closet by designer. Or decade. Or color. She’d been bored a lot.
