Priceless

PRICELESS

NICOLE RICHIE

To the priceless moments in your life

CONTENTS

Cover Page

Title Page

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

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

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY ONE

Chapter THIRTY TWO

Chapter THIRTY THREE

Chapter THIRTY FOUR

Chapter THIRTY FIVE

Chapter THIRTY SIX

Chapter THIRTY SEVEN

Chapter THIRTY EIGHT

Chapter THIRTY NINE

Chapter FORTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Also by Nicole Richie

Copyright

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Chapter ONE

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.

Her favorite section held her mother’s clothes, those her father had kept. Her mother had died in a car accident when Charlotte was seven. On her way back from a party, for once without her husband, stone-cold sober and apparently driving below the speed limit. Another driver, drunk, high, traveling at nearly eighty on a cross street, had run the light at Fifth and rammed her car from the side, killing her instantly. He, of course, had gotten out of his car and walked away. Charlotte barely remembered her, though the house was filled with photographs. Jackie Williams had been a great model, internationally known and instantly recognized, and Charlotte had inherited her slanted green eyes and wide mouth. Her death had rocked the fashion world, and Charlotte’s main memory of that time was that the phone never stopped ringing. Her father had come home from the funeral and pulled it out of the wall, locking himself in his study, drinking and sobbing inconsolably. When he’d come out and found Jackie’s assistants packing up her clothes, he’d flown into a terrible rage, firing them on the spot and carefully smoothing each garment, delicately replacing them on their padded hangers, closing the closet door quietly.

Now Charlotte had a world-class collection of semi-vintage couture, and she knew the details and history of each piece. Many of them were one-offs, worn in runway shows and tailored for her mother. Jackie had been taller and thinner than Charlotte, who had a little more curve to her figure, and many of the pieces simply wouldn’t fit. But many did, and she loved pulling something unique from the collection.

Tonight she picked a simple slip dress by Galliano, one of his less flamboyant pieces, and looked at herself critically in the mirror.

She knew she was beautiful, and she knew she was attractive to men, but she couldn’t help comparing herself with her mother. Or, rather, with the images of her mother, because she’d never really known her mom. The public Jackie had been aloof and elegant, famous for her platinum hair and regal bearing. Charlotte was sexier, warmer. Her hair had honeyed streaks mixed with the pale cream, some of them almost dark. Her mother’s hair had been board-straight, but hers was tousled and curled and hard to control. She was feeling a little nervous, strangely, going out for the first time, and reached for her war paint, leaving her hair loose and wild. Her skin needed no foundation, but she dusted it with shimmery blush to bring out her cheekbones. In Paris, the women had worn minimal eye makeup, and she followed their lead, simply shadowing her lids with a pale aqua that brought out the subtle turquoise in her eyes and finishing with a razor-thin line of liquid eyeliner. Several coats of mascara and matte red lipstick later, she was ready.

Jewelry. She’d nearly forgotten. In the center of her closet was a Chinese chest, priceless in itself, its many lacquered drawers holding a small fortune in jewels and precious metals. Her father loved to buy jewelry and was something of a snob about it. His wife’s collection had included dozens of antiques alongside important contemporary pieces. Charlotte opened drawer after drawer, looking for the perfect thing. A single cabochon emerald on a long golden chain hung between her breasts and added green to her eyes. Time for battle.

Chapter TWO

When Charlotte had left for Paris the year before, Le Petit Champignon was relatively new, perching precariously on Jane Street. She’d adopted it, loving its richly delicious vegetarian cuisine. The chef was famous for saying, “Just because it’s vegetarian doesn’t mean it has to be good for you,” and the rich sauces and abundant butter showed he was as good as his word. Apparently, the news had gotten out, for when Davis dropped her in front, there was a line.

“Will you call, Miss?”

She nodded. The one time she’d ridden the subway home, her father had taken her aside.

“Charlotte, the world is full of interesting people. However, it isn’t necessary to become intimately acquainted with a hundred of them in the unventilated confines of a subway car. Please call Davis when you need to go anywhere. That’s what he’s for.”

Jean-Claude, the maitre d', recognized her as soon as she walked in.

“Miss Williams! Paris’s loss is our gain. I saw your name on the list and hoped it was you. I have your favorite table ready.”

Two people were already there, James and Zeb. High school friends. They stood to embrace her.

“You’re even skinnier than when you left, you bitch. How is that possible?” Zeb was gay and not all that subtle. “Don’t the French eat nothing but lard and cheese?”

James shushed him. “Keep your voice down, Zeb. We’re not at the club yet. Maybe she took up smoking; it keeps you thin.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Thin and stinky. Not likely. I think Zeb’s memory has just been affected by all those club drugs and pretty boys he likes to inhale.”

“I don’t inhale the boys.”

“Just swallow?”

Zeb giggled.

James poured Charlotte a glass of 2007 Malbec and raised his own.

“To the lovely Charlotte. Welcome home, my sweet.” She and James had briefly been friends with benefits, and when he smiled his pussycat smile at her, she remembered his … gifts. She wondered idly if she should rekindle the relationship. There was nothing else on the horizon.

The door was flung open, and Clara, Jane, and Emily burst in. The three weird sisters. Only Jane and Emily were actually sisters, a twist of fertility making them eleven months apart in age but in the same school year. Alternately sworn enemies and best friends, they were a force of nature. Clara was the peacemaker, a cousin of some sort. There are a lot of relationships among the super rich of Manhattan: cousins, second cousins, related by marriage, related in secret. There aren’t that many people living in 10021, and when you don’t need to work, there’s a lot of time to fill.

“Charlotte!” There was squealing. And hugging. And cheek kissing.

Eventually, they settled down to the serious business of catching up.

Over appetizers, the sisters brought her up to date on all the gossip in their small circle.

Emily was appalled. “And did you know that Bebe was secretly sleeping with her boyfriend’s sister? I mean, come on, this isn’t reality TV.” The candlelight flickered on her dark, wavy hair, her perfect nose the product of superior plastic surgery.

Charlotte was amused. “Younger or older sister?”

“Older. She was away at Vassar when Bebe started dating Tim, and she came back for spring break and apparently thought little Timmy should share his good fortune.” She sighed. “It all got very East Village, apparently.” She cut into her spring roll thoughtfully.

James grinned. “Whatever that means.” He refilled their glasses. Charlotte could tell she was getting a little drunk, because he was starting to look better and better.

Clara had news, too. “Do you remember Jemima Rhodes?” They all did. “Her mother lost her job when Bear Stearns collapsed, and they had to sell the beach cottage. We were all gutted.” (The beach cottage was a sixteen-bedroom mansion overlooking the ocean in East Hampton.) “I mean, where are we going for Fourth of July this summer?” She dropped her voice. “I heard they were going to rent someplace.” A pause. “On the North Fork.” The three women shuddered, delighted.

Charlotte picked at her salad, enjoying the familiar sound of pointless gossip. You could always rely on these three to know everything that was going on. Emily and Jane were the middle daughters of a large family who’d owned most of the Upper West Side since the 1920s. The UWS connection made them the token “artistic ones” at their ultraconservative Upper East Side school, and they were allowed a little leeway in terms of behavior. Clara was a slightly inbred blue blood whose family had come over on the Mayflower and made their fortune shortly thereafter. Charlotte wasn’t quite sure how they’d made the money. Button hooks? Buggy whips? Something archaic. No one in Clara’s family had worked for generations, but they did a lot of Good Works and Sat on Boards. Clara had been very successful at school and at one point rashly expressed a desire to go to MIT. No one of her class ever tried that hard, she was informed, and she dropped it. Stiff upper lip, maybe, but backbone? Not so much.

James got up to go to the bathroom and met Charlotte’s eye meaningfully. She sighed. Why not? She waited a moment, then followed him. She knocked softly on the bathroom door, and he pulled her in.

“Charlotte Williams, of all people, fancy meeting you here.” James was nuzzling at her neck, his hands reaching around behind her, starting to pull up her slip dress.

She grabbed his wrists firmly. “James.”

“Hmm, you want to play a little? I can do that.” He flipped his hands around, grabbing hers and pinning them above her head. His head dipped, aiming for her breast.

“James, no.” Her tone was clear, and he paused.

“What’s up, dearest? Don’t you want to make up for the past year? We can fuck once before the main course and again before dessert. It’ll be just like old times.”

“And that,” Charlotte said firmly, pushing him away, “is the problem.” She sighed. “You’re a sweet boy, but I’m just not feeling it. Do you know what I mean? After all, a year of French men kind of elevates your standards.”

He pouted. James was extremely good-looking and couldn’t keep track of all his women. Charlotte pushing him off wasn’t going to dent his ego for more than a second.

“So why did you follow me?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I’d finished my appetizer and had time to kill.”

James straightened his pants and washed his hands. “You’re a bit of a bitch, Charlie, my sweet.”

Charlotte nodded. “You’re not the first to say so, love.”

And with that, she walked out, leaving the door open.

Chapter THREE

It was incredibly loud and hot in the club. The pulsing bass lines could be physically felt in every pair of panties in the place, which might explain the glassy expressions and elevated heart rates. Drugs, of course, may have had something to do with it. Not that there were drugs there. That would be illegal.

If you’d walked down this particular side street in Alphabet City, you’d have thought someone was having a party. No lines. No signs. No ropes. Just the distant sound of very loud music. You had to call ahead to get into this club, and if they bothered to answer the phone, you’d get an arrival time, and that was it. Your driver pulled up, the door opened, and you were let in. Charlotte simply texted the club owner. Regular cell-phone calls were for regular people.

He was waiting for her with a hug at the top of the stairs, and he embraced the other girls, too.

“Charlie, it’s been an age. I think I was on the West Side Highway when you left.” He laughed. “That was two spaces ago!”

Charlotte smiled at him. Only a handful of people got to call her Charlie, and Nick was one of them. He’d been at school with her, and she’d helped him get his first club off the ground. Clubs like Nick’s tended to move: it’s not the space, it’s the mix. You had to stay one step ahead of the police, two steps ahead of the East Village hipsters, and three steps ahead of the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Nick was a master. As soon as he found one location, he started looking for the next. A warehouse in DUMBO. An abandoned department store above Harlem. A townhouse being gutted in the West Village. His clientele were the young, the rich, and the bored. They came to him to be entertained, to see their friends, to watch the show.

“Who’s here?” Charlotte leaned closer to hear his answer.

He took her hand and pulled her to one side. “Actually, lovely, Taylor is here. I nearly told you not to come, but then I thought enough water might have flowed under the bridge by now.”

Charlotte felt herself get colder, despite the sweaty heat of the club. “Oh.”

Nick pulled back and looked at her. “Ah, I see I was wrong.” “Is she with him?”

“Are you crazy? No, love, she’s long gone. He’s with Stacy Star tonight. And her girlfriend. And her girlfriend’s girlfriend.” He coughed. “Celebrities, what can I say?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows, but Nick just shook his head. “Ignore him, sweetheart. You were always too good for him, anyway.”

Charlotte sighed. During her first year at Yale, she’d fallen deeply in love with Taylor Augustine. He was a couple of years ahead of her, studying European literature, and was totally gorgeous. He considered himself a beat poet for the twenty-first century, and he mumbled a lot. He and Charlotte hung out in bed most of the time, reading poetry and smoking weed. Then, suddenly, he decided that was too bourgeois and dumped her for a fiery political science major who thought shaving her underarms was bowing to the Man.

Charlotte had been devastated. It was literally the first time she couldn’t have something she wanted, and she hadn’t handled it very well. Not well at all. Drunk and furious, she’d torched the political science building.

Luckily, her father was able to step in and offer to rebuild those parts of the building that hadn’t burned to the ground, and he and the Yale board had agreed that Charlotte should spend her sophomore year elsewhere. Europe might be far enough, they thought, and the Sorbonne acquired a new student and an updated computer system.

And now here she was, back less than a day, and already she’d run into him. Sometimes life was just a bitch.

AS SHE WALKED into the main part of the club, she saw that things hadn’t changed much while she’d been away. Anyone who was young, gorgeous, rich, or horny was there, and most of Nick’s guests were all four. Beautiful girls and boys danced essentially naked on podiums all around the club, and everyone pretended not to look at them while at the same time hoping they were being looked at themselves. Same same. She turned to Nick, who was following her in, presumably to make sure she didn’t set fire to his club.

“I see you’re still working the ugly beat.”

He shrugged. “What can I do? The beautiful are drawn to me—why else would you be here?” He looked around, his experienced eyes seeing everything, despite the candlelight and heavy smoke. “There. He’s in that corner.”

Charlotte took a moment to make him out, but then her heart stopped. Taylor. Still gorgeous, although now he seemed to be working a gangsta look, which is hard when you’re from Connecticut and your father is the president of a major bank. The closest he ever got to the threat of violence was hiding from the townies in New Haven. Loose pants, slumped posture, lots of bling, and three girls dressed as sluts from the future on either side. Bottle of Courvoisier on the table. Bottle of Cristal, presumably for the sluts.

Nick squeezed her arm. “Are you going to cause trouble, or are you cool?”

“I’m cool.”

“Don’t light any fires, promise?

” “That was more than a year ago.”

“Do you even have matches?”

“No, you idiot. Besides, look around. The place is full of candles and drunks. About six hundred people are in danger of burning the place down. If the fire marshal comes in … ”

He quickly put his hand over her mouth. “Don’t ever, ever say those two words in my presence again.” He raised his finger. “I mean it, it’s bad luck. Don’t make me block your number.”

She laughed and watched him melt into the crowd. In the far corner, as far from Taylor as possible, her dinner posse had set up camp, and James was apparently trying to persuade two pole dancers to let him join them onstage. They really weren’t interested, but they were drunk enough to let him try.

Emily and Jane waved her over. She sighed inwardly and headed in their direction. In many ways, these clubs were where she lived or, at least, where the public face of Charlotte Williams lived. Before she’d discovered her inner bitch and realized that people found her entertaining when she was naughty, she’d found clubs scary. And they still made her feel anxious inside, but she guessed everyone felt that way when the world was looking at them. Not that any of her crowd would ever admit it.

“Did you see Taylor?” Jane looked worried.

Charlotte nodded. “It’s OK. It’s been a long time.”

“Did you see who he’s with?” Emily looked excited.

Charlotte nodded again. “Stacy Star.”

Zeb was beside himself. “I have all her albums. She’s outrageous. She worked the runway for Gaultier, and it was beyond fabulous. She’s awesome.”