Original Sin

‘I think we have some time to kill before the party starts,’ he smiled, nodding towards the antique sleigh bed. For all her affectionate thoughts about William and their marriage, Paula still felt her stomach clench.

‘Honey, no,’ she said, ‘I’ve just showered.’

‘And I thought the idea of conceiving at Belcourt might appeal to you,’ he laughed, stroking her neck with his fingertips.

She reached up and held his hand.

‘Don’t bring this up again. Not tonight.’

William frowned. ‘Bring what up?’

‘Darling, I’m not a baby machine,’ she said, turning away and scooping her hair into a chignon.

William gave a hollow laugh. ‘We’ve got two kids, Paula, not ten.’

And that’s enough, she thought as she busied herself pinning up her hair. Unlike William, who had declared a desire to produce ‘a brood’, Paula had no intention of having any more children. On the surface she was elegant and confident, but underneath she was anxious and prone to depression. Something to do with her upbringing, perhaps, but, whatever the reason, pregnancy was certainly not a condition that suited her. Two years into their marriage she had conceived while on the pill, only to miscarry ten weeks later. William had been wonderful throughout the entire ordeal, sending her to recuperate at his uncle’s waterside house in the Florida Keys, but he was obviously devastated by the tragedy. Paula was more sanguine.

‘Something was wrong with our baby,’ she had told him matter-of factly. ‘The miscarriage was a sign. A gift.’

William had hugged her and told her that she was in shock or post-traumatic stress and that she would feel better about it very soon. Paula knew that he was wrong. Two years later, under pressure from William, they had actively tried to get pregnant again, and to Paula’s relief it had been swift. The twins were born healthy and pretty and she felt she could now relax, having paid her dues.

‘Paula. The twins are nearly six,’ said William. ‘You’re thirty-two now, but you know how difficult things get after thirty-five.’

‘I know the biology,’ she said with a little more force than she’d intended.

‘Hey now, don’t be like that,’ he whispered, pulling her towards the bed. ‘You never know, it might be fun.’

As he kissed her bare shoulder beyond the strap of her dress, she smiled. If William thought the smile was in anticipation of the patter of tiny feet, he was dead wrong. Paula adored her children, and she had to admit that the idea of conceiving a child at Belcourt did appeal to her. But she was not going through the ordeal of pregnancy again under any circumstances. Her wolfish grin covered the thought that if they had sex tonight, she could forget about it for another month at least. As for the contraceptive injections that she had administered by a discreet gynaecologist on a regular basis, well, that would remain her little secret. In the meantime, it was back to her wifely duty. And, as he said, it might even be fun.

‘Are you ready yet?’

Tess tapped her nails impatiently on the doorframe of the bathroom. Brooke Asgill’s engagement party was beginning at seven-thirty p.m. It was now six forty-five and the venue was over an hour away. It was somewhere upstate – ‘Belcourt, Westchester’, it stated simply on the stiff white invitation, as if everybody was expected to know where it was – and Tess was anxious enough about going without her appearance-conscious boyfriend making them late too.

Dom was standing by the sink, rummaging through the complimentary toiletries.

‘They haven’t got shoeshine,’ he grumbled, flinging a shower cap back in the basket.

‘Since when do you ever use shoeshine?’ asked Tess with surprise.

‘They have shoeshine at the Plaza.’

Tess took a deep breath and counted to ten. They were staying in a luxurious suite at The Pierre, one of, if not the most fabulous and luxurious hotels in New York and therefore the world, and here he was bitching about the tiniest detail. It was especially annoying as this beautiful room had been booked and paid for by Meredith Asgill. Tess turned him round and began to fasten the black silk bow tie hanging around his neck.

‘Just chill out,’ she said as calmly as she could. Her nerves were frayed. She was excited about the party but edgy over what was expected of her, not to mention tired from the flight, even if they had flown on a Lear Jet into a convenient private airport in New Jersey.

‘Come on, honey, we are in New York at a fabulous hotel and about to go to an even more fabulous party. And, let’s face it, you look fabulous too.’

Dom looked at his reflection in the mirror and tugged at his shirt cuffs, adjusting the jacket of his smart one-button suit and smoothing out his bow tie. Finally he grunted with satisfaction.

‘Exactly how posh do you think it’s going to be tonight?’

‘Posh enough for a shoeshine,’ she smiled. Seeing his anxious face she squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘Hey, I’m joking. I really don’t know how posh it’s going to be, but I do know you’ll fit in fine.’

She glanced at her own reflection behind him and thought how great they looked together. So rarely did they have an opportunity to dress up like this, and she had made a special effort to look as sensational as possible. Her shoulder-length black hair was too short to do anything exotic with, but she had swept it up, framing her strong face. A dash of bronzer sharpened her cheekbones and her green eyes dazzled with the help of pearlized cream over her lids. In her favourite cocktail dress, a cream Ossie Clark shift that made her look and feel like a glamorous Twenties flapper girl, she had to admit she felt wonderful. Now if she could just resist the urge to chew her nails …

‘I also know that Belcourt is supposed to be one of the finest private residences in North America,’ she continued. ‘I mean, the Billingtons are worth fifteen billion dollars. They can afford to throw a good party.’

‘Which is why I’m a bit concerned,’ said Dom as she walked back into the bedroom to pick up her clutch bag. ‘Isn’t this job offer for the Asgill family and not the Billingtons?’

‘Yes. What? I don’t follow.’

Dom opened the minibar and took a swig from a miniature vodka bottle.

‘I mean that if this job was for the Billingtons, I’d say fine, fantastic. They’re rich, connected, politically influential, useful. But who are the Asgills? They’ve got some mid-market cosmetics company and they aren’t even on the Forbes List. That private jet we flew over on was all well and nice, although I bet it’s not theirs, and here we are in a junior suite. I thought they were trying to impress you.’

‘I think that’s a little ungrateful.’

‘I’m just not sure this is the best career move for us, Tess,’ said Dom, draining the rest of the vodka. ‘Granted, the money is fantastic, but whatever happened to “I want to be editor of the Sun”? Who wants to be some nouveau-riche nobody’s hired help?’

She looked at him, wondering if he had noticed how unhappy she had been at the Globe over the past two months, her ability constantly questioned by her new boss. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Dom, so long as her salary meant they could live life high on the hog.

‘This isn’t about how rich this family is,’ said Tess firmly. ‘And it’s certainly not about how big our suite is. The point is that Meredith Asgill might be right, and in a month’s time I might not even have a job at the Globe. We both know how tough it is on the papers at the moment. Who’s to say I’m going to get another job any time soon? And after the week I had last week, I’m not entirely sure I want to be an editor any more.’

He blinked at her, clearly taken aback by her response. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he said sulkily.

‘Think of the money with this Asgill offer, Dom. Think of that two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bonus,’ she said, her eyes glittering. ‘Plus it’s New York, rent-free. I’ve always wanted to work here.’

‘But what about me?’ he asked, his lips in a thin, unhappy line.

‘I know this transatlantic thing is going to be hard,’ she said, stroking his cheek. ‘But if you come out to New York once a month and I come to London once a month, we’ll see each other every two weeks. It’s probably more than we see each other at the moment.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration …’

‘Okay, a little. But remember that it will be temporary – it’s a fixed-term contract until the wedding, then we’ll play it by ear.’

‘At which point they’d get me a visa?’

She looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. Only last week Dom had told her how his old friend Mungo had bagged some fancy editorial position on the Wall Street Journal. His handsome face had been etched with envy. At twenty-one Dom had been part of an elite band of graduates destined for the very top of the newspaper tree, starting his career on The Times training scheme. Although his peer group was only just touching thirty, they had begun to start scoring columns with The Spectator, jobs in Manhattan or senior positions on the big, prestigious broadsheets, making Dom’s deputy travel editor’s job seem not as impressive as he’d once thought. Perhaps Dom was unlucky; perhaps he was too fond of press trips and free lunches – Tess knew he was rarely in the office these days – but, either way, no fancy New York job offers had come his way and she knew how desperately he wanted the status he thought he deserved, especially when Tess’s own career, the recent wobble notwithstanding, had taken off like a rocket.

‘Well, we didn’t get round to the small print,’ Tess said cautiously. ‘But Meredith did invite you to the party this weekend, so she obviously wants to seduce you with New York too.’

‘That’s not the same as getting me a visa,’ grumbled Dom.

‘Well, if you want a visa that badly –’ she began, running her fingers across his crotch and being gratified by an instant response – ‘then I guess you’re just going to have to marry me,’ she smiled mischievously.

He pulled her in close and grinned. ‘If I thought for one second that either of us was the marrying kind, I might just do that.’

Tess smiled back. It was one of their shared jokes, a pact almost. After nine years together they had no intention of taking the plunge. It wasn’t that they disagreed with marriage; they just wondered what was the point? Marriage was, after all, just a piece of paper, a shackle that made a break-up, should it ever happen, more difficult and expensive. Tess had seen her own parents’ marriage dissolve with such animosity and rancour that she had not spoken to her mother since she was nineteen. Besides, she had seen too many friends disappear into marriage, children, and that whole cloying suburban routine. She had no desire to follow them.

‘How do I look?’ asked Dom, taking one last glance in the mirror.

‘Like James Bond,’ she said, ushering him towards the door.

‘Now come on, the car is waiting. We’ve got the world’s greatest party to get to.’

When Brooke had first agreed to the idea of an engagement party, she had assumed that it would be a small affair for friends and family. Looking down into the crowded, buzzing entrance hall of Belcourt, she almost laughed at her naivety. From her vantage point on the mezzanine terrace, it was obvious that tonight’s party would be more lavish than a state dinner. There were huge arrangements of rare orchids on every surface, silk draped everywhere, and a medieval feast was being arranged in the Great Hall. Such excess was inevitable, really, since they had left the arrangements to David’s mother Rose, but it was incredible what she’d been able to pull together in two weeks. I mean, where did you get so many orchids at this time of year? Waiters in white tails milled around in almost choreographed movement, their trays piled high with canapés. Vintage champagne was served in Baccarat crystal and the flowers perfumed the air like bespoke scent. Couture-clad women danced with captains of industry to the sounds of a big band jazz orchestra led, she could have sworn, by Harry Connick Jr on the grand piano.

There were hundreds, no, maybe even a thousand people here at Belcourt tonight, and they were all here for her. How ironic she didn’t even know most of them! Brooke’s first hour of the party was spent in a whirl, being introduced to scores of people she had never even heard of, let alone met, in nine months of dating David Billington. There were David’s Yale friends, CTV newsroom friends, Andover friends, celebrity friends (yes, that was George Clooney at the bar!). Friends from the think-tanks he belonged to, friends from across the political divide. David, it seemed, had friends everywhere. By contrast, when David’s mother Rose had her assistant call her future daughter-in-law for her list of invitees, Brooke had provided her with sixty or so names.

‘What are you doing hiding away up there?’

David met Brooke at the bottom of the steps and took her hand. Dressed in a midnight-blue suit that complemented the darkness of his hair and the pale olive of his skin, he looked devastatingly handsome.

‘I’m not hiding,’ she said, tapping him playfully. ‘Just taking a little time-out. I’m still in a state of shock that George Clooney is at my engagement party. If he’s at the wedding, I might pass out at the altar.’

‘I’d better hope he’s filming then,’ grinned David, handing her a stemmed glass.

‘Try that. My mom’s butler has come out of retirement just for tonight to mix his special martinis. They’ll keep you awake until sunrise.’

Brooke gaped as Colin Powell walked past and clapped David on the arm in a familiar way.

‘Are all these people coming to the wedding?’ she asked.

David laughed. ‘My mother maintains this is a gathering of close friends.’

‘Meaning they’ll be more people on the wedding guest list?’ she said.

‘The venue can handle it,’ he said obliquely. ‘Besides, it’s good for the charities. We don’t need gifts, do we? So we’ll get the guests to give donations to charity. The more people, the more money we can raise.’

He took her hand and led her through the room. ‘Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘Not another friend of the family?’ she said suspiciously.

He laughed. ‘Not this time. My cousin Lily, she lives in London so you haven’t met her before.’

‘Nice of her to come all this way.’

‘In her own words, she’s come to audition.’

Brooke looked at him. ‘Audition. What for?’

For a second, David’s confident demeanour deserted him. ‘To be a bridesmaid,’ he said, pulling an embarrassed face.

She laughed at the idea. ‘Really? You’re serious?’

‘It’s one of those family things, honey. Twenty-something years ago I was a pageboy at Lily’s eldest sister’s wedding. My mother wants to return the favour.’

‘Wasn’t it enough that you were an angelic ring-bearer?’

‘Let’s call it a family tradition. It would mean a lot to my parents.’

Brooke had tried to avoid thinking about the issue of her bridesmaids because frankly, none of her friends was suitable. Her good friends from Spence and Brown had split off into two increasingly distant groups: career girls and socialites. Predictably, she rarely saw the career girls as they were far too busy moving and shaking in finance, media, and PR, while the friends who had married into money or spent their lives on the party and charity circuit, well, she found them a little too … shallow? Competitive? She had never been able to put her finger on it, but these days she enjoyed their company less and less. A few years ago Brooke had embraced that whole Park Avenue Princess scene – being rich and beautiful it was almost expected – but she had found it exhausting. As legendary socialite Nan Kempner had once said, you had to ‘entertain constantly’, you were constantly locked in a battle of one-upmanship, jockeying for position on the most prestigious junior committees, making sure you were dressed head to toe in the hottest designs.

In some ways it had been fun, especially the big events such as the Costume Institute Gala and the summer parties in the Hamptons, but the constant pressure to get a manicure and blow-dry every time she set foot out of the house quickly became tedious. Slowly Brooke realized she preferred to socialize in a more low-key way: dinner at her favourite restaurants Sfoglia or Raoul’s with friends, for example, or old movies in little art-house theatres downtown. Such individuality was not something that was approved of in the socialite clique, and Brooke had found them drifting away. It had frankly been a relief, when she had started seeing David, that she could step away from all that endless competition, but it did rather leave her without a natural choice for a bridesmaid. The irony of course was that as soon as the engagement was announced, she was swamped with invitations to lunch and parties from the in-crowd; any one of them would have given their entire Manolo collection to be Brooke’s bridesmaid now. So this might actually be the ideal solution: a sweet little cousin might be a way to avoid snubbing her old circle.

‘I quite like the idea of having a pretty little flower girl,’ said Brooke, thinking it over. ‘How old is she?’

‘Not sure. Twenty-nine, thirty, I think.’

‘Thirty? You’re kidding!’ said Brooke.

David shrugged. ‘Come on, baby, you haven’t exactly asked anyone else, have you?’

She looked at him in shock. ‘That’s hardly the point, honey. I’m not going around suggesting a best man for you.’

‘It’s Robert, it was always going to be my brother, it’s tradition in our family,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, honey, it’s no big deal …’

‘It’s a very big deal,’ said Brooke, her face flushing. ‘For a family so fixed on observing all the correct traditions, you’re very quick to ignore them when it comes to me. I suppose you’re going to choose the dress for me next.’

David put his hands on her shoulders and gave her his best smile. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to say yes, just come and meet her.’

Brooke took a deep breath. This was all meant to be fun.

‘Why is she so desperate to be a bridesmaid anyway?’

‘Nice dress, great party, eligible best man …’

Brooke smiled a little. ‘There’s a very cynical side to you, David Billington.’

In the flesh, Lily Salter couldn’t have been further from Brooke’s idea of a ‘sweet little cousin’. She was tall and pretty, with long dark bouncy hair and beautiful posture, although her eyes looked a little glassy from too many late nights. Lily had gone to London to work in the Marc Jacobs London press office, and now had her own up-market PR agency. She was a mainstay on the Notting Hill American ex-pat party circuit, and it showed.

‘Brooke,’ said Lily as David introduced her. ‘You look amazing. Very Helen of Troy.’

Brooke smiled, grateful for the compliment. Brooke had always loved clothes; she enjoyed putting outfits together, playing with styles, but in the days since her relationship with David had gone public, she had lost a bit of confidence in her own dress sense. Every time she left the house she was scrutinized by the press; every dress and shoe examined, her outfits declared ‘Hit’ or ‘Miss’ in the weekly tabloid rags. Before David, a night like tonight would have been great fun, playfully imagining herself as Lauren Hutton at Studio 54, Mia Farrow’s Daisy in The Great Gatsby, or Veronica Lake in some Forties film noir. The endless public scrutiny crushed that pleasure and ate away at her faith in her own judgement. Tonight, however, had been different. Tonight Brooke felt beautiful in a putty grey Grecian gown that fell in gentle waves to the floor; comfortable because of the relaxed structure, yet sexy as the fine silk brushed against her skin. It had a sweeping neck that showed off a rose-gold choker – an engagement present from David – and a low back perfect for showing off her buttery blonde hair.

‘Thank you,’ said Brooke, flushing slightly. ‘David bought it for me for the party.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve been assured there are only two in existence. Apparently Kate Moss has the other one. I’m sure Brooke wears it even better than she does.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Lily appreciatively. ‘Who styles you?’

‘My fiancé,’ laughed Brooke.

David gave Brooke’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’ll leave you two girls to it,’ he smiled.

‘Do you ever wake up and pinch yourself?’ said Lily, as she watched David move through the crowd shaking hands and exchanging jokes.

‘Pinch myself? About the engagement?’

Lily nodded. ‘About David. Every girlfriend of mine has been in love with him since school. I know he’s my cousin and everything, but I do think he’s sexy – is that wrong?’ she giggled. ‘Anyway, I’m so happy for you. Tell me about the proposal, I bet it was romantic.’

‘We were standing on a terrace overlooking Paris and when we looked up we saw a shooting star sweep across the sky. How could I say no with an omen like that?’

Lily’s mouth formed an ‘O’.

‘And where’s the wedding going to be?’

Brooke pulled a face. ‘We’re keeping it under wraps for the moment.’

‘Well, let me know the second you want me to do something. I know it’s a bit trickier with me in London, but we can work all that out. It’s totally an honour to be invited to be your bridesmaid.’

Brooke looked at her, puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’

Lily just laughed. ‘Oh, I know it’s silly, but you know how everyone says David is going to be president one day? I have this little fantasy where sometime in the future everyone is going to be interested in every detail of this wedding; the dress, the venue, even the bridesmaids,’ she giggled. ‘There might even be a little guided tour where the guide says, “… and this is where Lily Salter caught the bouquet”.’

Brooke didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful that at least the bridesmaid issue was settled – even if she hadn’t actually made the decision herself. Had Lily somehow got the wrong end of the stick, she wondered, or had Rose, David’s mother, simply offered her the job? Worse still, had David gone ahead and recruited her without asking? He had looked rather shamefaced when he mentioned the ‘family tradition’. Whatever the source of this mix-up, Brooke began to feel a worrying loss of control. If she didn’t have a free choice of her bridesmaids, then what else could she rely on?

Oblivious to Brooke’s discomfort, Lily hooked her arm through Brooke’s and took another glass of champagne from a waiter.

‘Rose thought it would be a good idea if we fixed up a lunch before I went back to London, what do you think?’ she gushed. ‘There’s so much to talk about, isn’t there? I mean, is it going to be a church ceremony? If it is, I think bare shoulders might upset some of the older family, but if it’s not, I was thinking strapless, cut away low at the back. Backs are so important. After all, that’s what the congregation are going to be looking at …’

Tess and Dom had spent the first hour of the party wandering around Belcourt, their mouths open. Away from the Grand Ballroom, where hundreds of glamorous people laughed and danced, the house was even more impressive, corridor upon corridor lined with fine art and tapestries.

‘It’s like visiting the Louvre at night,’ whispered Dom.

‘It’s amazing. But a bit eerie. It really would be like living in a museum.’

‘So you’re telling me you wouldn’t like to live here.’

‘I never said that at all,’ she said with a little hiccup.

Tess was a little worried that she had drunk too much. Belcourt had been so intimidating she’d needed a couple of martinis just to loosen up. Dom’s negativity at the hotel hadn’t helped, although his mood had improved considerably since the town car had swung into the tree-fringed driveway and they’d got their first glimpse of the house. It was magnificent. The drive was lined with flickering torches, while Klieg lights turned the limestone façade of the house a blinding white. In the fading light, Tess could see that Belcourt’s grounds were as magnificent as Richmond Park, Tess’s favourite spot in London, but it was the interior that really dazzled. It was wall-to-wall marble, with huge gilt mirrors and polished oak panelling, but it wasn’t only the decor they were looking at. If Tess hadn’t known how influential the hosts were, she might have believed her eyes were playing tricks on her. After all, how many ‘intimate gatherings’ could get die-hard Democrat George Clooney and Republican ex-president George W. Bush in the same place at the same time? She had honestly never seen so many famous faces in one place before. For a second, Tess considered phoning through the story to the Globe offices, before remembering that her loyalties might soon lie elsewhere.