Original Sin

Shit, she silently cursed herself, of course she should have read all the papers, but there seemed to have been so many other things to do that morning.

‘Not yet,’ she replied quickly. ‘I’ve organized for all the papers to be delivered to my apartment, but that won’t happen until tomorrow,’ she said, blushing.

‘It came online at five a.m.’ Patty did not say it in an unkind or accusatory way; it was a simple relaying of fact. She tapped the page. ‘Read that.’

Tess took a swig of coffee as she read the story, wincing both at the strength of the coffee and the gossip item.

Brooke Asgill, fiancée of New York’s most eligible man, David Billington, may look like perfect wife material, but this morning news emerged that Brooke is a home-wrecker.

Tess glanced up at Patty, her expression grave.

Brown University professor Dr Jeff Daniels left his wife of ten years to be with Brooke Asgill when she was a student at the institution. Although the relationship between Daniels and Asgill didn’t last …’ Tess quickly skimmed the rest of the story, reading the last line out loud.

‘Old flame Matthew Palmer, now a doctor at the Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center says: “Brooke was always hot. I’d be surprised if any man could resist her.”’

Tess shook her head, then looked at Patty. ‘I guess this means our guided tour is off?’

‘I guess so,’ smiled Patty. ‘Instead you’ve got a baptism of fire. Nothing we can’t handle, though.’

Tess didn’t doubt it. She had done all her homework on her contacts at Asgill’s and she could still recall Patty’s impressive CV: Duke University, Harvard Law School, five years at a Wall Street commercial firm, three years here at Asgill’s. She was exactly the sort of person you’d want on your side in a crisis. Tess was glad someone knew what they were doing.

She looked back at the newspaper in front of her and began to feel her old journalistic curiosity creeping back. Interesting, she thought. So Brooke Asgill does have a dark side after all. She almost smiled, before remembering which side of the fence she was on now. At the Globe it was all about exposing people’s misdemeanours; now she was being paid a great deal of money to cover them up.

‘Have you contacted the paper?’ she asked.

Patty shook her head. ‘I called Brooke as soon as I read it. She’s denying it all, of course, but I wanted to get the full facts from her in person. She’s due in the office any minute. In the meantime the story has run too late for the other papers to pick up until tomorrow, although I guess some could go online with it.’

‘Can we get an injunction? Stop it from appearing anywhere else?’ asked Tess, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Her knowledge of American law was sketchy at best. At work she was used to feeling in control, but here, with efficient Patty in this clean, sweet-smelling office, she felt displaced, out of her depth, and unsure of herself. She didn’t like the feeling, not one bit. Patty was thoughtful for a moment.

‘Well, it’s certainly more difficult for celebrities to sue the media than it is in London,’ she replied. ‘The beauty of the First Amendment,’ she smiled, her icy demeanour softening.

They both heard Brooke before they saw her: a click-clack of heels followed by a sniffle and a sob in the corridor before she appeared in the doorway. Even though she was wearing wide black sunglasses, you could tell she’d been crying from the puffiness of her cheeks.

‘Hi Brooke,’ said Patty, her head cocked sympathetically. ‘I don’t know if you’ve met Tess Garrett before?’

Brooke nodded as she sat down. ‘Briefly, at my party. Sorry about the sunglasses. I look like Gollum this morning.’

Yeah, right, thought Tess. With her long butter-blonde hair, quivering lip, and Tom Ford shades, she looked like a young Jane Birkin on holiday.

‘So. Is any of it true?’ Patty asked earnestly.

Brooke looked desperately miserable and fragile as she looked down at her hands.

‘Yes and no. Jeff Daniels and I dated for about six months when I was twenty-one. Yes, he was one of my tutors at Brown, but we didn’t start dating until a few months after I’d left college and by then he was separated.’

‘Or he told you he was separated,’ said Tess.

Brooke looked up, her green eyes flashing.

‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ she said firmly. ‘He had been separated from his wife for about twelve months before we went on our first date and his divorce came through a couple of months later. There was no overlap at all, none. I’m not a home-wrecker.’

Brooke rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘David’s family are going to go crazy,’ she whispered.

Patty and Tess exchanged a look. They couldn’t really deny it.

‘What’s David got to say about it?’ asked Tess. ‘He’s the important one.’

‘He’s not very happy, as you can imagine,’ said Brooke, wiping her nose. ‘But he says he believes me.’

‘And have you heard from the Billingtons?’ asked Patty.

Brooke shrugged. ‘My phone is probably jammed with messages, but I haven’t been able to face it.’ She turned to Tess, her eyes pleading.

‘How did this happen? I thought the Billingtons were like the CIA; how come they didn’t stop it?’

Tess shook her head. ‘The first they will have heard about it was when someone read a first-edition paper this morning. I suppose you have to know about something to stop it.’

Tess squirmed, hoping that would not seem like a dig. It was obvious Brooke was suffering enough over this without Tess reading her the riot act about keeping her past to herself.

Patty glanced at her watch and then rose to her feet. ‘I want to talk to Meredith and then I’d better go and make some calls.’

At the mention of her mother, Brooke’s face paled. Tess could sympathize; she barely knew Meredith Asgill, but she didn’t imagine this would play out well with her either. There was of course a chance Meredith would try to blame this on Tess, although – according to Sally the receptionist – office hours were eight until five, so strictly speaking Tess hadn’t even started work when the Oracle website ran the story.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Tess.

Patty folded her arms in front of her. ‘I can get it taken down from the website but it’s obviously too late for the paper. Good news is that the Oracle publishes a European edition, so I can threaten to sue them in the British courts. That should be enough leverage to make them print a retraction in tomorrow’s paper.’

She looked at Tess meaningfully. ‘Then I’m afraid it’s up to you to do the damage control.’

She spun around on her high heels and walked out of the room. When Tess looked back, she saw that Brooke had picked up the paper and was reading the story again.

‘I can’t believe Jeff would do this,’ she said dejectedly. ‘I guess he needed the money.’

‘Why do you think it was Jeff who went to the papers?’ asked Tess.

Brooke looked up sharply. ‘It must be Jeff,’ she said, her eyes widening. ‘They’ve run pictures of his wife and kids. How else did the paper get hold of those?’

‘Newspapers have their ways,’ said Tess, feeling a slight sense of guilt for having committed similar crimes at the Globe. It was different when you were on the other side of the fence.

She examined Brooke carefully. Tess’s last week at the Globe had been spent using its substantial resources to dig up everything she could about the girl she had been hired to protect. In fact, Brooke had led a very low-key life for a girl from such a wealthy background, which was no doubt part of her appeal for a politically ambitious family like the Billingtons. The big surprise for Tess was that Brooke Asgill appeared to be everything she was supposed to be: beautiful, clean-cut, honest. Certainly, none of the features or photographs did justice to Brooke’s natural beauty and grace. From her years in the media, Tess knew that average people with good PR and clever marketing could become household names, but with Brooke’s raw material – her looks, marriage, and sweetness, she really could become more iconic than Jackie O. More importantly, if Tess succeeded in helping her do that, it would put her in a very strong position indeed. If the rumours about David’s political future were true, she could even follow Brooke to the White House.

Tess smiled to herself. Before she could start indulging in any fantasies as a glamorous Chanel-clad aide climbing aboard Air Force One, she had to deal with the matter in hand. Scandal might do a B-list soap actress some good, but to establishment families it was dangerous, even fatal. Society could forgive anything except embarrassment.

‘And who is this Matthew Palmer?’ said Tess, rereading Danny Krantz’s column more carefully.

‘An old friend,’ said Brooke, looking irritated once more.

‘Says old flame here.’

‘Another lie!’ said Brooke, her voice raised and trembling.

Tess raised an eyebrow.

‘Honestly,’ repeated Brooke. ‘I haven’t seen or spoken to Matt since I left Brown. I’ve no idea why he’d say such a thing.’

Tess snorted. ‘I’ll give you two good reasons. Money and fame. Brooke, I worked at a national tabloid and, trust me, there’s always someone you think is on your side who is really selling stories. In London there was one star, part of a very fashionable London clique, who sold stories about her famous friends to fuel a drug habit. But it could just as easily be a hairdresser, a stylist, a cleaner, even a relative. There’s always someone wanting to make a quick buck. Which is why I’d love to know who leaked this story. This is going to happen again if you don’t find out who it is.’

‘And how do we let people know I’m not a home-wrecker?’

‘Well, if Patty can swing an apology in tomorrow’s paper that will be a start, but it won’t be big or prominent so we need to set up an interview with you, somewhere like the New York Times ‘Style’ supplement … I’m also going to sort you out some media training.’

Brooke looked up. ‘Which is what exactly?’

‘The art of being vague and uncontroversial,’ smiled Tess.

‘And to think I told my mom I didn’t need you,’ said Brooke sheepishly.

Tess reached out and touched Brooke’s arm. ‘People are snakes Brooke,’ she said kindly. ‘The second you have something that everybody else wants, people will be out to get you. You are going to be the target for stings, whispering campaigns, and jealous and disgruntled people who just want to mouth off about you. You’re going to have to be on guard twenty-four/seven and you’re going to have to develop a thick skin. Added to which, you’ll have to think about everything you do and perhaps modify your behaviour.’

‘My behaviour?’

‘For example, you’ll have to be generous and kind to everyone. I’m sure you are that way naturally, but now being a stingy tipper or walking past a beggar is a news story. From now on you have to be a saint.’

‘A saint?’ said Brooke sceptically.

‘I think you’ll do fine,’ smiled Tess as Brooke stood up.

‘Thank you, Tess,’ said Brooke, offering a slim hand. ‘I’m glad you’re on my side.’

‘Think of it as a penance for past crimes,’ said Tess. ‘I’ve been a bit of a bitch to people like you in my past life, but at least you know you’ve got a bitch in your corner.’

As Brooke left the office and closed the door, Tess let out a long breath.

To do this job, I’m going to have to be the biggest bitch New York has ever seen.

7

‘So, how was everyone’s weekend?’

At table seven in La Revue restaurant, Paula Asgill unfolded her starched white napkin, stabbed her fork into her thirty-dollar Caesar salad and flashed her friends an uncommonly full smile. Twice a month, Paula, Gigi Miller, and Samantha Donahue gathered in whichever restaurant was currently white-hot for the Upper East Side’s ladies-who-lunch crowd. This month it was La Revue. The East Sixty-First street eaterie had mediocre food and appalling service, but it was irresistible to the fashionable lunch crowd due to its unpublished impossible-to-get-hold-of reservations hotline.

Eating here was just one of the reasons Paula was feeling particularly buoyant. In her myriad of acquaintances in the city, Gigi and Sam were the nearest thing she had to close friends, all having children in the same class at prestigious coed prep, the Eton Manor School. Sam was a nice middle-class girl from Oregon with an art major college degree who had married well and liked pretty dresses. Her husband, Gregor, was a fallen Lehman’s high-flyer who had downgraded to a smaller bank but still commanded a low seven-figure salary that allowed the Donahues a small household staff and a summer Hamptons rental in one of the less prestigious streets in Quogue. Gigi, a former modern-ballet dancer who now populated the party pages of W magazine and Style.com, was married to Bruce, another investment banker. Bruce was often found at the Beatrice Inn, invariably the oldest man at the fashionable downtown nightspot, and had once suggested to Paula that they ‘fuck sometime’ while standing in line at the Lincoln Center coat check. Paula had been uncomfortable going to their house for supper ever since.

Gigi was currently distracted, watching as Wendi Murdoch and Nicole Kidman were seated at table number eight, the most coveted spot in the restaurant. Paula silently cursed. She had only ever scored table eight once, and that had been one Monday lunch last August when half of Manhattan were at the beach. She’d hoped, after news leaked out about Brooke’s engagement, that she would be promoted to table eight, but no. Perhaps Nicole had got in first, she thought.

Sideshow over, Gigi signalled to the wine waiter to bring more San Pellegrino and turned her attention back to Paula. ‘Oh, not much this weekend,’ she said, tossing back her bouncy, blow-dried hair. ‘We went to Jenny Groves’s daughter’s christening.’

‘Was it nice?’ asked Sam, absently playing with the silk bow tie on her Chloe shirt. ‘Greg’s in Europe so we didn’t go.’

‘Oh honey, you missed all the drama.’

Paula listened with interest. Jenny Groves and her husband Oliver had kept a low profile on the social scene in the last year; the official word was that Oliver had temporarily relocated to Chicago on business and Jenny had gone out to be with him. But everyone knew the truth. Jenny had used a surrogate mother in Florida to have the baby and had kept out of sight to pretend she had carried the baby herself.

‘You’ll never believe this,’ continued Gigi with relish, ‘Sienna Spencer was godmother and got too near one of the candles at the pulpit. Her hair was set on fire.’

‘Ohmigosh!’ said Paula and Sam in unison. Sienna was a well-known Upper East Side handbag designer, married to one of the wealthiest hedge-funders around.

‘I know!’ cackled Gigi. ‘Two thousand dollars’ worth of John Barrett extensions ruined!’

‘Was she okay?’ asked Sam.

‘Sienna was. Jenny’s nanny, the Australian girl? She was standing close by, tried to smother the flames and her nail extensions caught fire. She had to be rushed to Cedar Sinai.’

Gigi pushed a lonely lima bean around her plate. ‘It’s all very inconvenient,’ she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘The nanny’s out of action for six weeks with burnt fingers. Jenny and Oliver are thinking of suing the church, but it’s such a good social scene down there that Jenny didn’t want to make a fuss.’

All three women nodded in agreement.

‘So how was Belcourt?’ said Sam finally.

Paula smiled sweetly. How typical of them to wait so long to ask. She had been in such a good mood when she had arrived at lunch, but now she felt irritated at their feigned lack of interest in the party of the year. Of course they had both hoped Paula would be able to wangle them an invitation, but Paula had claimed the guest list was strictly restricted to close friends and family. The truth was that Paula simply hadn’t wanted them there diluting her moment of high social exclusivity.

‘Oh, it was good fun,’ said Paula casually, stirring a straw around in her mineral water. ‘Although I almost sliced my finger off on a window in the guest cottage. I couldn’t say anything, though. After all, the Billingtons are family now.’

Gigi’s smile was fixed like plaster. ‘Well, I wouldn’t speak too soon. Did you read that Oracle home-wrecker story the other day? That can’t have gone down too well with David’s family. Anyway, have you heard? Princess Katrina has just enrolled her daughter into Eton Manor.’

Paula bit her tongue, furious at not being given the opportunity to elaborate on the grandeur of Belcourt, yet secretly satisfied at the speed with which Gigi had steered the conversation back into her comfort zone. She knew she had scored a direct hit with the guest cottage detail.

‘Princess Katrina?’ said Sam. Paula could tell she had no idea who Princess Katrina was, but was afraid to say the words out loud for fear of committing a social faux pas.

‘She’s just fabulous, isn’t she?’ declared Gigi, flapping a hand. ‘She’s Italy’s Marie-Chantal. Her husband’s family would be Italian royalty if they hadn’t been deposed.’

‘Legendary wardrobe,’ nodded Sam. ‘She has a Birkin for every day of the year.’

‘And she’s enrolled her child at Eton?’ asked Paula.

‘Carlotta, a five year old, the same as our babies,’ said Gigi, using her fork to draw patterns with the drizzle of balsamic vinegar on her plate.

It was Paula’s turn to pretend a lack of interest. ‘Do we know which class she’s going in?’

All their girls were in Transition class, but there was another class of twenty-two pupils for children of their age, which made only a fifty/fifty chance that Carlotta would be in their class.

‘Not yet. A girl in Bruce’s office knows the sister of the admissions’ secretary. All we know is that she’s been accepted by Eton Manor, and starts after the Easter break.’

‘Well, those parents’ coffee mornings need some fresh blood.’

Gigi looked at Paula, each knowing what the other was thinking – what they were all thinking. The parents of Eton Manor pupils were some of Manhattan’s most wealthy, successful people, and consequently the school’s packed events calendar was one of the best networking opportunities in the city. Deals were quietly brokered on the father-son camp-out, lucrative friendship bonds nurtured at the Christmas fair. This, however, was on a different level. Princess Katrina would be new to the city and looking for social contacts. This was a solid-gold opportunity to make a new friend who moved in the very highest circles.

Paula dabbed her glossed lips with her napkin and felt a charge of determination surge through her. Attending Brooke and David’s engagement party had stirred conflicting emotions. The exhilaration she’d felt when she had first arrived at Belcourt had been quickly replaced with an unsettling sense of dissatisfaction with her own life. Okay, so she had been granted entry to an even more exclusive circle of Manhattan society, but it was one in which she felt uncomfortably small and insignificant. Belcourt’s ballroom had crackled with star quality that night; every single guest seemed to radiate some potent force that had made Paula seem to wither. But Paula was a fighter. Every setback was an opportunity. She knew she needed to improve her position. When she had first met William, Asgill’s was talked about in the same breath as Revlon, and everyone expected it to be snapped up in a billion-dollar take-over. But it hadn’t happened, and Paula knew from William’s moods after a day at the office that business wasn’t good. She couldn’t rely on him to improve their lot. But she had two things on her side. New social leverage thanks to Brooke’s engagement, and steely practicality that had brought her from Greenboro, North Carolina to Manhattan’s Upper East Side, a force which she knew could propel her to even greater heights.

Her eyes flickered over to table eight, where Nicole and Wendi giggled over their poached pears. It was a snapshot of everything she had ever wanted: wealth, celebrity and power. It will be envied and admired. To get the best table in the house, no matter who else was in the room. Then her gaze trailed back to Gigi and Sam. They were nice girls, of course. Fun and harmless. But Paula was beginning to feel as if she had outgrown them. It was time to move up a gear. And she already had a few ideas about how she was going to do it.

8

Patty Shackleton had worked her legal magic. The Oracle agreed to print a retraction on their website and an apology in the main paper the following day, but Tess wasn’t taking any chances. She knew that newspapers didn’t take too kindly to being pushed around by lawyers, and the last thing she wanted to do was spark a tabloid vendetta against the Asgills. A charm offensive was called for, so two days later she had arranged to meet Rebecca Sharp from the Oracle for lunch. Sitting under the yellow awning outside Da Silvano, watching the traffic thunder down Seventh Avenue, Tess smiled broadly as she watched her old friend climb from a taxi and glide over to her table.

‘You look fantastic,’ said Tess, quite taken aback at her glamour. Becky had been at the Colchester Observer with Tess over a decade earlier, and they had moved to London at around the same time, Tess on the women’s pages of the Daily Mirror, Becky on the Bizarre showbiz desk of the Sun. Back then she was known as Bonkers Becks, tall and chunky, a great laugh, obsessed with music, and for the first year in the Big Smoke they had cut quite a swathe around town, going to any premiere, party, or gig to which Becky could get a plus one.

Tess had not seen Becks since her transfer to the New York Oracle’s entertainment and celebrity news desk three years earlier, and her transformation was incredible. Her long hair, once the colour of marmalade, was now a honey blonde, falling in soft curls onto her tanned shoulders. She had lost at least three stone and her Amazonian physique had become slender and graceful in her thin cashmere vest and skinny jeans.

‘I cannot believe you’re finally here,’ squealed Becky, causing a couple on the next table to look at them with alarm. ‘And as a publicist of all things! How’s it going on the dark side?’

Becky’s accent had picked up a transatlantic burr and she had always been loud, but her time in the Big Apple seemed to have increased the volume another 10 per cent.

Tess laughed. ‘My first day at work I got into the office at seven a.m. and I was almost the last person to arrive. How do you fit sleep in here?’

Becky waved her hand casually in front of her. ‘Sleep’s for wimps, darling. The second everyone heard how Anna Wintour gets up at five for a game of tennis and a blow-dry, everyone wanted to be in the office before dawn. You’ll soon learn that in Manhattan: it’s all about competition.’

‘So where are you living?’

‘Brooklyn,’ said Becky, pulling a face. ‘Mind you, everyone is there right now, the rental on a shoebox on the island is insane. How about you?’

‘Just a few minutes away actually,’ said Tess casually. ‘On Perry Street in the Village.’

Becky almost choked on her Perrier. ‘You bitch!’ she screamed. ‘I hate you! Someone’s paying you far too much money. Shit, I dream of the West Village, that’s why I love coming here for lunch, so I can play “Let’s pretend”.’

‘Let’s pretend?’ asked Tess.

‘Pretend that I’m someone like that,’ she whispered, nodding towards a super-glamorous blonde at a nearby table. The woman was stunning, with a flawless up-do and two-thousand-dollar dress that Tess recognized as Marni. She was sitting opposite a forty-something man wearing chinos, a navy sweater, and a scarf wrapped around his neck. He was overweight and, frankly, ugly.