‘Oh, that doesn’t count,’ she pouted. ‘Parklands is your mother’s.’
William stood behind her, gently running his fingers though her hair. Irritated at the way he had ducked the issue of the country retreat once again, she pulled away.
‘Please honey. It was blow–dried this morning.’
William held up his hands. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I like my wife’s hair. Sue me.’
She pulled her stool forwards. ‘Can you just pass me my bristle brush? It’s in the cream suitcase. No, not the paddle brush. The round one.’
As she watched him in reflection, she felt a little pang of affection. For all his faults – I mean, how many CEOs with a multimillion–dollar shareholding would think twice about buying a weekend retreat? – William Asgill was loving, loyal, and decent, all of which were rare attributes this high up in society and, for Paula, they were the glue that held their marriage together. It was, however, an unfashionable point of view among Paula’s circle of friends, most of whom had one eye on their current marriage and another eye on someone else’s more successful husband. Five years ago, such trading up had been rampant. In fact, it had been one such adventuress named Lynette who had married and divorced William when he was in his early twenties. His first wife now lived in Scotland, the consort of a handsome fifty–something duke.
However, the world had changed rapidly since then. With the implosion of the hedge funds, there was a comparative paucity of genuinely wealthy men in New York, whereas each passing day seemed to unleash more and more beautiful girls into fashionable Manhattan; the competition had become cut–throat. These gold–diggers were no longer just the usual Park Avenue Princesses, but models, celebrities, and ambitious suburbanites seeking their fortune in the Big Apple. This was all very bad news for Paula’s friends, meaning slim pickings on the next rung of the ladder and danger from below. After all, any self–respecting thirty– or forty–something Wall Street player would be looking to upgrade too, and those buxom, smooth–skinned, pre–child bitches would look mighty appealing.
For herself, Paula had always been pragmatic about her love life; if relationships were a game of poker, she was not going to cash in her chips now when there was a strong chance of losing everything. So William and Paula’s sex life limped along, getting the odd boost when her diets allowed her to feel good enough about herself to put on the Dior lingerie, and their relationship chugged along in what could be best described as remote companionship. However, Paula did not fear the predatory females she knew William encountered in the city; she knew he wouldn’t stray. Perhaps it was the sting from his first marriage that had made him less demanding, much happier with his lot. In her gut, Paula felt that their marriage was not a question of resignation but expectation: expectation that the other would not stray. It was why she trusted her husband to be faithful and stand by her side. She walked over to the door and unwrapped her dress, slipping it over her lithe body. She didn’t need to look in the mirror; she could tell she looked stunning from the expression on William’s face.
‘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 7.30 p.m. It was now 6.45 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.
‘I can’t find any shoeshine,’ he grumbled, casting Tess a disapproving look. ‘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 unfastened 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 five–hundred–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 withstanding, 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 eight 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 look 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 l
ittle 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.
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