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 friend of the family might actually 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 family friend’. 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 do I 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? Even 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 there 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 limesto
ne 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 celebrity 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.
In an attempt to get a grip on herself, Tess found a quiet spot in the conservatory at the side of the house and sent Dom to the bar to see if they could rustle up some coffee.
Outside in the blackness, a fountain sprayed silver ribbons into the sky; as she stared at it, Tess reflected that she really hadn’t been prepared for this trip. She wasn’t at all sure what she had expected, but Belcourt was certainly more grand and imposing than she had imagined. She supposed the trouble was that she wasn’t particularly experienced in society parties. She had been to a few swish press launches in her time, she had even been to 10 Downing Street for a briefing on women’s issues, but the only real party of this calibre she had attended was when she had browbeaten the Globe’s showbiz desk into getting her an invitation to Elton’s White Tie and Tiara ball.
Pull yourself together, Tess, she scolded herself. They’re only human. It really wasn’t like her to be so nervous in a social situation. Newspaper reporting didn’t allow for such delicate personalities. Doorstepping enraged politicians, interviewing bereaved families, witnessing murder scenes and accident sites; it all toughened you up. But this was something else. Inside this house, she had felt invisible.
‘Ossie Clark Nineteen Sixty–three,’ said an upper–class English voice behind her. ‘Which means you are British, making me wonder why we haven’t ever met before. I thought I knew all the interesting English people in New York.’
Tess turned to see a slim man of around seventy regarding her with amusement. His voice and appearance were in perfect harmony; he sounded like a Raj–era colonial viceroy and dressed accordingly in a cream three–piece suit with a scarlet spotted cravat. He had two–tone spectator shoes on his feet and a gold pocket watch sticking out of his waistcoat. To complete the look, he carried an ivory–handled cane hooked over his arm.
‘Wow, yes. This is Ossie Clark,’ said Tess, smoothing down her dress. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘The designer of your dress or that you’re a Brit?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Both,’ smiled Tess.
‘The former because I knew Ossie and Celia intimately. The latter because New York girls generally don’t do vintage. Certainly not so tastefully if they do.’
‘Well, not all of us can afford couture,’ said Tess, blushing slightly.
‘No one with your legs needs couture, my dear.’
Tess knew she had only just met this man, but she liked him immediately. He was charming, open, and a little mischievous, a combination of qualities she felt was in short supply in New York society. More than that, with her journalist instincts, Tess immediately sized him up as being someone worth knowing.
‘Sorry, I’m Charles Devine,’ he extended a frail hand. ‘Interior designer. An old friend of the Billingtons, the Asgills, and well, everyone worth knowing,’
Tess shook his hand warmly. ‘Tess Garrett. Journalist. Friend of nobody in this room.’
‘Good lord, a journalist?’ cried Charles with mock alarm, ‘Are you a gate–crasher? I thought the security was as tight as Fort Knox out there.’
Tess laughed and shook her head. ‘More of a last–minute invitee. I only arrived in New York this morning.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Charles appreciatively. ‘I can see we’re going to be friends. It takes some people a lifetime of social mountaineering to score an invite to Belcourt, and here you are, straight off the boat. Now, you simply must let me show you around.’ He offered Tess his arm and led her back into the main house where the party was in full swing.
‘It is a fantastic party, isn’t it?’ said Tess, still wide–eyed at the spectacle.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Charles. ‘One of the best I’ve ever been to – and let me tell you, my dear, I have been to a lot of parties. In fact this one might even make my memoirs. I’m only sketching them out at this stage, of course; the problem is not what to put in but what to leave out.’
Tess was intrigued. Charles Devine was clearly a character; perhaps he could give her more insight into the family. She had a hunch that if Charles didn’t know about it, it wasn’t worth knowing. They sat down on two Louis XV chairs facing each other.
‘Brooke and David are a lovely couple, aren’t they?’ said Tess, fishing for gossip.
‘Indeed,’ he smiled. ‘Everyone has very high hopes for them, although personally I’d prefer New York’s premier power couple to be a little more interesting.’
‘Oh dear. So what’s David like?’
Charles laughed playfully. ‘Too good looking to be dull, too ambitious to be fun.’
‘And what about her?’
‘She’s sweet. So sweet I wonder if she can handle all this attention,’ said Charles. ‘Fair enough if she’s in it for the money, but one suspects Brooke is marrying America’s most eligible bachelor because she wants to marry America’s most eligible bachelor. I’m always a little suspicious about those sorts of girls.’
‘I got the impression that Meredith is the ambitious one.’
Charles smiled coyly. ‘Darling, I’d love to give you more information, but first you must give me a little juice in return. Do tell: how did a journalist manage to get under the wire? I doubt it’s simply beginner’s luck.’
‘Actually, I’m being wooed for a job with the Asgills.’
He raised his eyebrows again. ‘As … ?’
‘I’m not sure I can say any more,’ smiled Tess playfully, knowing it would be unbearable for him not to know.
‘Darling, just tell me. I’ll find out somehow.’
She shrugged. ‘They want me to be the family’s publicist.’
Charles laughed, a delighted, tinkling laugh. ‘Well, I suppose everyone in Manhattan has their own publicist now, don’t they – present company excluded, of course – I’ve really never felt the need given the reliability of the grapevine … I’m only surprised it’s taken the Asgills so long.’
‘I think it’s pragmatism in this case,’ smiled Tess. ‘They can’t have Brooke involved in any scandal that would stop them marrying into all this.’
‘Yes, I can see that … ’ said Charles thoughtfully. ‘The hypocrisy of the rich at work once again, of course.’
Tess frowned, sensing a story. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, of course you’re right; David has a big political future and so Brooke won’t be able to put a foot wrong – that’s why they need someone like you. But it’s a little rich to say it’s all about Brooke’s behaviour. David dated someone five, six years ago, you see. Actress, beautiful girl. Photographed taking cocaine in some nightclub in LA. Terrible business. Six weeks later she moved to France to film some “art–house movie”.’ Charles framed the phrase in quotation marks. ‘She was never heard of in this country again. Then of course there’s Wendell,’ he said, pointing the handle of his cane in the direction of an older man with pewter hair, brushed white at the temples. Tess recognized him as Wendell Billington, David’s father, who had been pointed out to her earlier.
‘In my direct line of vision I see at least four women Wendell has had sex with, one a long–term mistress. Can’t keep his regal cock in his trousers, but of course that’s fine. Joe Kennedy was a terrible philanderer and it didn’t
hurt his son’s presidential ambitions one jot. It’s a question of class, you see. The Billingtons are in a different class to the Asgills. They are more … how shall I put it? More bullet–proof.’
‘Class?’ said Tess. ‘I didn’t think that existed in America.’
Charles chuckled. He swept his hand across the room dramatically, only pausing to take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter in one fluid movement.
‘This city is full of money, but what everyone wants is class. Obviously you can acquire class much quicker over here; you only have to look at the Lauders to see that. Old Estée Lauder was a Hungarian immigrant, but she builds a cosmetics dynasty and now they are one of the grand families of New York. But no, the Asgills aren’t the Lauders: they’re not rich enough and their business is not as prestigious. In fact, people still refer to Howard, Meredith’s late husband, as ‘the butcher’s son’. And then there was all that business at his wedding,’ he added, leaning in and dropping his voice. ‘The missing actress,’ he whispered.
‘What missing actress?’
Charles smiled a wicked smile. ‘Oh my dear, I thought you were their publicist? Surely a keeper of secrets has to know what they are.’
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