Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Office hours are eight to five, although some of us get in earlier, others a little later,’ said Sally, nodding over to some smaller offices off the main open–plan block.

  ‘Mrs Asgill has the corner office and she gets in at nine a.m. She’ll drop by and see you this morning. In the meantime, Patty Shackleton, our legal counsel is going to show you around and get you up to speed.’

  Sally stopped outside a small, sunny office and motioned for Tess to step inside.

  ‘Home,’ she said with a grin.

  When Sally had gone, Tess took her jacket off and hung it on the coat stand next to the door, then went to sit behind the glass desk, closing her eyes for a moment as she felt the morning sun pour through the windows and warm her back. My new life, she thought, feeling excited, on edge, and just a little bit sad about how easy it had been to leave London, the city she had called home for almost ten years. She had flown back to England the day after Brooke Asgill’s engagement party and given her notice letter to a smug, suntanned Andy Davidson, first thing on the Monday morning. Unsurprisingly, he’d been more than happy to accept her resignation. ‘Leave at the end of the week, yeah?’ he had said. ‘No sense hanging about, is there?’

  Tess was inclined to agree, and her plane ticket to JFK was booked for the day after that. Her farewell drinks in the upstairs of the pub next to the Globe offices prompted a good turnout, but only confirmed to Tess that she was making the right move. There were so many new faces in the crowd. Tess knew she was part of the old guard at the Globe, and that wasn’t a good place to be at twenty–nine. Even when her girlfriends turned up to say goodbye, Tess realized how infrequently she saw them, and how distant they had grown. Seeing them once or twice every six months: no wonder all they had to talk about was celebrity gossip and memories of nights out that had happened years ago. Tess knew she had fallen into a rut; it was time to get new stories and have new adventures. That’s what Dom had told her on the drive to Heathrow, and it was what she had kept telling herself as she walked through Departures, willing herself not to get upset. After all, it wasn’t as if she was emigrating, it was more like a very long press trip from which she would return richer, hipper, and infinitely more connected than if she had stayed in London.

  Just as she was firing up the computer in front of her, she heard someone enter the room. Looking up she saw a tall black woman wearing an expensive–looking trouser suit, her hair worn like the singer Sade’s, scraped back off her head.

  ‘Patty Shackleton,’ the woman said, briskly offering a long, manicured hand.

  Hell, even the lawyers look like models here, thought Tess, rising out of her seat to introduce herself.

  ‘Pleased to meet you Patty, I’m Tess,’ she said, smiling.

  Patty didn’t move, her face wearing a taut, concerned expression. ‘Have you read Danny Krantz?’ she asked quickly, pulling out a paper from under her arm and opening it with a rustle.

  Tess felt a flutter of panic as she instantly fell onto the back foot on her first day, feeling both incompetent and unprofessional. Danny Krantz penned the gossip column in New York’s Daily Oracle. Together with Page Six in the New York Post and Rush and Molloy in the Daily News it was one of the juiciest, best–read newspaper columns in the country.

  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 on line 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 Centre 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 they 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 Tes
s 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 was not 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 North 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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘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 s
taff 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 night–spot, 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 set on fire.’