Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘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 hair 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 Karina 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 Karina?’ said Sam. Paula could tell she had no idea who Princess Karina 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 family would be the king and queen of Italy if they hadn’t been deposed.’

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

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

  ‘Carlotta, a six 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 Year One 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, 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 Karina 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 a Hollywood legend and a media mogul giggled over their poached pears. It was a snapshot of everything she had ever wanted: wealth, celebrity and power. It 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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 buttery 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 co
mpetition.’

  ‘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.

  ‘You want to be a woman like that?’

  Becky looked surprised. ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘But have you seen who she’s with? He’s wearing a pashmina!’

  ‘Darling, every woman in this city wants to land a rich husband. Some women, most of my friends in fact, devote their whole life to finding one. And these days you can’t be too picky.’ Becky let out a dramatic sigh. ‘Ah, the joy of not having to work.’

  Tess smiled. ‘You love work.’

  ‘Completely beside the point,’ said Becky flatly. ‘It’s the option of not having to work.’

  She leant forward conspiratorially.

  ‘Speaking of women with very rich men, how’s your new friend Brooke Asgill? You are going to get me an interview with her, aren’t you?’

  Tess pulled a mock–outraged face. ‘After the stunt your newspaper has just pulled?’ she cried. ‘Seriously though, you do realize you have royally pissed off two of the most influential families in New York – and what for? A two column pot–shot story that has to run an apology the next day?’

  ‘Actually, my editor loved the story,’ said Becky. ‘Anything to do with the Billingtons is big news, and David and Brooke are the sexiest New York couple since JFK Jr and Carolyn Bessette. It’s not like a tabloid is going to be best friends with them anyway.’

  The waiter arrived with their ravioli and the girls started eating.

  ‘I need a favour,’ said Tess. ‘Two actually.’

  Becky looked up. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I need an introduction to all the media high–rollers, you know. Newspaper editors, society column writers, editors–in–chief, and features editors on all the big glossies. I know a few people out here but I need to know everyone worth knowing very quickly.’

  ‘No offence, but I was surprised when I heard the Asgills had got you in. PR gigs are all about contacts, aren’t they?’

  Tess pulled a sarcastic face. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘What else did you want?’

  ‘Tell me who gave you the story about Brooke.’

  Becky gave a long slow laugh and wagged her finger. ‘Come on, Tess. You worked in papers; you know we never reveal a source. We have journalists on the paper who have been to jail rather than give up the name of their contact.’

  ‘Since when did you become Miss Integrity!’ laughed Tess. ‘I clearly remember you giving endless column inches to no–hoper bands on your music page in The Sun in return for a press trip – or even a glass of Cava!’

  Becky smiled at the memory of their shared time on the loose in London.

  ‘So what can you do for me?’ she asked.

  So much for friendship, smiled Tess. Becky hadn’t got this far simply by being a good laugh. Beneath the fluffy, party–girl exterior she was as hard as nails.

  ‘Help me now and I’ll see if I can get you a story exclusive on Brooke and David’s wedding.’

  ‘Honeymoon shots?’

  Tess shook her head. ‘Can’t promise that, but certainly something exclusive, something that will earn you big brownie points.’

  Becky took a big orange leather diary from her expensive–looking tote and began flicking through its pages. She scribbled down an address on a fluorescent pink Post–it note and handed it to Tess.

  ‘There’s a bunch of us going down to Soho House tonight. There’s a Cinema society screening of the new Coen Brothers’ film. Very cool crowd,’ she said. ‘Everyone from Glenda Bailey to Col Allen should be there, and there will be drinks afterwards. That should start you off.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Tess, folding up the paper. ‘Now what about the source?’

  Becky laughed. ‘Tess, you’re like a dog with a bone!’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Tess, but Becky held up her hands. ‘I don’t know, honestly. It wasn’t my story.’

  ‘Come on, Becks, you know everything.’

  Becky looked at Tess for a long moment, then leant forward. ‘I think was an ex–girlfriend of David’s,’ she said. ‘You know what they say about a woman scorned? Well, in New York, that fury is multiplied. Never underestimate the damage a vengeful social climber can cause.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ grinned Tess.

  Becky put her hand on Tess’s. ‘Honey, it’s so good to have you over here. Honestly.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too. Especially as you’re doing so well. I mean, just look at you. Where did Bonkers Becks go?’

  Becky laughed out loud, again causing heads to turn. ‘You know, I used to think that New Yorkers have no time for love because they throw themselves into their careers,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Now I think it’s the other way around – they become workaholics because it’s so hard to find love.’

  ‘So I take it you haven’t found your pashmina–wearing Prince Charming yet?’ smiled Tess.

  She laughed again, casting a glance towards the couple at the next table. ‘No. The problem is, I think those banker types are pricks,’ she whispered.

  Tess giggled.

  ‘Not that I’ve given up, of course. I even went to this “Fashion and Finance” speed–dating thing the other week,’ continued Becky. ‘Very popular right now, full of pretty girls and rich guys all looking for love, but I have to say I was absolutely bored to tears. I ended up going home with a woman.’

  Tess’s eyes opened like saucers. ‘Her name was Dita,’ smiled Becky. ‘A freelance fashion PR. We had much more in common than any of those boring farts in their sensible shoes.’

  ‘Wow,’ gasped Tess. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ laughed Becky. ‘Mother nature kicked in; I couldn’t do it. But that’s New York, baby. That’s how desperate it is out there. I think it was God’s way of telling me I am destined to be alone. Anyway, how’s the very sexy Dom?’ she asked, sipping her water. ‘I think he always wanted to work in New York more than both of us.’

  Tess’s smile faded at the mention of her boyfriend. ‘Dom’s still in London.’

  ‘You guys haven’t finished, have you?’ said Becky, her expression softening.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. He hasn’t got a visa, so we’re having a transatlantic affair.’

  ‘Very chic,’ said Becky. ‘Are you missing him?’

  ‘Working fourteen hours days I’ve not had a chance to miss him.’

  ‘Hmm. Or maybe you just don’t,’ said Becky, raising a brow.

  Tess looked thoughtful. ‘No, I think it’s more that I had to come here to get out of my comfort zone.’

  Becks laughed. ‘You two are hardly in a rut, are you? Whenever I hear from you, you’re always off flying to some exotic location.’

  ‘Maybe not, but we’ve been together for nearly nine years. Sometimes distance can bring you closer together.’

  Becky paused, playing with her fork.

  ‘Do you trust him, Tess?’ she asked softly. ‘No disrespect to Dom, but I don’t think I would leave a man that fine alone two minutes in big, bad London. More to the point, do you trust yourself to be let
loose in this big city?’

  ‘The answer is yes,’ said Tess firmly. ‘Yes and yes.’

  Although she couldn’t help thinking back to the one time she’d been unfaithful. It had been eighteen months into their relationship when she began struggling with the idea of commitment. She was only twenty–three. Should she not be young, free, and single. and enjoying all London had to offer? One weekend, Dom had been away on a snowboarding trip with his friends, and Tess had been invited to a party by an associate editor on the Globe. It had been at a big Victorian villa in Barnes, stuffed to the gills with media types she recognized from the TV or from their photo by–lines in the papers. The moment she saw Charlie, she knew something was going to happen. He was thirty, an advertising director and the son of the old chief executive of the Globe group. He was also engaged, but that hadn’t stopped him stroking Tess’s neck. She’d been flattered by the attention of someone older and infinitely more successful, so they’d gone back to her flat in Clapham and the sex had been explosive. Charlie had left at seven the next morning, but not before telling her about a features editor position he knew was coming up at the Globe. ‘Keep what happened last night between us,’ he’d told her and she had kept her word. Three months later she was the youngest senior journalist at the Globe.

  She looked up and had the uncomfortable feeling that Becky had been reading her thoughts.

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable without him, honey,’ she said seriously. ‘Let Dom go and you might be single for the next five years. Some people call New York a jungle. Well, let me tell you, when it comes to love, it’s a fricking desert.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  David grabbed Brooke’s hand and led her past the doorman into the lobby of 740 Park Avenue, one of Manhattan’s most prestigious apartment blocks.

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he whispered, his voice almost lost against the tip–tapping of Brooke’s heels on the black–and–white chequered marble.

  Brooke smiled weakly, feeling her anxiety grow. The last thing she felt was fine. She had spent the last three days torturing herself over the revelations in the Oracle about her relationship with Jeff Daniels, swinging back and forth between disgust, disappointment, and anger. Her first instinct was to run away and hide, but she knew deep down that the only thing to do was put on a brave face ‘Step up to the plate’ – wasn’t that what they said? She had been able to keep up a façade of calm at work, where she knew and trusted most of her colleagues, but it was quite another thing to face people on David’s extensive social circuit. Brooke didn’t understand David’s insistence about coming tonight – Carl and Estella Winston were not particularly good friends of his – but she had not felt in a strong enough position to argue. David had been a rock since the scandal had broken. He’d been in Boston on a CTV conference and had rushed back to Brooke’s apartment to be with her. Although Brooke was sure he’d had to endure a severe tongue–lashing from his father, David had been calm and relaxed, running her a bath and giving her a heavenly foot massage while he had said lots of reassuring things about how none of it mattered and how much he trusted her.