Brooke pressed the button for the elevator and turned to her fiancé. ‘If people are whispering about me, we’re staying twenty minutes and then we’re going home.’
David chuckled. ‘Honey, these people are not Oracle or Page Six readers – most of them consider the Wall Street Journal light reading. Anyway, they fancy themselves as having more important things to talk about than your college adventures.’
Just then the lift doors pinged open and a smartly dressed couple stepped out. They walked past, and Brooke heard the woman give a low laugh that echoed around the lobby.
David read her thoughts and shot her a crooked smile. ‘Don’t be paranoid, darling,’ he said. Brooke knew he was right, but this crisis had only confirmed Brooke’s love–hate relationship with the Upper East Side. She had called this, the wealthiest pocket of Manhattan home for over twenty years, and in many ways it felt safe and familiar, but it could be a cold place, its inhabitants mocking and judgemental. The truth was, whether David’s friends were Page Six readers or not, they thrived on gossip as much as any celeb–obsessed housewife. Gossip was the lifeblood of polite society.
The elevator doors slid open and the sounds of smooth jazz and lively conversation met them from the open door of Carl and Estella Winston’s sixth–floor apartment. There were already about fifty people in the room as a waiter took their coats; most were in their thirties and forties, although their conservative clothes and stiff bearing made them seem about ten years older. Women were in trouser suits or little black dresses, sporting short, serious haircuts and few accessories except for the aura of self–confidence. Carl was the editor of a glossy political magazine; his wife the daughter of one of New York’s biggest Republican donors. According to David, the rest of the guests were a mix of media players, academics, and politicos.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered as she accepted a flute of champagne with a smile.
Before he had time to reply, a slim man in a black polo–neck jumper and grey sports coat came over to shake David’s hand. She recognized him as Neil Donald, a right–wing columnist, TV commentator and author of Power and Prestige: America’s political future on the world stage.
‘David, Brooke. How are you both? You look lovely, Brooke,’ he smiled, although Brooke noticed how he had directed all of his pleasantries to David, never even glancing at her.
‘We enjoyed your report on China the other week,’ said Neil, taking a thoughtful sip of Krug: Brooke had been dismissed. Neil Donald was the sort of society bigwig that Brooke loathed most of all. Pompous, smug, arrogant. She remembered another interminable dinner party when she had been forced to listen to Neil boast that he had not only attended Harvard, but had been a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, then later had heard him quip how David had only ‘scraped’ into Yale. Brooke wanted to hit him.
Instead she touched David on the arm and whispered, ‘Excuse me.’ She drifted off, looking for sanctuary. She’d been to dozens of parties with David, and while most of them were fun, she found these gatherings of New York’s intelligentsia pompous and boring.
But while she didn’t enjoy them, at least learned how to survive them. Small talk with the host about bland, uncontroversial topics, letting other people ramble on about themselves (there was nothing a New Yorker liked better than talking about themselves), or spending long periods ‘touching up her make–up’ in the powder room, Brooke was an expert at making herself invisible.
But one thing she always loved was having a discreet snoop around other people’s homes, and Carl and Estelle’s duplex was a spectacular space. Lofty ceilings, virgin cream carpet, original art – including, she recognized, Dufy and Chagall – sleek, expensive, bespoke furniture. It was the sort of place that demanded you wear something beautiful to complement its sophistication, but Brooke was glad she had dressed down in a black sleeveless Alice Roi dress worn with a simple gold choker. She had even dispensed with her favourite black heels, fearing them a little too racy; she knew how suspiciously she would be viewed tonight. New York society women were notoriously icy at the best of times, but encountering someone with a newly minted reputation as a home–wrecker might drive them to freeze her on sight.
‘What’s your view on the trade deficit?’ asked a smooth female voice behind her.
Brooke’s throat felt thick with anxiety. She felt as if she was about to go into a exam.
She turned to face an elegant brunette in a wasp–waisted dress that was the reddy–gold colour of a Japanese maple leaf. She had an outrageously pretty face, and she was not much older than Brooke.
‘Yes, er, the trade deficit …’ stuttered Brooke, before the woman’s wide mouth broke out into a smile. Brooke laughed.
‘Sorry,’ whispered the woman. ‘It can get a little tedious at these things, so I like to have a little joke.’
Brooke smiled, grateful that she had found at least one kindred spirit.
‘I thought the whole point of a party was to enjoy yourself,’ agreed Brooke. ‘No one exactly looks as if they’re having a good time.’
‘Well, parties like this are all about alignment. David always used to say, “We can’t socialize with who we want to all of the time.” He’s right, of course. The people in that room will be advising government in five years’ time. Some already are.’
She took a sip of champagne and held out a pale hand. ‘Alicia Wintrop,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the engagement party. I hear it was fantastic.’
It took a second for Brooke to make the connection, then her heart lurched. David had once dated a girl called Ally Wintrop.
‘You’re Ally Wintrop?’
Alicia laughed. ‘Oh I know, old names die hard, don’t they? David and I dated when we were kids. Our families had cottages in Newport just by one another. Everyone knew me as Ally back then.’
‘Oh, I thought you dated more recently than that,’ said Brooke as casually as she could.
Alicia nodded. ‘I worked in Rome after college … I was at Brown two or three years ahead of you, I think.
‘You were at Brown?’ replied Brooke curiously.
She nodded. ‘Anyway, David and I started dating again when I came back to New York, but when David got the foreign news job at CTV I just couldn’t handle all that travel. It felt like I was dating a nomad. I think we were just both too busy to be together.’
‘Oh really. Too busy?’ said Brooke with as much politeness as she could muster.
‘Um–hmm,’ said Alicia. ‘I curate a gallery downtown. The Halcyon on Spring Street. Fabulous exhibition on at the moment of Masai warrior painters. They paint with spears; it’s so conceptual. You must come down. I do some art consulting too, in Europe. I spend an awful lot of Russian money.’
Brooke started planning her escape strategy. She knew, of course, that David had a past with plenty of ex–girlfriends, but she didn’t particularly want to stand there talking to one. She realized that she was squeezing her champagne flute a little too tightly.
‘I’m sorry about that business with the Oracle,’ said Alicia. She sounded sympathetic, but Brooke wasn’t convinced.
Brooke shrugged. ‘I guess it goes with the turf.’
‘Luckily I didn’t have it so much,’ said Alicia lightly. ‘Perhaps it would have been different if we had become engaged. Or perhaps we were too obvious a couple to be interesting.’
Brooke smiled thinly. Before she could feign a headache to get away, David came over and handed her a glass of champagne. He looked buoyed up and happy.
‘So you too have finally met?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not telling her any of our secrets,’ said Alicia, nudging David playfully, tilting her face up to smile at him.
‘I don’t want to know,’ said Brooke, forcing a smile.
‘Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,’ said Alicia, ‘I simply must go and compliment Carl and Estella on their new Lucian Freud.’
As they spent the next half–hour drifting from grou
p to group, Brooke floated at the fringes, keeping a close eye on both David and Alicia. David’s ex had now returned to the man she had come with, a sombre–looking man in a dark suit and heavy–framed glasses – an architect, according to David. To a disinterested observer, Brooke was simply standing by the window, enjoying the view, soaking up the rarefied atmosphere, whereas in actual fact she was looking for any telltale signs that David was still interested in Alicia – a sly glance or an ever–so–casual touch, perhaps. There was nothing; they barely even spoke. Slowly Brooke’s irritation at having been ambushed by David’s ex turned to fascination as she watched them both expertly working the room. David was magnetic, and not just because of the good looks she had fallen in love with; he had a natural composure and a good–natured confidence. He spoke with conviction and authority and he had an indefinable presence that seemed to fill the space he was in. Alicia had another tactic entirely. When Brooke was close to her, she eavesdropped on Alicia’s conversation, and it was soon clear that she had nothing particularly clever or interesting to say, but she had something more powerful than intelligence or wit. Alicia was a world–class flirt. She flirted not with sexual invitation, but in a way that the person she was talking to felt like the most important person in the room. Consequently, they responded to her as if she were spouting Cicero.
Brooke glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven.
‘I know that look,’ whispered David into her ear. ‘You want to go, don’t you?’
She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Is it that obvious?’
They had only been at the party two hours, but to Brooke it had felt like an eternity. She didn’t miss all the surreptitious glances sent her way, or the whispered comments when she was just out of range. Her mouth was aching from the permanent smile etched on it. She felt like the village idiot.
They rode down in the elevator and, when they stepped outside onto Fifth Avenue, Brooke felt her shoulders relax. A cone of moonlight shone down on them and he turned to her and kissed her, his tongue licking the inside of her mouth. It was delicious and quite unexpected – spontaneous kisses, especially those in public places, were becoming thinner on the ground as they were constantly watched. His driver was parked across on the far corner and they walked to the car with his arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry we were there so long,’ he said, opening the door of the Lexus for her. ‘But it wasn’t that bad, was it?’
‘Oh honey it was,’ she laughed.
‘I didn’t hear one person mention Jeff Daniels.’
‘They would hardly discuss the ins and outs of some scurrilous tabloid story with you,’ she said. ‘But believe me, they all knew the details.’
He was silent for a moment as the car engine started. ‘You seemed to be getting on well with Ally.’
‘She’s nice … ’ said Brooke obtusely.
‘You’re not jealous?’ he said, laughing softly.
‘I don’t trust her,’ she blurted out.
‘Trust her? What do you mean?’
‘Call me crazy,’ said Brooke, ‘but I’ve just got this feeling.’
‘A feeling about what?’ asked David. His words were measured, clipped. She could tell he was annoyed at the ‘trust’ jibe. Brooke supposed he had a point, considering how understanding he’d been about the Jeff Daniels accusations.
‘I just wondered if it was Alicia who leaked the Oracle gossip story,’ said Brooke.
‘What?’
‘Look, I spoke to Tess Garrett today and she said the story came from one of your ex–girlfriends.’
‘It sounds to me as if Tess Garrett is trying to justify her existence.’
‘She sounded pretty sure.’
‘On what basis?’
‘A source at the Oracle.’
He pursed his lips together.
Brooke paused before saying anything more. She never liked bringing up the subject of past girlfriends. In her experience it only made you look jealous or needy or both.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she asked.
‘How am I supposed to react?’ he said, anger in his voice.
‘Well, don’t you think it was Alicia? It had to come from somewhere.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well, she did go to Brown … ’
‘Brooke, you’re being ridiculous.’
‘Am I?’ she said, challenging him.
David was a serial monogamist: through his twenties there had been at least five girlfriends who had all lasted between six months and two years, and the Jeff Daniels leak could have come from any of them. They all had the same potential motivations: sour grapes, mean–spiritedness; some sense of thwarted entitlement, perhaps.
But it had been Alicia’s bright–eyed friendliness and a feeling of gleeful pleasure when she mentioned the Oracle story: it all made her suspicious of Alicia. Call it female intuition, but she was sure she was behind it.
‘Yes you are being ridiculous! After all, it was your friend, that Matt Palmer, who was quoted.’
She frowned. ‘It wasn’t him. I told you what he said. A journalist tracked him down and misquoted him.’
‘And you believe that?’ he asked.
‘Yes I do. He’s got less motivation for doing it than Alicia.’
He turned on the seat to face her.
‘Alicia’s parents and my parents have known each other forever,’ said David tightly. ‘She is a lot of things, but she is not deliberately evil.’
‘It sounds to me like you’re defending her.’
David rarely sounded angry. He always dealt with problems in his usual cool, composed way, but now his voice was raised. ‘I am not defending her. I just wonder what motivation she’d have for doing something like that?’
‘Oh, grow up, David,’ shouted Brooke. ‘Maybe, just maybe, she still loves you, did you ever think of that? Maybe she’ll do anything to stop you from being happy with anyone else.’
David turned to look at her. His face was stony.
‘Brooke, she finished our relationship.’
It stung Brooke like a slap in the face. She had always had the romantic notion of David Billington, America’s most eligible bachelor, rejecting each of his previous girlfriends because he was still searching, like Prince Charming, for the one girl who was perfect in every way. Childishly, she had allowed herself to believe that she had been that girl, that she was his one true love. Not for a second did she imagine she was second choice, that all along he had been pining for the one he could not have. She wondered momentarily if David and Alicia would still be together if Alicia had not called it a day, and the image of David and Alicia glad–handing the party in natural symmetry jumped into her head. But she knew she was right about Alicia, she just knew it.
‘Just because she finished with you doesn’t mean she wants anyone else to have you, David,’ she said. ‘It’s just naive to think Alicia is somehow incapable of being spiteful and underhand just because you were once in love with her.’
‘Well thanks for the vote of confidence.’
It did not escape Brooke’s notice that he had failed to deny he had been in love with Alicia, but despite her hurt and anger she still felt a pang of protectiveness. She hadn’t been striking out, she had been telling the truth: David was strong in so many ways, but he had one Achilles heel. He always saw the best in people. There was nothing naturally suspicious or cynical in his make–up, and she knew if he were one day to run for office, that it could be a fatal flaw. Her voice softened and she put a hand on his arm.
‘Oh honey, let’s not fight about this,’ she said softly. ‘You know I’m only saying it for your own good.’
‘No, you’re saying it because you’re pissed,’ he replied flatly. ‘You’ve had a crappy night and you’re feeling sorry for yourself. I’d just cool it, if I were you, Brooke. Okay, so you had one lapse of judgement with that Jeff Daniels character, but that doesn’t mean you have to assassinate everyone else’s character.
It’s not very attractive.’
His words scalded her. ‘A lapse of judgement? So all that stuff about how you believed my story and how you trusted me was just crap, was it? Do you even care about how I felt back there tonight?’ She felt hot tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Of course I care,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s just that if you’re going to be my wife, you’re going to have to get used to these parties, these people. It’s my life, Brooke.’
They were just a couple of minutes away from her apartment and she couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be. She tapped his driver on the shoulder. ‘Miguel, can you drop home please?’
David tutted loudly. ‘Honey don’t overreact.’
‘I’m not overreacting. I just want to go home,’ she said quietly.
David nodded at Miguel. ‘Take her home.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘We have a major problem,’ announced Mimi Hall, publisher of Yellow Door’s children’s division. They were only two minutes into the weekly executive editorial meeting and already Brooke was on edge. Mimi Hall could be a very frightening woman, particularly when there were problems, when she always seemed to cleverly shift the blame onto other people. Brooke’s privilege and celebrity were no protection here; in fact it was something that seemed to annoy Mimi Hall. Everyone in the room knew Mimi did not belong in the gentle, good–natured world of children’s publishing, Five years earlier she had been a hotshot in the adult fiction division at Doubleday, but a string of high–profile flops and their consequent financial losses had got her fired. She’d taken the publisher’s job at Yellow Door, not because she thought a move into children’s publishing was an exciting move – far from it, Mimi Hall didn’t even like children. But it was a job, and sitting out her purgatory, awaiting a plum MD job somewhere, Mimi Hall seemed hellbent on taking out her professional frustrations on everyone else. Particularly Brooke.
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