‘I need some backup, Meredith. The workload is much heavier than I ever expected, so I’d like a former colleague to come over and help us.’
Tess held her breath. Throughout her professional life, she had never been one to ask for help, instead preferring to soldier on and do everything herself, usually because she could do things better than everyone else. But the problem with that tactic was that if you told people everything was fine, they assumed you were in control and therefore no one noticed your Herculean efforts to fix everything single–handed. So far she’d not encountered a situation where things had grown so big and unmanageable that she’d not been able to handle them alone, but she didn’t want to play the odds. Meredith’s face barely registered any surprise at the request. Either Tess had been correct about her boss’s addiction to discreet cosmetic procedures, or she was unmoved by Tess’s plight.
‘Who is this colleague?’ asked Meredith blandly.
‘Her name is Jemma Davies. She is a paparazzo friend of mine, very good, very discreet.’
Meredith began to play with the sapphire around her neck. ‘Discreet is not a word I would normally associate with those people,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘Tess. You know the protection of my family means everything me, which is why I am paying you to protect them.’
The implication was clear: I am paying you a six–figure salary to crisis–manage the Asgills. I don’t want to pay anyone else, least of all someone who was effectively the enemy. Tess could almost see her point.
‘I understand that you might think that I should be able to handle everything,’ said Tess. ‘But there is an enormous amount of legwork involved in this job. In the past few weeks, I have had to deal with a potential crisis involving three of your four children. In an ideal world, I need to be there to advise and assist them all, but what with managing the press, doing research on potential problems, and dealing with sudden emergencies, I don’t have time. I can’t be everywhere at once, Meredith.’
Tess swallowed hard. At this rate she was going to talk herself out of a job.
‘But Tess, you do have the full use of our family lawyer and our corporate communications director. I could almost understand if you were asking for a simple assistant, but still don’t see why we need a paparazzo. Aren’t we trying to protect ourselves from them?’
‘Celebrities use paparazzi all the time for their own purposes,’ said Tess. ‘Many of those long–lens pictures you see in the gossip magazines are actually setups arranged by the celebs. Rather than have a rogue paparazzo take unflattering pictures of them, they will work with a friendly snapper to get the pictures that put them in the best light and give them an added career boost – and the papers are happy because the pictures are clear and well framed.’
‘But couldn’t we simply do a deal with a photographer for one of these setups?’
Tess shook her head. ‘People have to believe that these photos are real, and we can’t afford to have anyone leak the story. This photographer I’m proposing is extremely trustworthy. She is also very good at the other side of the job – keeping her ear to the ground with the papers and magazines, as well as other paps; finding out who knows what and feeding us the information back before it becomes damaging to the family.’
Meredith thought it through. ‘Brooke won’t like it,’ she said finally.
Tess smiled. ‘Brooke doesn’t have to know for the moment.’
Jemma had once told her that she usually liaised with a celebrity’s manager or PR; sometimes the star didn’t even know they were being followed, although all the while their manager would be feeding her information about the star’s location.
A crease appeared between Meredith’s brows. ‘This won’t have any implications with the Billingtons?’
‘Number one, we are protecting David and Brooke. Number two, David is every bit as media savvy as we are. Every positive piece of press for him is a step nearer to Congress. All I am talking about here is getting pictures of them visiting soup kitchens and libraries, strolling hand–in–hand through Central Park. We will portray them as two young people in love, not arrogant rich kids out of touch with the electorate. David might be popular, but he’s still a Republican. In a liberal city like New York, he needs all the help he can get.’
Meredith smiled thoughtfully. ‘You know, there are a lot of people out there who think Brooke can be iconic.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Tess. ‘But that doesn’t happen by accident, Meredith. Brooke is by nature rather low–key. We need to get pictures of her with the right people, going to the right parties.’
Tess thought back to her meeting with Brooke the day before. They had run through her weekly schedule and the only thing that Brooke had planned was the annual Costume Institute Gala. For a woman with potential to be an American icon, she was keeping a very low profile.
‘You know, I had a good feeling about you, Tess,’ smiled Meredith. ‘From the moment we met, in fact. You had a purposeful stride; you can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, she will have to stay in the West Village apartment.’
‘Who?’ asked Tess quickly, her mind still thinking about her walk.
‘This paparazzo woman. Jemma?’
‘So she can come?’
‘Yes, of course. Speak to Leonard about remuneration and Patty about contracts. I want those watertight: we must own the copyright to any Brooke and David photographs she takes.’
Tess stood up and gathered her bag. ‘Thank you, Meredith,’ she said formally.
‘Not at all,’ said Meredith, gracefully guiding her towards the door. ‘And Tess? I’m glad we had this conversation.’
Me too, thought Tess, trying not to punch the air with excitement. Me too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At seven fifteen in the morning, Brooke was already halfway through her run. She was a little earlier than usual, after being woken by David at 5 a.m., who had to get to the airport. She had crossed East Meadow, circled the running track by the reservoir, and was now heading down towards Strawberry Fields, her breath hard but steady. She felt good. Even before the announcement of her wedding, Brooke had liked to keep in shape and tried to keep up a regime of a run every other day. It was time to herself, time to block out the rest of the world and, with her low baseball cap, old jogging pants, and tinted yellow wraparound cyclist glasses, it was a time to be anonymous. It was not a best–dressed–list look by anyone’s measure, but it was enough to stop most people from recognizing her and, for that sole reason, it was one of her favourite looks in her closet.
Not breaking stride, Brooke glanced down at her watch, thinking it would take her another twenty minutes to make her way back across the park and be home in time to shower, change, and meet Vanessa Greenbaum for their 9 a.m. breakfast meeting at the Ritz–Carlton. Tap, tap, tap. The sound of her battered running shoes hitting the road was almost hypnotic. She veered off the main pathway down a slope and under a tunnel. As she came out the other side, she could hear heavy footsteps echoed from the tunnel’s bricks. Dammit! she thought angrily, they’ve found me.
‘Hey, Brooke! Brooke! Over here!’
Still running, she looked over her shoulder and saw a man, not with a camera, as she had expected, but with a small DVD recorder. He was one of the new breed, a videographer. A few weeks ago, Tess Garrett had given her a set of ‘press–fighting’ rules to learn. She remembered reading the point headed ‘paparazzi’, which said something like: ‘When confronted by a photographer, stop and let them take one quick photograph.’
Brooke was amazed. ‘Why should I make things easier for them?’ she had asked with distaste. ‘They make my life hell!’
‘They’re going to take the picture anyway,’ Tess had replied. ‘It’s better you’re smiling.’
So how was she supposed to deal with this? thought Brooke. What should she do when someone was taping her?
Unsure of the protocol, she picked up pace. Surely she could out
run a man carrying a big camera, she reasoned. She pumped her knees as she crested the slope then made for the flat road, one of the tarmac arteries that ran through the park, but as she jumped the path, her foot hit a loose rock on the path. She skittered sideways, holding her hands out to break her fall. Her wrists jerked back painfully and her knees stung as they scraped along the gravel. Her ankle felt as if it was on fire.
The cameraman had caught up with her and simply stood filming her as she lay on the ground panting for breath. ‘Please. Leave me alone,’ she pleaded between gasps. ‘I’ve hurt myself.’
She looked around desperately and saw a yellow cab was coming around the bend towards her. With one big effort, Brooke lifted herself up and waved her arms. The cab stopped with a screech. Barely upright, she hobbled to the vehicle like a wounded foal. The cameraman was still following her, moving on his haunches, keeping low to focus on the blood running from Brooke’s grazed knee. Desperate to escape, Brooke yanked open the cab door and, a split second later, heard a thud and a crash of splintering plastic. She turned to see the man crumple to the floor clutching his head.
‘Oh shit,’ she cried. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
The man hurriedly picked up his camera, rubbing his head with one hand and pointing the lens back towards her. ‘Fucking bitch!’ he shouted. ‘You fucking whore!’
Brooke stood there motionless, her mouth opening and closing uselessly.
‘Hey, get in!’ shouted the cab driver. Without thinking, Brooke did as she was told, sinking into the faux leather seat of the cab, her body shaking. She glanced behind and saw the videographer still pointing his camera at her as the cab zoomed away.
‘He deserved that, Miss Asgill,’ said the cab driver. ‘Those people, they make me sick to my stomach.’
She looked up. It still surprised her to be recognized by complete strangers.
‘So where you wanna go? The hospital? I think you better get that looked at.’
Her entire leg was throbbing now.
‘Hospital? Yes. I think … no, hold on.’
She stopped herself, suddenly visualizing the aggravation of turning up at ER. She quickly unzipped the money belt around her waist and pulled out a slim mobile phone. She always took a cell phone on a run, along with her house keys, twenty dollars, and a mace spray. This was New York, after all. She scrolled through her contacts book, stopping at Dr Powell, the Asgills’ family practitioner on the Upper East Side. She was just about to call, when she noticed the name next to it: ‘Matthew Palmer’. For a second she sat staring at his number on the LCD display. She wasn’t sure why she had transferred the number from his business card into her phone, but then maybe everything happened for a reason. Right now she needed an ER doctor without the aggro of hospital. She clicked to his number and pressed ‘call’.
*
Matt’s apartment was in a modern block on West Eighty–Ninth Street, a short walk from Riverside Park. The lobby was bland and a little run–down, its main feature a long row of mailboxes. It reminded Brooke of an old suburban library she had visited with David as part of a National Literary Awareness event. Well, until she slipped a little on the tiles and jarred her foot, letting out a gasp of pain. Then she couldn’t think of anything much.
‘Come on,’ said Matt simply, offering her his arm to lean on. Dressed in jeans and a ragged T–shirt, he looked rough and tired, but his arm still felt solid in her grasp.
They rode the elevator in silence. Was he annoyed at being disturbed or did he simply not have anything to say? Whatever, Brooke couldn’t concentrate on anything except the pain in her foot which was now searing all the way up her leg. The slightest pressure made her feel as though her entire foot had been locked in a vice.
He led her into the apartment, an open–plan space painted in a soft dark green, with two sofas, a table by the window and a long bookcase along one wall stuffed with books and magazines and random objects – a baseball, a pen pot, and a boomerang. Amazing the details your mind picked up when it was trying not to concentrate on something else, thought Brooke, as Matt semi–carried her to one of the sofas and gently eased off her running shoes. She tried hard not to yell.
‘Just cut it off,’ she said with a forced laugh.
‘It’s only a sprain,’ he said, flatly peeling off her sock and examining her ankle.
‘Only!’ she said. ‘I’m in agony.’
‘Brooke, a twisted ankle is not agony,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Not when you’ve seen what I’ve seen in ER today.’
‘I guess not,’ she said softly, feeling a little guilty. That must be why he looked so drawn. She could only imagine what he’d had to deal with in the last few hours.
Matt got up and walked through into another room, returning with some tablets and a glass of water. ‘Take these. They’re strong, but they’ll do the trick.’
‘Professional strength. Wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘The beauty of having a friend in the medical profession.’
‘So we’re friends now?’ he said with a smile.
‘The least I can do is forgive you, particularly when I’ve disturbed your breakfast.’
She nodded over to the table where there was a large pizza, still in its cardboard box.
‘Still warm,’ he said. ‘Want some?’
‘Pizza for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast or an extremely late supper,’ he nodded, rubbing his face wearily. ‘I’m not entirely sure which. Hours mean nothing after a fifteen–hour shift.’
He bent down and gently lifted her leg, then popped a cushion under her injured foot.
‘How come you called me?’ he said, not looking up as he put a dressing on her grazed knee.
‘You said if I was ever on the West–Side … ’ she joked. ‘Seriously, I was running in the park and a pap guy chased me. I fell and pow, my ankle went. I thought I’d broken it.’
He lifted his head and smiled. ‘I’m just surprised you came to me. Shouldn’t you be being attended to by your personal physician?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Matt, I’m not the Queen of England.’
‘But I bet you have staff,’ he said with a smirk.
‘No. Well, yes. Kind of.’
‘Do you have a driver?’
‘Sometimes. Well, actually he’s David’s, I get him when he’s not busy.’
‘What about a maid?’
‘Yes …’ she said, starting to feel embarrassed. ‘I have someone who cleans for me, but that’s not unusual, is it?’
‘A personal trainer?’
‘Come on, this is New York,’ she grinned with a wince, and Matt laughed, stretching across to get a slice of pizza. He folded it into three before he wedged it in his mouth. Just then a thought hit her.
‘Oh damn, I’d better phone my publicist,’ she said distractedly.
Matt burst out laughing, strings of cheese falling onto his chin. It slightly irritated her, knowing he found her lifestyle so amusing, but she still liked it when he smiled. Most of the time he was so intense, almost sombre, but when his face broke into a smile, it lightened his features. Turning away from him, she dialled Tess’s number. Tess answered immediately.
‘There’s been an incident,’ she said.
‘Go on.’
She quickly told Tess about her run, the paparazzo with the video camera, and her fall. ‘When I jumped in a cab, the guy was still trying to film my leg. I, well, I think I hit him with the door.’
Brooke heard Tess take a sharp intake of breath. ‘How badly was he hurt?’ she asked.
‘Not so badly hurt that he didn’t carry on filming. And shouting gross things at me.’
‘Oh Brooke,’ sighed Tess. There was a disappointed, distracted pause. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Maybe forty–five minutes ago? Look, I got the cab driver’s cell number. He saw that it was a total accident. He said he would tell the police that the pap was harassing me.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Tess, a little mollified. ‘A
re you hurt? Where are you?’
‘At a friend’s place. He’s a doctor.’
‘Which friend?’ said Tess suspiciously. Brooke suddenly had the strongest sense that it probably wasn’t too wise to have come here.
‘Matt Palmer,’ she said quickly, hoping it wouldn’t register with Tess.
‘Matthew Palmer?’ cried Tess so loudly that Brooke had to jerk the phone away from her ear. ‘Matthew Palmer the old flame? The Matthew Palmer from the Danny Krantz stitch–up?’ Tess was almost yelling now.
Brooke glanced over to Matt who took the hint and left the room.
‘Tess. I told you,’ she hissed into the phone. ‘He’s just a friend. More importantly, he’s an ER doctor and I was ten blocks from his apartment.’
Brooke could hear Tess take a deep breath. ‘We’ll discuss this later,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, I think we should put out a pre–emptive statement about the pap incident.’
‘To whom?’
‘To one of the news wires. I don’t want this videographer guy jumping the gun and putting a story out that you assaulted him. I think we can be pretty certain he’ll try.’
Brooke felt a flutter of panic. Until that moment, the only thing she had been concerned about was her aching foot. ‘But I didn’t assault anyone!’
Tess’s voice was reassuringly calm and efficient. ‘I know, Brooke, but paparazzi want to make money and the more sensational the story the better. You can bet he’s going to spin it as a vicious unprovoked attack on an innocent bystander who just happened to be there filming the squirrels. So what we should do is beat him to the punch with our story: how you were followed and harassed by a professional lowlife and sustained an injury during that pursuit. I’ve no doubt Patty can threaten legal action too, and hopefully that should be enough to scare them off. Failing that, maybe we can buy those photographs.’
Original Sin Page 21
