Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘It was a videographer.’

  ‘Whatever. We don’t want it getting on Extra! Or HollywoodTV.’

  Brooke let out a deep breath. ‘Thanks Tess.’

  ‘Give me Palmer’s address and I’ll get a driver to collect you. Then I’ll make an appointment with your doctor. We might need someone to say how badly you were hurt.’

  ‘Surely that’s not necessary?’ Brooke added nervously.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  As Brooke hung up, she noticed Matt was standing in the doorway watching her.

  ‘From the outside things always look better,’ he said quietly.

  She looked at him puzzled.

  ‘Your life,’ he said with a frankness that made her uncomfortable.

  Brooke waved a hand. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me.’

  ‘It’s me you’re talking to, Brooke,’ he said. ‘All this crap must get you down.’

  Brooke looked at him, then shrugged. ‘You know the weird thing is that I liked it at first. Okay, not the getting followed by the pap bit, but getting bags and dresses sent by designers, every invitation to every hot party in the city, a reservation at any restaurant. I felt like someone. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I guess. Come on, let’s get some ice on that. He went into the kitchen and returned with a bag of ice cubes wrapped in a white cloth. He rested her foot gently in his lap and held the cold bag against her skin.

  ‘Ouucchhh,’ she cried again.

  ‘A sprain is just damage to the ligament surrounding the ankle,’ he said as he worked. ‘You should be back on your feet in a week, probably completely recovered in maybe three weeks.’

  She looked at him with alarm. ‘But it’s the Costume Institute Ball in two weeks. I have to go.’

  ‘Have to?’ he smiled, finishing the bandaging.

  ‘Well, kind of want to go,’ she shrugged with a smile. ‘It’s the one thing I’ve been excited about.’

  ‘Well, for the minute you’re not going anywhere, young Miss. Doctor’s orders.’ He stood up and threw her the TV remote control.

  ‘I’m going to get some sleep. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, you go.’

  Just then, Brooke’s mobile started ringing and she glanced at the screen.

  ‘The cavalry?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Something like that.’

  He helped her get off the sofa. ‘I’ll come down downstairs with you,’ he said wearily.

  ‘No. I’d better go alone.’

  ‘In which case, wait there.’

  She hobbled towards his bedroom door, where he was rooting around his closet noisily.

  ‘I bet this has seen a lot of action,’ she laughed as he handed it to her.

  ‘The hockey stick or my bedroom?’ he asked.

  She flushed and tucked the hockey stick under her arm as she put on her cyclist goggles.

  ‘What the hell are those!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘My disguise,’ she said arching her brow as playfully as she could when her foot was so sore. ‘I don’t want to be recognized leaving a man’s apartment at eight in the morning, even if it is only you.’

  ‘Only me,’ he scoffed. ‘You’d better remember whose hockey stick it is, Asgill.’

  ‘Listen Matt, you’ve been great. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Maybe a beer when you’re back on your feet, hopalong?’

  ‘I’ll make it a magnum of champagne if I’m back in Manolos by the weekend.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll let your assistant put through my calls now?’

  ‘Okay, give me a pen and paper.’ She scribbled down her number.

  ‘No giving that to your friends at the Oracle, okay?’

  ‘Ouch. So cynical.’

  ‘Maybe … ’ she smiled, waving the hockey stick. ‘I’m still watching you, Palmer.’

  As she hobbled to the lift, she found she was looking forward to that drink.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

  Liz couldn’t believe she was back at the shrink. More to the point she couldn’t believe she was being forced to go by that jumped–up publicist Tess, who was threatening to tell Meredith the details of the Russ Ford fiasco if she didn’t make an appointment. She shifted in her seat in the psychologist’s waiting room and tried to calm down. Deep breathing, wasn’t that what the last headshrinker had told her? She closed her eyes and tried to think of cool wet grass, or a deserted beach or something. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to see a therapist before. There had been a six–month stint after the death of her father, and another spell in her senior year at school, when she was so concerned about getting perfect exam marks that she had lost a stone in weight. Liz snorted. She still didn’t see how that could be a bad thing.

  Anyway, she was here now and she was mollified by the thought that this particular doctor might actually be of some use to her, even if she failed to remove every hang–up and mental tic. Dr Dana Shapiro was considered the shrink of the moment. She had heard the name whispered around the more powerful members of her circle for years. An expert in relationship issues, she was rumoured to have treated several A–list stars for sex addiction. It never hurt to make useful connections, thought Liz.

  ‘Elizabeth? I’m Dana Shapiro. Come on through, please.’

  The doctor was a petite woman wearing gold–framed spectacles and a helmet of iron–grey hair. She led Liz through into a wood–panelled office that reminded Liz of a professor’s study at Princeton. Liz sat on a plum leather chesterfield sofa while Dana took a seat in a red button–back chair opposite her.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Dana. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  Liz silently cursed Tess Garrett for putting her in this position. Still, as she was here, she was determined to deal with Dana Shapiro in the same way she dealt with everything: with brisk efficiency.

  ‘Well, doctor–’

  ‘Dana, please.’

  ‘Okay, Dana. The reason I am here is that I like sex,’ said Liz, meeting Shapiro’s gaze. ‘Personally, I don’t think it’s a problem, but a friend of mine wanted me to speak to somebody about it.’

  ‘Well, you’re right of course,’ said Dana. ‘An enjoyment of sex isn’t a problem; in many ways it’s essential. But something about your behaviour has obviously made your friend concerned.’

  Liz shrugged. ‘I enjoy one–night stands. I have one or two sexual encounters a week.’

  Dana made a steeple in front of her face with her fingers. ‘And who are these men? I assume they are men.’

  Liz gave a nod of the head. ‘Usually I meet them in bars. Occasionally through the Internet.’

  ‘So you enjoy anonymous sex?’

  ‘I prefer to use the expression “uncomplicated sex”,’ said Liz tersely. ‘I am a very busy working woman. I run the best spa in the city and I have no time for a relationship. I have a healthy sex drive and I have found an outlet for it. If I was a man I’d be patted on the back, but because I’m a woman I’m a nymphomaniac.’

  Liz had always enjoyed sex. She had always enjoyed the things she was good at: tennis, schoolwork, business. She had been sexually active since she had lost her virginity to the pool boy at Parklands when she was seventeen. Before her marriage to Walter five years earlier, she had taken around thirty lovers, which spread over sixteen years, barely worked out at two lovers every year. Was that excessive? Abnormal? Liz genuinely didn’t know the answer; it was something no one talked about.

  ‘Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet,’ said Dr Shapiro. ‘But from what you have described to me, your behaviour shows an addiction to sex as well as to risk.

  Liz laughed. ‘I am not addicted.’

  The doctor paused for a moment. ‘Sex of this nature can be highly addictive, Elizabeth. Do you drink?’

  ‘A little,’ shrugged Liz. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Often people come to me with more than one addiction: drink, drugs, gambling.’

  ‘I’ve told you I am not a
ddicted,’ said Liz, a little irritated.

  ‘Okay,’ smiled Dana. ‘Well, what we need to discover is why you indulge in this behaviour. Can you remember when it began?’

  She looked towards the window beyond Dana. Liz could actually pinpoint the exact night. It had been three months after the death of her father and she had been feeling … not depressed, exactly, but melancholic. That had been the day of the Asgills board meeting; the day her mother had appointed William as chief executive. That evening Meredith had thrown a private dinner in the Orchid Room upstairs at 21 Club. Liz had been so angry she had barely spoken throughout the entire meal, and had left straight after dessert. Walter had been out of town on business so she had no reason to go home. She had simply walked and walked, straight down Fifty–Second Street until she found herself in Hell’s Kitchen. She knew better than to walk around those streets late at night, but she didn’t care. She had needed a drink. She sought out a bar and a good–looking musician had hit on her almost immediately. What had begun as a terrible, hateful night instantly turned into thrilling, uncharted night of adventure and possibility. He lived in a walk–up a block away and all her anger and frustration had been channelled into the most fantastic sex of her life.

  ‘So that first casual sexual encounter was retaliation?’ said Dr Shapiro. ‘You believe that you and not your brother should have been given the job.’

  Liz frowned and kept silent.

  ‘How long was it before your second sexual encounter of this nature?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, I guess. My relationship with my husband was faltering; we both worked too hard. Sex was perfunctory.’

  Now that was an understatement, thought Liz with a private smile. Liz had never really felt attracted to Walter and, now she could admit it, she had never really loved him either; but she’d seen something in him, a business brain as sharp as her own, a work ethic to rival hers. They were matched in many ways, but certainly not in the bedroom.

  ‘You might call my behaviour risky or addictive, Doctor,’ said Liz. ‘But to me, it’s a very considered way of fulfilling a need.’

  ‘And does it fulfil your emotional needs too?’

  For a second she remembered the day she had finally separated from Walter. One night he simply did not come home. The memory of waking at dawn, light struggling through a crack in the blinds onto the empty space beside her in the bed, it was still raw. They had drifted so far apart it had been no surprise, but the pain she had felt … well, that had truly caught her by surprise. Even more so when he’d told her he was moving in with a junior executive from the bank. In fact, her hurt had swiftly turned to fury when Walter had followed their quickie divorce with the announcement that he was going to marry the slut. She was a Dartmouth–educated blonde who immediately gave up her career and dedicated herself entirely to making Walter’s life more comfortable and squeezing out babies. Liz’s fury had turned to shock and dismay. How could you respect a woman like that? She had no desire to devote her life to another person; she had no desire for children. You were brought into this world alone and you left it alone. Emotional needs? Where did they get you? She could see Dr Shapiro watching her closely.

  ‘Forgive me, Dana, but my major was economics not psychology. Am I to take it that you think I was rejected by my dead father, rejected by my mother, and then dropped by my husband, so I need to go out and find sex to fill the hole? Is that what you think? That I equate sex with love? Sex is my way of making up for a lack of emotional support in my life?’

  Dr Shapiro cocked her head. ‘What do you think, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I think it’s a lot of horseshit, Dana.’

  ‘Well, I think we’ve achieved a great deal today,’ said Shapiro, standing up and smoothing her skirt. ‘Let’s both have a think about what we’ve discussed and meet back here in a week?’

  Liz closed the door behind her. ‘We’ve achieved a great deal today,’ she mocked. What exactly had it achieved? It was a waste of her precious time and money. But at least she’d fulfilled her obligations to Tess Garrett. She was free – and that meant she wouldn’t be going back to see Dr Dana Shapiro again. She had other plans.

  *

  The line from Damascus was faint and crackly.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  Brooke paused the Sex and the City DVD she was watching from bed, glad to hear David’s voice, even though it sounded so remote and tinny it was like talking to a stranger.

  ‘Hey. You’re there.’ David had flown out to Syria almost twenty–four hours earlier to do a report on its political importance in the Middle East.

  ‘Just about. It was the journey from hell.’

  ‘Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘Sleep, yeah right. It’s nearly six a.m. here. I’ve got meetings and filming all day. So how are you? How’s work? Didn’t you have a meeting with that agent?’

  ‘All cancelled. I didn’t even make it into work.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Just a bit of an accident.’

  ‘Accident? Brooke, what happened?’

  ‘I was out running. A pap was following me and I fell and sprained my ankle.’ She tried to say it as casually as she could, but David was obviously concerned.

  ‘Shit, baby. Are you okay?’

  She looked down at her swollen, purple–tinged foot, which was balanced on a cushion. ‘Nothing some very effective painkillers didn’t sort out.’

  She heard a low decisive snort down the phone. ‘We need to get you security.’

  She squirmed at the thought of herself flanked by burly men, Paris Hilton–style, and groaned. ‘Oh come on David, that’s not necessary.’

  ‘Honey, I think it’s very necessary.’

  The television was freeze–framed on a bare–breasted Samantha. She grabbed the remote control and switched it off. ‘I don’t want a bodyguard. It just looks ridiculous.’

  ‘Baby, you need one. Today it’s a pap guy and a swollen ankle, tomorrow it could be … well anything.’

  Brooke heard the disapproval in his voice but she was determined to stand her ground. It wasn’t the actual bodyguard she objected to – in the last few months she’d met lots of bodyguards, and most of them were just like drivers just with extra kung–fu skills. What bothered Brooke was what getting a bodyguard represented.

  ‘David, the second I get a bodyguard,’ she said firmly, ‘is the second I admit I’m living in a prison. I don’t want to live my life like that.’

  ‘Robert told me recently about a really great guy who’s worked with a lot of female celebrities. Ex–Israeli army. He’s very good. Very discreet.’

  Was he even listening to her?

  ‘David … ’

  ‘So, the ankle. Is it all strapped up properly?’

  Despite Tess Garrett’s reaction, she wanted to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. Matt Palmer had a look at it. I didn’t want to go to Cedar Sinai.’

  ‘Matt Palmer strapped your ankle,’ he said. There was a long pause. Brooke felt sure it wasn’t the poor telephone connection. ‘What were you doing at Columbia–Presbyterian?’

  She hesitated. ‘I wasn’t. I went to his apartment. It’s not too far from where I fell.’

  ‘Well, that was convenient.’

  ‘Oh David, don’t be like that. He’s just a friend. Barely even that.’

  ‘You can do without friends like him.’

  Brooke felt her hackles rise. ‘Do you want to tell me who I can and can’t have as friends now?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he snapped.

  ‘Well what did you mean?’

  There was a long, crackling pause.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve got a meeting at the Baath Party headquarters in an hour.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said quietly. ‘You go off and play.’ Then she hung up the phone, her hands shaking with anger.

  For a few seconds she just stared at the television screen in front of her, eyes not focusing, j
ust seeing shapes and colour. Then she began to move, as if on autopilot, sliding off the bed and hobbling to the kitchen. The fridge contained nothing of interest – carrot juice, a bottle of Skin Plus prebiotics (‘Look after your skin from the inside out!’ screamed the bottle), an artichoke, and a carton of egg whites to make the breakfast omelettes her personal trainer had recommended but she had never cooked. Moving to the cupboard her heart gave a little flip of pleasure when she saw a large box of chocolates sent by a publicist a few weeks earlier, hidden behind her coffee grinder.

  She ripped open the tasteful brown papers and orange ribbons, took a pink truffle from the box and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as it melted on her tongue.

  It felt good. Brooke didn’t consider herself a diet Nazi like half of the fashionistas and society girls in the city. But all the clothes she had sent to her were sample sizes, small and unforgiving, and paparazzi camera angles could be very unflattering, even with just a few surplus pounds on her tall, slim frame. Giving up chocolate had seemed a small price to pay.

  She returned to her bed, lay back on the plump pillows and rifled through the box to find another pink truffle. She felt naughty and defiant, as if she were playing hookey from school, not that Brooke could remember ever playing hookey from school.

  When her phone rang again she was tempted not to answer it. She hated leaving things awkward with David, but she felt so angry at his high–handed attitude, she really didn’t want to speak to him.

  Reluctantly she picked it up.

  ‘How’s the patient?’ She recognized Matt’s voice immediately.

  ‘A box of truffles is dulling the pain,’ she said, suddenly thinking about her foot again. ‘I particularly recommend the pomegranate champagne truffle.’

  ‘The medicinal powers of chocolate. I thought you society girls didn’t touch the stuff.’

  ‘I’m rebelling,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not like you, Little Miss Perfect.’