Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘And you wanted me to see,’ said Tess, nodding. ‘So you brought me to the most public place you could find so you could humiliate me.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t want you to be humiliated,’ said Sean as evenly as he could. ‘But when you told me earlier that Dom was in Dublin, it made me angry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I wanted you to see what he was like. If you hadn’t seen it for yourself, he could have denied it, lied to you for months.’

  ‘Right, so you have to be cruel to be kind,’ she said, her voice wavering.

  ‘He’s just not worth it, Tess.’

  ‘What do you know the value of worth, Sean?’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘You are a spoilt little rich boy. You use women how you please; you’re no different to Dom.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Sean. ‘But I tried, Tess–’

  ‘Stop the car,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Tess, don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I said stop the fucking car.’

  Reluctantly, Sean slowed the car to a stop. As she reached for the door handle, he leant over to stop her. ‘Tess, please … ’

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ she said, climbing out of the car. They were not even out of the grounds of Nina’s estate. Sean opened his door and made to follow her. ‘Tess, come on, you can’t just walk home!’ he shouted.

  Just then the bright headlights of a black cab came up behind them. She held her hand out to stop it.

  ‘Please, can I get in? Please take me back to London,’ she said.

  The driver nodded.

  She slammed the door and avoided Sean’s gaze as they drove past.

  Tess looked into her bag to check she still had her passport – carrying it everywhere was a habit she had got into in the States, where bartenders still asked for ID; and she was glad of it now. She glanced at her watch, then tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  ‘Forget London,’ she said. ‘Take me straight to Heathrow.’

  She didn’t even want to see the inside of her flat, not even to collect her bag. She wanted to get back to New York.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Newport is one of the most exclusive seaside towns in America, and Cliffpoint – the Billingtons’ summer residence – one of its most exclusive mansions. Located just off Bellevue Avenue, on a nine–acre site that sloped down to the Atlantic coast, it was a beautiful Beaux Arts building – not as big as the famous Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers, nearby, but certainly prettier, with its white pillars and arched windows and manicured grounds studded with exotic trees and flowers.

  Brooke had travelled up the night before with David, taking the Billington private jet from Teterboro to Providence. The rest of David’s family – aunts, uncles, cousins, at least twenty in number – had been arriving throughout the day for a dinner in celebration of David’s brother Robert’s birthday. With all the activity in the great house, the appearance of guests, and influx of additional staff, Brooke had spent the afternoon on a long walk along Newport’s coastal path that ran directly in front of Cliffpoint. She had gone alone, while David had spent the day sailing around Narragansett Bay with his father and brother; although Brooke had been invited, she suffered terribly from seasickness and, anyway, disliked David’s metamorphosis into a more macho creature in the presence of Wendell and Robert.

  Instead she’d had a fabulous time walking the three–mile trail, which was sometimes a straight path, at other times more difficult terrain, where she had to scramble over slippy rocks. She loved the taste of the warm, salty air on her tongue, the noise of waves crashing against the shore, the sight of the ocean – almost turquoise in colour in some places. She had done the walk several times before; not just when she had dated David, but when she had been at Brown University a short drive away in Providence. She had come up after exams with her girlfriends and they had peered over the hedges towards the grand mansion houses and other novelties on the trail, such as the Chinese Tea House pagoda, made especially for Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt so she could enjoy the sight of the sea. Although Brooke and her friends were all from wealthy families, used to driving sports cars at college, holidaying in the best resorts around the world, wearing the finest designer clothes that Madison Avenue had to offer, they had all been stunned by the elegant, almost royal show of wealth that Newport offered up. It had ignited much discussion on the way home among Brooke’s more socially ambitious friends, about how to gain permanent entry into these gilded–age palaces. How many of these mansions were now national museums? How many still belonged to great families, and in those families how many young, single sons were there? She smiled at the memory of David’s name being mentioned all those years ago by her friend Jenny, who had a particularly comprehensive database of America’s most eligible men. She wondered how Jenny, with whom she had now lost contact, would react to the news of Brooke’s engagement to him.

  There was a gate along the back lawns that was an exit from the track back up to Cliffpoint. As Brooke neared the house after her walk, David’s mother Rose approached. Despite the usual heat of the day, she looked cool, elegant, and composed in off–white, light wool slacks and a cream chiffon shirt with large pussy bow at her neck.

  Rose hooked her arm through Brooke’s as they walked back in the house. Brooke found her a domineering woman, in a quiet but forceful way that older patrician women seemed to have, but thought life would definitely be easier if she made a friend out of her. Not just because she was close to her son and could no doubt make life difficult for Brooke should she take a sudden dislike to her. Not just because she had offered to take Brooke to the Chanel Couture show the following month to order her trousseau, which she insisted was an early wedding gift. But also because Brooke wanted Rose to like her. Accept her, approve of her in a way she no doubt did of Alicia Wintrop or any other of David’s ex–girlfriends who came from old, established American families.

  ‘The boys are back from sailing,’ she smiled, accepting a gin and tonic from their English butler, Mr Steven.

  ‘And what time is dinner?’ asked Brooke. She was desperate for a lie–down after the long walk, but looking at the sun already sloping low in the sky knew there was little time.

  ‘Seven thirty. Drinks at seven in the library – although it appears I’ve already started,’ she said, raising her glass slightly. ‘How’s the house hunting coming along?’

  ‘We’ve hardly had time,’ Brooke told her. It was true; with all the wedding planning it just seemed another job that needed doing. David had suggested they didn’t start looking until after the wedding, and in many ways it made the best sense. David’s loft in TriBeCa was fabulous. Bright and spacious, with a fantastic roof terrace and close to all her favourite shops in SoHo and the bustle of Chinatown and Little Italy. But, despite Brooke’s busy–ness and the wedding, she wanted to start their married life together in a place that was theirs rather than his.

  Rose shook her head ever so slightly. ‘I’ve never known the attraction of that loft, although I know it was a wise financial investment. I do know of a couple of excellent co–ops coming up in two very good buildings on Park. One is a triplex. Belongs to Janet Dupont who is on her last legs, God bless her. Her family will definitely want to get rid of her apartment, and my dear friend Aggy chairs the committee. And while they might be a little concerned about the press attention you two garner, I’m sure I can get Aggy to give you the nod.’

  Brooke attempted a smile. She knew the building. Old and prestigious; a power building, full of the sort of people Brooke liked to avoid. And with Rose’s dear friend Aggy in the building, it would be like being watched. Brooke had to think carefully about how to get out of this one. With a bit of luck, Janet Dupont would hang on until Brooke and David found somewhere else to live.

  She walked up the sweeping staircase to David’s room at the front of the house. The long windows were open and the balmy evening air breezed through the space that had clearly changed little from when David was much younger. Fifties posters advertising t
he America’s Cup held in Newport hung on the wall. There was a shelf full of trophies from her fiancé’s school and college days, which always seemed to throw up more of David’s secret talents every time she looked: trophies for rowing, chess, sailing, soccer, cross–country running. The room was a perfect reflection of him: sporty, adventurous, successful.

  ‘How was the walk?’ asked David, emerging from the en–suite bathroom towelling his hair.

  ‘Hot,’ she smiled, pulling off her T–shirt and exposing her firm breasts. ‘I need to get a shower.’

  ‘Tease,’ he grinned, walking over and kissing the back of her neck.

  Smiling, she shut the bathroom door behind her. At home he would have joined her in the wet room, but at Cliffpoint she felt strange about sex.

  She emerged in her beige lace bra and Cosabella thong feeling clean and fresh. David was already in dress trousers and a white shirt that brought out the tan he had acquired sailing. Slipping into her cream Thakoon shift dress and five–inch heels, she caught sight of them both in the long Shaker–style mirror and felt a flood of contentment at how good they looked together.

  David went to his bag and pulled out a slim black velvet case.

  ‘I was going to wait until tomorrow to give you this, but that dress calls for a change of plan. Happy anniversary, honey,’ he said, giving her a soft, tender kiss.

  A year ago today they had met. Just a year. She thought back to that day in Biarritz. Meeting David on the beach when she had been standing on the shoreline in her wetsuit, boogie–board under her arm, a little afraid to step out into the cold Atlantic Ocean. Naturally he had been an adept surfer and he had spent the afternoon teaching her how to get the best rush from the waves. Afterwards, they’d gone for moules frites and lots of red wine, and, as the restaurant emptied out, they still kept talking, then onto a tacky tourist nightclub, desperate to extend the night until at three a.m. they had taken a walk along the beach and he had kissed her.

  Her finger prised opened the stiff box and she gasped when she saw a pair of exquisite emerald chandelier earrings lying on a bed of crinkled snow–white silk.

  Brooke touched them gingerly. ‘Can I put them on?’

  ‘It’s what they’re there for,’ he grinned. ‘They’ll look great with that dress.’

  They did. She scooped her hair up, fastening it expertly into a chignon. Her neck felt longer and leaner.

  ‘Wow. This is my Audrey Hepburn moment.’

  ‘You can wear them at the Republican dinner in Houston, too. Maybe with that long green dress Oscar gave you.’

  She looked down towards the floor. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, but it was too late – he had spotted the hesitation in her voice.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Brooke. You’re a bad liar.’

  The earrings weighed as heavy on her as the guilt. ‘About that,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be able to go.’

  David looked puzzled. ‘You were fine about it a week ago.’

  The last thing she wanted to was put a dampener on the evening ahead, but if she lied now it would be more difficult to get out of later. ‘Remember the Hollywood scout that came to see me?’ she asked. ‘Well, he loved Eileen’s book.’

  ‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

  Of course it was good news. Such good news that when P. J. had phoned her up two days earlier, she’d actually burst into tears when she’d got off the phone.

  ‘He wants to set up a meet with the VP of development and a few other executives. Eileen wants me to come.’ She paused. ‘It’s the same day as the Houston dinner.’

  A vertical frown line appeared above his nose. ‘Why does Eileen want you with her? She’s got an agent, hasn’t she? That’s what they are there for – to hand–hold and do deals.’

  ‘This feels like my project too, David.’

  ‘So change the date of the meeting.’

  ‘Come on, David. We were given that date. If we start trying to change it, you know how these things can suddenly go cold.’

  ‘So this is more important than the Houston dinner,’ he said flatly.

  ‘It’s just a dinner, David. If it was the Republican convention, or if you had started on the campaign trail yourself or something, then fair enough.’

  ‘Just a dinner,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Well it is, honey. It’s not as if you and your family don’t know these people already. It’s not as if you are turning down the invitation.’

  Brooke took hold of his arm. It felt tense in her hand. ‘Please don’t be like this. I know the dinner is important to you, but this is important to me too. Eileen’s my author and she needs me. You have your family to be there and back you up every step of the way, but Eileen has no one. She’s twenty–six, bringing up three kids, trying to make life better for those children. I really feel can help someone.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, walking towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk.’

  ‘David, you’re obviously upset, let’s talk about it some more.’

  He didn’t even turn to look at her. ‘I’ll see you downstairs at seven,’ he said, closing the door.

  If Brooke could have left Cliffpoint right then, she would have. Instead she had to walk alone into the throng of Billingtons, all congregated in the drawing room. At least David’s cousin Lily was there; her co–opted bridesmaid was not her favourite person in the world, but when she saw Lily’s lean blonde form at the bottom of the stairs, Brooke almost leapt with joy. Conversation about Lily’s Zac Posen bridesmaid dress easily took up the time until dinner was announced. Brooke was only faintly aware of David glowering at her from across the room and, when they sat next to each other at the enormous formal dinner table, no one seemed to notice that Brooke and David were speaking to everybody except each other.

  The meal was exquisite; a starter of rare roast beef salad served with green beans and horseradish cream, and then cold lobster and aspic, served with the finest wines Brooke had ever tasted.

  ‘So. How is the speech coming along for Houston fundraiser?’ asked Wendell, sticking his fork into a delicate walnut tart. ‘There’s a couple of good guys we can draft in to help with that; Ted is particularly good. Used to work with Condoleeza.’

  ‘It’s under control,’ smiled David, taking a sip of Château Pétrus.

  Rose was sitting opposite her future daughter–in–law. ‘Brooke, I’ve got a few events planned in Houston for us both. I have a wonderful girlfriend who has invited us for lunch. There will be no finer guide to Houston. The shopping there is surprisingly good.’

  Brooke took a breath and put her goblet of wine down on the table. ‘I’m probably not going to be able to make the dinner,’ she said, not meeting Rose’s eye directly.

  Wendell looked across the table at her. ‘Really?’ he said, trying to mask his disapproval with surprise.

  ‘A business meeting to LA has come up. It’s very important and can’t be rescheduled.’

  ‘I can’t recall hearing of a meeting that can’t be rescheduled,’ he said with an overly enthusiastic smile. ‘Some of the party’s biggest donors are going to be at the dinner. Men who got both Bushes into the White House. Regardless of this family, they are going to be sizing David up. Checking him out, particularly with all those Florida Keys heroics still being talked about.’ He wiped the edge of his mouth with a napkin. ‘And of course everyone wants to meet you, Brooke. David, I think you should persuade her to attend,’ he said, moving his gaze from Brooke to his son.

  Brooke didn’t dare look at her fiancé.

  ‘Brooke’s meeting is very important, and while she is going to try and move it, you know what these Hollywood lot are like,’ David told him. ‘Look like you aren’t interested and you’ve missed your window of opportunity. Her career is important too.’

  Wendell returned silently to his walnut tart, his mouth in a firm, tight
line, and Brooke dropped her arm to her side, reaching over to touch David’s leg gratefully.

  ‘Coffee in the library,’ announced Rose.

  As David was caught talking to his two cousins from Boston, Brooke went outside to get some fresh air. It was a relief to be alone; the tension in the dining room had almost choked her.

  Walking to the edge of the terrace, she stood at the top of the stairs that led to the lawns, listening to the distant roar of angry waves on the rocks and the rustle of a breeze in the trees.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Robert Billington standing there, backlit by the glow coming from the house.

  ‘Brandy?’ He handed her a crystal balloon glass a third full of amber liquid.

  Brooke observed him suspiciously. He was wearing a navy blazer with gold buttons that made him look about ten years older than thirty–five and an arrogant half–smile. Brooke had never liked Robert. As a student at Yale, he had been in a terrible car accident when he vehicle had exploded into a fireball. Robert had been lucky to escape alive, but he still had burns all over his torso which crept up above the neck of his shirt like snake tongues. People whispered that his accident was why Robert worked for his father, instead of pursuing a political career, but in Brooke’s opinion he was simply an unpleasant character devoid of the charm and smarts needed for Capitol Hill.

  ‘How are the wedding plans coming along? Florida Keys was an unusual choice.’

  ‘Not really, for a winter wedding. Plus we really wanted something with a family connection. Jewel Key is my uncle’s house. It will be private. I know security has been a bit of a concern for you.’

  ‘Among other things,’ he said casually, taking a sip of his drink. ‘I take it David has already broached the matter of a prenuptial agreement with you.’

  She shrugged. He hadn’t, although she had been expecting it.

  ‘It’s obviously not the time or the place to talk about it here, but perhaps our lawyer and yours can speak next week to discuss the preliminaries.’