Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘More than I can be said for her taste in men.’

  His expression soured. ‘Take the photograph Miss Garrett,’ he said, standing up. ‘I got copies. Unless you wire me two hundred thousand bucks, I’ll be sending it to the media.’

  ‘Two hundred thousand … ’ Tess tried to keep her cool.

  Kressler buttoned his jacket and nodded to the waitress. ‘I’ll let you pick up the cheque. And I expect an answer by Friday.’

  CHAPTER FORTY–NINE

  Nine o’clock at night and Brooke was still in the office. Over the past few weeks, this had become a routine, especially since the office had been closed for Thanksgiving. With the wedding practically on top of her and most of January blocked off for the honeymoon – a fifteen–day tour of Australia with a week at the Wakaya Club, the super–exclusive private resort in Fiji – she was desperate to get ahead of herself with work. Besides which, she liked to edit at night when it was completely quiet, with just the desk lamp and soft blue glow from the computer illuminating the pages of the manuscript. The dark seemed to insulate her from everything: the stress and expectation of the wedding and the vague, unsettled feeling that had been nagging at her since David’s new job offer.

  At least this was one less worry, thought Brooke, turning another page. It had only taken a week to edit Eileen Dunne’s second novel; it was incredible how little work it needed doing to it and in many ways it was even more accomplished than Portico. Brooke had loved the way the story had grabbed her and transported her to another land, another world. It would be another runaway best–seller, she felt sure of it, and if it sold like Portico, it would make the ‘outrageous’ advance of three hundred thousand dollars look like a bargain. She looked up from the page as her mobile phone vibrated. Reluctantly, Brooke flipped it open.

  Rocking Portico window display in Barnes and Noble. Matt

  She put it down, smiling, wishing that David was not so busy and important that he couldn’t send her more impromptu, random texts. Suddenly she looked up again as she heard a chuckle. Mimi Hall was standing in the open doorway, sipping a cup of coffee.

  ‘Mimi!’ said Brooke, clasping her hand to her chest. ‘You scared the life out of me.’

  ‘Who was that? Matthew?’ asked Mimi, smiling in the dark.

  ‘Matthew?’ repeated Brooke dumbly.

  ‘Palmer,’ said Mimi, stepping forward. ‘Matthew Palmer, your friend from Eileen’s launch party.’

  Brooke examined Mimi’s knowing expression. She was not going to lie to her, although she had no right whatsoever asking about her personal phone calls made out of work hours.

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You speak to him a lot, don’t you? He must be a very good friend.’

  ‘He’s an old friend, yes,’ said Brooke, struggling to keep her voice calm. ‘But no, we don’t speak that often actually. He’s a ER doctor, they tend to be busy people.’

  ‘Funny you’re so close after that Jeff Daniels story earlier this year,’ said Mimi with deliberate vagueness.

  ‘Is there a problem here, Mimi?’

  The older woman shrugged and took another sip of her drink. There was a long pause.

  ‘You owe me, you know that.’ There was levity in her voice but her eyes were still jealous and nasty.

  ‘And what exactly do I owe you for?’ replied Brooke, sounding defiant but feeling a sense of dread. Mimi had always had the ability to frighten her.

  Mimi took a step nearer Brooke’s desk. She seemed to tower over Brooke, who found herself sitting up straighter in her chair.

  ‘Do you know how many reporters I’ve had calling me up, emailing me, even following me? All of them want to know information about you. Dirt.’

  ‘I hope you told them there’s nothing to tell. I think I’m what the tabloids call boring.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call you boring,’ said Mimi with a hard little laugh. ‘The papers would have a field day with this Matthew Palmer business. I think it’s what the tabloids call “dynamite”.’

  ‘Mimi, Matthew is a friend. David knows him too.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Mimi sarcastically. ‘I thought Eileen’s launch party was the first time they met.’

  Brooke knew why Mimi was confronting her. Not because Brooke was suddenly a threat to Mimi’s position – it would take more than one success to be promoted even one rung up the ladder – no, Mimi was coming after Brooke simply because she was being talked about. For the past few months Brooke had been the star of Yellow Door. The only person worth talking about at the tables at Michael’s, or the various book industry awards that littered the year. Mimi might have an editor–of–the–year trophy and a fearsome reputation in the industry but, since Brooke’s engagement to David Billington and the ‘new Jackie O’ headlines, Mimi had retreated into the shadows. Brooke had always sensed that Mimi disliked her, but it was only now that she appreciated exactly how much.

  Mimi placed her cup on a shelf and picked up a little snow globe that Brooke had bought in Paris on the trip when David had proposed.

  ‘You must know the emails are monitored at Yellow Door,’ said Mimi casually. ‘Someone told me there have been almost one hundred emails in the last three months between you and Matthew Palmer. One hundred. That’s quite a lot, especially for someone who apparently works as hard as you do. I guess if they checked out the phone records, you’ve been calling him a lot too.’

  How dare she! Someone told me there have been almost one hundred emails. More like Mimi had been rooting around her office, checking her computer.

  ‘I am not having an affair with Matthew Palmer, if that’s what you’re implying, Mimi. If it’s any business of yours – which it most certainly is not – he is a friend. If you hadn’t heard, I am getting married to David, and I am in love with my fiancé.’ She stopped, aware that her voice was becoming louder as she spoke.

  ‘Congratulations by the way,’ said Mimi, ‘on David’s new show, I mean.’

  The change in tack took Brooke completely by surprise. ‘What show?’

  ‘I know it’s not officially been announced yet,’ said Mimi, ‘but I have friends at the network and I hear that David been offered a prime–time Washington show.’

  Brooke gaped at her. Both the Billington family publicity machine and the network had wanted to hold back on announcing David’s new show until the inevitable media frenzy surrounding the wedding reached its peak – that way they were guaranteed maximum advance coverage for the show. The only people who knew about it were David’s family and the executives at the television station, so Mimi’s contacts and information were impressive.

  ‘As it’s Washington–based, I assume both of you will be moving to DC?’

  ‘No decisions have been made yet,’ said Brooke, flustered. ‘That’s why I haven’t discussed it yet with Edward.’

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if you did go,’ said Mimi.

  Brooke snorted. She was not easily angered, but Mimi was pushing her near boiling point. Trust Mimi to find my Achilles heel, thought Brooke furiously. The issue of their imminent move away from New York remained raw and unresolved between herself and David.

  ‘What are you really saying, Mimi? That you’ll go to the press with details of an imaginary affair if I don’t hand in my notice?’

  ‘My, my,’ smiled Mimi. ‘All this press attention has made you paranoid.’ She folded her arms carefully in front of her. ‘What I am saying is that, while some people might think that having you at Yellow Door is good for business, I’m not so convinced. How do you think your fellow editors feel about you being invited to the executive board meetings when they are not? They’d be forgiven for thinking you were acting a little above your station.

  ‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Brooke calmly, wondering how much of what she was saying was spite and how much was true.

  ‘Do yourself a favour, Brooke – do us all a favour,’ said Mimi with a twisted smile. ‘Be the wife everyone wa
nts you to be. Stop playing at being something you’re not.’

  ‘Speaks the ball–breaking feminist.’

  ‘Speaks someone who knows what’s best for everyone,’ she added with syrupy condescension.

  ‘Good for everyone? Or good for you, Mimi?’ spat Brooke, finally losing her temper. ‘The truth is, Mimi, that I probably will go to Washington. My husband’s life is going to be there, in the short term at least, and I want to support him one hundred per cent. Plus, it does have the added bonus that I won’t have to see your bitter face every day.’

  ‘Is that your four weeks’ notice?’

  ‘No!’ she said fiercely.

  Mimi smiled slowly and the coffee on her lip glistened. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  She paused at the door. ‘He’s very good looking, isn’t he? Matthew Palmer, I mean? I love those dark, brooding sorts.’ She winked. ‘But don’t worry. The next time the reporters ring, I’ll be in a meeting.’

  Turning on her spiked heel, she left the room silently. Brooke watched her go, not entirely sure whether the tight knot in her stomach was there because Mimi Hall was a scheming bitch, or because Mimi Hall was right about everything she had said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  In a state of deep anxiety, Paula was examining gift bags. There were twelve in total, one for each guest, all lined up at ninety–degree angles to the edge of the walnut dining table.

  ‘I’m just not happy about the candle,’ she said, her face creased with worry. She turned to Karl Lee, her three–hundred–dollar–an–hour ‘entertainment consultant’ and waved a fat Jo Malone candle at him.

  ‘Lime, Basil and Mandarin, Karl? Isn’t that a little obvious? What about the Pomegranate Noir, like I suggested?’

  The slim man, dressed head to toe in black, shook his head adamantly.

  ‘No, no, the Lime is definitely a safer option; it’s one of Jo’s most popular scents. Plus I know Pomegranate Noir candles were used at a lot of important Thanksgiving dinners last week. Dinners your friends might have attended.’

  Paula sighed, remembering that Karl had been recommended by Rose Billington, and therefore should be the best in the party business. And Paula was fairly happy about everything else in the bags: the tan Smythson ‘Travel & Experiences’ notebooks, hand–made chocolates from the by–appointment–only chocolatier Au Lait on Madison, and Loro Piana scarves so fine that they folded up into nothing. Each party bag had cost her over six hundred dollars; but it was worth it, because everything had to be just right: Saturday night’s dinner was perhaps the most important night of her entire social life. She’d spent two months engineering the guest list and it was A–list only. Socially competitive friends like Gigi Miller and Samantha Donahue certainly did not make the cut and, anyway, those girls didn’t really fit her lifestyle these days. When she had seen them at fundraisers, Paula had noted they were now occupying tables that bordered on Social Siberia. She had heard a whisper that such had been the downturn on Wall Street, Samantha had even had to suffer the indignity of moving out to Brooklyn. It almost made Paula shudder to think they had once been such good friends.

  No, Saturday’s dinner guests were of a much higher calibre; in fact the seating plan was a dream come true: Princess Karina and her husband Arlo, Brooke and David, Lucia De Santos, who, after the rocky start at Carlotta’s birthday party, had turned out to be just delightful, and two friends of Karina’s from the Bermuda circuit whose husbands were something terribly important in the media. After all, she had not quite given up on the Tucker’s Town dream quite yet.

  As soon as she had arrived back from Bermuda, Paula had consulted with Charles Nicholls, the society divorce lawyer nicknamed ‘the Scythe’ both for his ability to cut down his opponents in court, but also for his skill in maximizing the financial harvest. Charles had been extremely supportive and had made very positive noises about Paula’s possible settlement, given the presence of children and the length of their marriage, but he had also encouraged Paula to choose her moment carefully to file papers. He had heard about the stalling of the Asgill’s sale and cautioned Paula that her husband’s fortune was almost entirely linked to the fortunes of the company; if the company slumped any further, it would impact on her potential ‘dividend’ from the divorce.

  Paula had thought about filing divorce papers there and then, but when news reached her that Liz was trying to raise the money to buy Skin Plus, she knew she had to put her plans on hold. In just a few months time, the Asgills – and, by extension, William, would be more flush with cash. She had no idea of the figures involved, but surely it would be enough to buy a modest little second home? And if William refused to make life more comfortable for her … well, there was more money in the pot for a divorce settlement.

  Karl was collecting this table plans and files together and looked ready to leave. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow, darling,’ he said.

  Paula touched her heavily perfumed cheek against his, quickly ushering him towards the door. She had a Shiatsu massage at Skin Plus in forty minutes and it couldn’t come a moment too soon.

  ‘Mrs Asgill, you have another visitor.’ Paula rounded angrily on Maia, her maid, who stood nervously at the bedroom door.

  ‘Who on earth is it?’ She tapped her gold Cartier watch. ‘I’m late for my Shiatsu.’

  ‘Sorry madam,’ Maia said, ‘but it’s Tess Garrett from Asgills. She says it’s urgent.’

  Cursing, Paula walked through to the hallway to see Tess Garrett taking off her beige Burberry mackintosh. Rather presumptuous, thought Paula with irritation: did these Brits have no manners?

  ‘I’m afraid I’m on my way out,’ said Paula briskly, gesturing toward the door.

  ‘Sorry Paula,’ said Tess, not moving. ‘I need to speak to you. Urgently.’

  There was a sobriety to the publicist’s voice that put Paula immediately on edge. Surely nothing had happened to William or the family? No, Tess Garrett wouldn’t be delivering that sort of news. Had she heard about Paula’s visit to Charles Nicholls? She pushed that thought from her head; the Scythe’s whole business demanded discretion.

  Paula pointed towards the living room, glancing down at her watch again. ‘I can spare a few moments,’ she sighed.

  Tess settled on to the sofa and waited until Paula was sitting opposite her. ‘I’ve just come back from South Carolina,’ she began.

  ‘How nice,’ smiled Paula thinly.

  ‘I was there to meet someone called Ted Kressler. You wouldn’t know him, but you do know his ex–wife. Her name was Marion Quinn.’

  At the mention of those two words, Paula felt as if she’d stepped off a cliff. She sat motionless, unable to breathe. Tess saw her reaction and nodded.

  ‘Yes, I know everything, Paula,’ she said quietly. ‘He told me everything.’

  Paula closed her eyes. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. It couldn’t be happening, not after all this time.

  ‘Have you seen Violet?’ she whispered. It was obvious there was no point in lying to Tess. Even if she was bluffing – and why would she be?, she was working for the family. She was on their side, wasn’t she?

  ‘No, I haven’t seen Violet,’ replied Tess. She opened her bag and pulled out a photograph, handing it to Paula. ‘I don’t know where she is. But this is what that man Kressler gave me.’

  Paula took the photograph of Violet and Marion, her hands trembling so violently that she had to put it down. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her fingers smelt of candles and chocolate, of her new life, the life she was meant to have. Feeling warm tears trickle down her cheeks, she began to breathe deeply, distant memories she dearly wished to leave in the past, floating to the surface.

  ‘Violet is in a nursing home in North Carolina,’ said Paula, licking her dry lips. ‘Her new parents wrote me and told me that she needed constant care a few years ago. I guess she’ll still be there. She’ll be fifteen now.’

  She saw Tess Garrett’s disapproving expression. Goddamn limey bitch, she though
t, what gives her the right to judge me? She has no idea what my life was like. And all this because Marion Quinn’s husband had crawled out of the woodwork.

  ‘How bad was Violet’s condition?’ asked Tess.

  ‘She has severe microcephaly,’ said Paula grandly, like someone comparing the models of their Gulfstream jets. ‘It is a life–threatening disease.’

  A chill suddenly ran through Paula as it occurred to her that she didn’t actually know whether Violet was alive or dead. It had been a long time since Violet’s adoptive parents – a professional couple called Kate and Don something, Richards perhaps? – had written her a short, polite letter assuring her that they were getting the best care for their new daughter. Violet’s had been an open adoption, meaning that Paula could keep in touch with her daughter, although, as the years passed, Paula had felt increasingly uncomfortable with the arrangement. Given the choice, she would have closed that particular chapter of her life forever.

  ‘I never wanted this to happen,’ whispered Paula, pressing her fingertips into her cheeks. ‘I was eighteen years old when I had Violet. I was called Pauline then; I bet you didn’t know that either,’ she said, her voice hard and brittle.

  ‘Violet’s dad was a summer fling I had after high school, a construction worker on some development job in Nowheresville. He had left town long before I even found out I was pregnant. I knew something was wrong the second I held Violet in my arms.’ She looked up at Tess, her eyes pleading. ‘I had only just left school,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t ready for a child, let alone one that was severely disabled.’

  ‘So Violet was put in foster care?’ prompted Tess.

  ‘I couldn’t cope,’ said Paula bitterly, her anger at the situation bubbling to the surface. ‘My mum wasn’t any help. She was ill by then. So Violet went in to the system and, thank God, she went to Marion Quinn, a woman in Greensboro who took in a lot of difficult children. I went over to see her and she seemed to really care. But then Marion got sick and by then I was in New York, modelling, so Violet was formally put up for adoption. I mean, who would make a better parent? Me? A twenty year old, or adoptive parents who were desperate for kids? It was a better life for her.’