‘And a better life for you,’ said Tess, unable to stop herself.
Paula’s face twisted into a scowl. ‘How dare you sit there and judge me?’ she spat bitterly. ‘You have no idea what I had to go through, how I felt. Do you have the slightest idea what it’s like looking after a child that can’t even hold its head up? Who will never be able to run or read or even talk? Of course not, you haven’t got a clue.’
‘Violet’s not just a child,’ said Tess defensively. ‘She’s your child.’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Paula. She had no desire to justify her actions to Tess Garrett, but telling her the story had actually reassured Paula that she had done the right thing.
‘Violet is my child, and I did what I thought was best for her.’
The two women glared at each other. Finally Tess looked away and her expression softened.
‘Do you think about her?’
Paula was silent. Thick gulps caught in her throat and then she couldn’t hold back the tide of sadness, anger, and frustration any longer. She covered her face and sobbed, her shoulders shuddering, tears running between her fingers. When she had recovered a little, she accepted the tissue Tess passed to her and wiped her face.
‘It was a open adoption because I thought that way I could still hear what Violet was doing,’ said Paula. ‘Maybe one day see her again. But when I met William, I knew that could never happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘For all their smiles, manners, and smart clothes, society people are vicious,’ she whispered. ‘The WASP ideal is perfection. Comply or die.’
‘Well then, we have a problem,’ said Tess. ‘This man Ted Kressler wants two hundred thousand dollars to keep quiet.’
Paula felt icy cold.
‘Have you told Meredith?’
Tess shook her head.
‘Not yet. I thought you might like to tell her before me.’
Paula was shaking her head and her hands were trembling. ‘Can’t you make it go away?’ Her voice rose with desperation. ‘I thought that’s what we were paying you to do.’
Tess folded her top lip over her bottom one. ‘The easiest thing to do is run away or bury it as deep as you can, but in my experience it’s not always the best thing to do.’
‘Let me find the money,’ said Paula quickly. ‘It might take a couple of days … ’
‘No Paula,’ said Tess firmly. ‘You have got to tell Meredith. We have to deal with this. For one thing, blackmailers are rarely satisfied with one pay–off and, even if we could shut Kressler up, secrets like this have a habit of getting out.’
Tess examined Paula’s face. ‘Does William know?’
‘Of course he doesn’t know,’ she moaned, feeling the tears begin to fall again. She closed her eyes, remembering the one moment she had almost told William. It had been six months into their relationship and Paula had begun to realize that, as well as being rich and halfway good looking, William Asgill was a decent man, a rarity in such circles. She and William had been sitting under a tree with a picnic, when he had told her that he loved her. It had been the first time he had said it and, looking into his eyes, Paula knew that he meant it. She knew in that moment that she could tell him anything and it wouldn’t change how he felt about her. But still she couldn’t tell him because she wanted to be part of his safe, perfect world. She’d worked so damn hard to get to that place, to become a successful model with a rich, clever guy doting on her. She couldn’t let anything screw that up. Most of all, she didn’t want to give his bitch of a mother the opportunity to say, ‘I told you so. A gold–digger with a dirty secret.’
Paula shook her head again. ‘He doesn’t know and the moment has passed to tell him,’ said Paula softly. ‘So I’ve just tried to forget about it, about her. I try to pretend that was a part of my life that never happened.’
She looked up as Tess picked up her mobile phone.
‘What are you doing?’ said Paula, panic in her voice.
‘Arranging a meeting with Meredith,’ said Tess. ‘Then we need to go to Charleston and meet Ted Kressler. We should fly down tomorrow.’
‘I can’t fly anywhere tomorrow,’ said Paula, her eyes wide. ‘I have people coming. Everything is arranged, it’s important.’
‘And this is important,’ said Tess sternly. ‘We need to sort this all out and we can’t leave it another day.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–ONE
In the weeks following the Portico launch, Charles Devine had phoned Tess at the Asgill offices at least half a dozen times. Convinced he was angling for a wedding invitation, she successfully managed to field his calls. But when a handwritten dove–grey Mrs John L. Strong notelet arrived requesting her company for afternoon tea, Tess knew the only way to put a stop to it all was to take him up on his invitation and, secretly, Tess was looking forward to it. She was desperate to escape the Asgill universe, which was becoming increasingly fraught and all–consuming as the wedding approached, and suspected that a spot of Lapsang Souchong and a good old natter might be just what she needed right now.
Tess pulled up in a cab outside Charles’s apartment on East Seventy–First Street, the first floor of a brownstone on one of the best streets in the Upper East Side ‘grid’. Tess pressed the doorbell, smoothing down her blue Marc Jacobs tea dress. It was a few seasons old – which she felt sure Charles would notice – but it was the most appropriate thing she had in her wardrobe.
‘Oh, just delightful darling,’ smiled Charles as he took her coat, hanging it on a pair of antlers in the narrow hallway. ‘It dismays me how woefully eroded the art of dressing for tea has become, but you and I obviously sing from the same hymn sheet.’
Charles had certainly made the effort himself for their little tête–à–tête. A starched white shirt, crisp navy suit, an extravagant crimson cravat, and patent shoes, while his grey hair had been combed into submission, carefully parted and brushed severely over to one side. He looked as if he was heading out for Martinis with Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin.
Even by Manhattan standards, Charles’s apartment was tiny, but it was perfectly formed. He ushered her through to his bijou duck–egg–blue living room.
‘Sit sit,’ he said, shooing her towards an elegant chair upholstered in grey damask.
‘Would you like tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Tess, trying to make herself comfortable on the exquisite yet spindly furniture. Charles put a finger up against his smooth cheek – Tess was convinced he’d had a face–lift since Brooke and David’s engagement party – and pouted dramatically.
‘Now, let me see,’ he said, surveying Tess like an art dealer eyeing a potential acquisition. ‘I have fifty–three varieties of tea. For you, my dear, I am going to suggest a Ceylon Silver Leaf. Subtle yet strong. May I suggest you take it with the tiniest twist of lemon?’
Tess could only grin. Charles disappeared into a tiny galley kitchen and returned with a rattling silver tray laden with two miniature teapots. A small round antique table had already been beautifully set with polished cutlery and a cake–stand stacked with perfect triangles of cucumber sandwiches and sugar–dusted madeleines.
‘Darling, I hope you don't mind me saying how much you have bloomed since you first arrived in New York,’ gushed Charles, pouring the tea. ‘Look at you! You could pass for a Park Lane Princess. That’s what they call the young girls around here, apparently. I find it rather vulgar myself; most of them are as near to being a princess as I am to being a Chinaman. Still, they are beautifully groomed, which you can’t often say about English girls. I never think as a breed you quite make the best of yourselves. But you, my dear, have truly risen to the challenge. You do our diminishing empire proud.’
Tess giggled behind a hand. Charles was an eccentric, a one–off, like Quentin Crisp or a quirky character in a Jane Austen novel. He had the plummiest accent Tess had ever heard, although, if the rumours were true, he had not a drop of blue blood in him, having come across to America in the Fif
ties and milked the life out of his minor English public school background. Tess thought he was wonderful, and wished she’d come to see him sooner.
‘I have to say this is a bit of a surprise, Charles,’ said Tess, taking a sip of the delicate tea.
‘Yes, I know I’ve been a little low–key of late,’ he nodded. ‘I imagine you’ve been wondering why I’ve not been at any of the dinners and parties all year. Well, I can now reveal my secret,’ he said dramatically, dabbing his lips with a napkin and rising. ‘And, as you’ll see, I’ve been very busy.’
He walked over to the bookcase, pulled out a thick volume and put it in front of Tess.
It had a shiny navy jacket that said ‘Simply Divine’ in huge pink Art Deco lettering. Underneath, in smaller type, were the words Charles Devine – the whole story.
‘My memoir, darling. It’s been exhausting.’
‘I can image,’ said Tess, picking it up. It was like a brick.
Charles sighed. ‘I always thought that writing my memoir would be easy, but when you’ve led a life as rich and full as I have, the sheer volume of material becomes both a blessing and a curse. I’ve had to be so selective. Do I put in the wonderful little anecdote about choosing emeralds with Babe Paley, or having dinner with the Shah? How does one choose?’
‘It looks as if you’ve written about both,’ said Tess, noting that the book was seven hundred pages long. ‘I can’t wait to read it. Who’s publishing it?’
Her host’s lips moved into a tight, unsmiling line. ‘Bloody agents and publishers. These days it appears that they are only interested in autobiographies written – and I use that word loosely – by nineteen–year–old pop stars with nothing to document except one hit record and a drug habit. Entirely indicative of what’s wrong with society today, if you ask me: a world run by teeny–boppers for teeny–boppers.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tess sympathetically. Charles nodded sadly.
‘Entre nous, I’ve been very disappointed, but you can’t let these things defeat you, can you?’ he asked, brightening. ‘So, as you can see, I’ve self–published. Come this way, darling.’
He led her into the bedroom that contained one single bed, exquisitely dressed in white linens, a wardrobe, and a bedside table. Every other inch of floor space was taken up by piles of Simply Divine, stacked floor to ceiling. There must have been at least five hundred copies, reckoned Tess, perhaps a thousand.
‘How can I help, Charles?’ she asked as they returned to the sitting room. He wagged his finger at her and smiled.
‘Sharp as a tack, as they say over here,’ he said, ‘I knew we would be friends. Yes, you can help poor old Charles in his hour of need. I feel sure there’s a huge market for my memoirs, but first I have to create buzz. If I can make this book hot, then the big publishers will come knocking. Do you know that John Grisham self–published originally? He sold his books from the boot of his car. Not that I would ever compare myself to John Grisham,’ he said tartly. ‘Plus I never travel by car.’
‘And I suppose this is where I come in,’ observed Tess, taking a cucumber sandwich.
‘Darling, you’ve acquired a glorious reputation as a top–notch publicist – nothing like these brash harridans you see around New York. You have class, my dear. You’d be perfect.’
Tess nodded thoughtfully. She didn’t doubt that his memoirs would be fascinating, not to say scurrilous and possibly libellous. And she had not forgotten Brooke and David’s engagement party, when Charles had been one of the few people who had spoken to her as an equal. On top of that, she liked him a lot and would love to see him succeed. But right now, she simply didn’t have the time.
‘Charles, you know I would love to help and I can try and give you some advice, but I do have my work cut out with the Asgills. The wedding and everything … ’
Charles arched an eyebrow. ‘Darling, I thought you’d like to do something a little more constructive with your time than hiding the dirty secrets of the Asgill family.’
Charles looked so downcast. and – frankly – lonely, that Tess couldn’t help herself.
‘Perhaps I can look at it in the new year?’ she sighed.
‘Marvellous,’ he beamed, clapping his manicured hands together. ‘I knew you would be the woman for the job. You’re just going to adore it, I promise you. All the stories I have, the parties, the pictures. I have plenty of pictures, look!’
He flipped through the book to the bound–in photographs in the centre.
‘Here I am at Truman’s black–and–white ball,’ he said, pointing at one snapshot. ‘And this is me at Studio Fifty–four with Warhol,’ he said, jabbing at another. ‘Now, wherever did I put that wonderful dogtooth suit?’
He snapped Simply Divine shut and handed it to Tess. ‘Go away and read it and then we can talk again.’
‘I will,’ she said as enthusiastically as she could.
‘You really are a darling,’ he smiled and picked up the teapot. ‘More tea?’
CHAPTER FIFTY–TWO
Mayflower House, a sprawling red–brick residence in a quiet suburban area of Wilmington, North Carolina, didn’t look particularly scary. In fact, the house was remarkable only in its ordinariness, just another large building in a neighbourhood full of similarly oversized relics from a grander age, yet still Paula found herself shaking as she walked towards it. Of course, it wasn’t the building itself that frightened Paula, but what was inside. Her past and, possibly, her future, both repelling her and drawing her in at the same time. It seemed impossible to believe that only twenty–four hours earlier, the most pressing thing in her life was deciding whether to use the black or white Limoges china at her dinner for Katrina Savoy. Now her life was unravelling so fast she dared not even think about where it might all end.
Tess Garrett had flown down with her to give moral support, but also to deal with Ted Kressler. Meredith had insisted that ‘all loose ends were tied off’ in person. Paula winced at the vivid memory of facing her mother–in–law after Tess had filled her in on the blackmail threat. Sitting behind the mahogany desk, Meredith had been economical with her words.
‘Pay him,’ she had said firmly.
Tess had objected. ‘There must be another way. You can’t start paying people like Kressler; the demands for money will never stop.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge after the wedding,’ replied Meredith. ‘The wedding is only six weeks away. We need to keep him quiet until then, after which his information will be less valuable.’
Then Meredith had turned the full force of her stare on Paula.
‘Now we have to consider your position, Paula,’ she had said coolly. ‘In some strange way, the Billington family might welcome a disabled child in the family, given their plan to push David to the highest levels of politics. Tragedy and heroics are tools commonly used to court media and public sympathy, and I doubt the Billingtons would be above it. Perhaps you might even weather the fact that you put Violet up for adoption. But to have hidden it for so long? To have abandoned your child then to have lied about your past for social acceptance and material gain? That would not be palatable to most people.’
Meredith had been careful to talk about the impact her revelation would have on the Billington family and their standing in society. She had never once referred to the Asgills, but Paula did not miss the implication. Her place in the family was now under threat.
Paula had left the meeting humiliated, feeling cheap and guilty. But most of all she left knowing that Meredith was right. For years, Paula had managed to justify her actions to herself, using her mother’s downward spiral and their slide into poverty to rationalize clawing her own way to the top, no matter the cost. But deep, deep down, Paula felt ashamed of what she had done.
She turned and looked back to the street where Tess was waiting in the car. Tess had offered to come inside, but Paula had refused. It was too private, too raw. She looked back at the entrance and took a deep breath. Just do it, she told herself. She f
ollowed the signs through the main doors and down a long corridor towards a huge conservatory filled with people and noise. It was the nursing home’s Winter Fair, and dotted around the room were stalls selling Christmas decorations, bags of Taffy, and mugs of hot, spiced apple juice. Double doors led to a walled garden. Somehow, it seemed to be sunnier here than on the street outside, and the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg. There must have been at least a hundred people out here – parents, children, and nurses all wandering between the willow trees, smelling the cinnamon and honey and the cool freshness of the Cape Fear river close by. Paula felt a nervous rush of expectation, although she had taken two little yellow pills to calm herself when they’d left the hotel.
Her eyes kept straying towards the children; some walking around, others confined to their wheelchairs, although most looked severely disabled. For a second Paula had to close her eyes and take in a long breath, the weight of her feelings making her chest feel tight.
‘Are you okay?’ asked a voice, and Paula turned to see a middle–aged woman with a concerned expression.
‘I’m looking for Violet?’ stammered Paula. She was going to say ‘Violet Abbott’, but remembered that she would now have changed her name. We’re no longer connected, thought Paula, with a strange lurch of pain.
‘Are you family?’ asked the woman. ‘I don’t think we’ve met? I’m Etta, the admin assistant here. I know Violet’s mum and dad are on vacation this week so they couldn’t come down for this.’
Paula nodded feebly. ‘Family, yes. Although I haven’t seen her in a very long time.’
‘She’s over there,’ said the woman, pointing to the far side of the grounds, where a uniformed nurse was pushing a wheelchair.
Thanking her, Paula moved towards them. Just one step, then another, she told herself. Just one foot in front of another. Closer and closer to the wheelchair, everything else became blocked out and meaningless as Paula stopped in front of her little girl. Although she wasn’t such a little girl any more; she was almost an adult. But her long limbs were thin and twisted, her shoulders hunched, head lolling to one side. Nodding to the nurse, Paula crouched down in front of the wheelchair, her knees trembling.
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