‘You’re such a big girl now,’ she said, her voice only a whisper, barely registering the tears that ran in hot streams down her cheeks. She reached out and touched Violet’s gnarled fingers. To Paula’s surprise, Violet’s eyes looked up, meeting her gaze. For a moment she seemed more alert. Does she recognize me? thought Paula wildly, covering her mouth to choke back a sob. No, how could she?
But they had the same eyes, thought Paula. She had tried to forget that detail, but now she could see it; the same big, grey eyes that looked back at her from the mirror every morning. And such beautiful, thick, golden hair. Although she had let Violet go, although they were no longer connected by the same name, they were linked by genetics forever. Somehow, that gave Paula comfort. There were so many things she wanted to say as she stared at her daughter’s face, but she knew she couldn’t. Violet’s understanding was limited, but even a childlike mind would understand if she told her she was her mother. But it just wasn’t fair. The truth usually isn’t, thought Paula.
‘I think your friend is here,’ said the nurse, nodding behind Paula. She turned, expecting to see Tess, but her jaw dropped.
It was William.
How could he be here? she thought, gripped with panic. How could he know?
William had left for London the morning Tess had come to the apartment to tell her about Ted Kressler, and although she had spoken to him on the phone, Paula had not breathed a word of what was going on. Meredith? Tess? She was too emotionally drained for anger, she simply stood there, her shoulders sagging as he approached.
‘You’re here,’ she said, fighting to keep composed. ‘How did you know where to find us?’
William gave a half–smile. ‘I’ve been here before.’
‘I don’t understand.’
William touched her arm gently and led her slightly away from Violet and the nurse.
‘Paula, I knew.’
‘You knew?’ she whispered incredulously.
‘About six months ago, I bought you that dress for the Met gala dinner, remember?’
Paula nodded dumbly. It had been a beautiful vintage Valentino evening dress. He was always giving her little surprises, she thought, her mind wandering off on a tangent. About time I gave him one back, she added to herself.
‘Well, I had gone into your closet to find out your dress size and I … well, I found an old letter that Marion Quinn had sent you,’ he said, his cheeks colouring a little. ‘It mentioned your daughter Violet.’
Paula remembered that letter. Marion Quinn had sent it to her modelling agency when she was in her early twenties and she thought it had been well hidden. Obviously not. Paula knew all along she should have destroyed that letter, but she had never been able to, and now it was too late. Her throat felt so thick she could barely swallow. He was going to divorce her. She almost laughed out loud at the irony: now she was getting what she wanted, she found she didn’t want it at all.
‘I hired a private investigator and eventually he found Violet,’ said William. ‘I wanted to meet her so I came down here on my own.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew?’ asked Paula, her voice hoarse.
William shook his head sadly. ‘Honey, I tried so many times.’
She nodded. ‘I know how that feels.’
‘Mother told me yesterday about Ted Kressler,’ continued William, ‘and that you were coming down here with Tess. So I got a flight straight here from London.’
With an effort, Paula looked up at his face, trying to read his expression.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
The nurse, who had been hovering, came over and took hold of the wheelchair handles. ‘I have to take Violet inside now,’ she smiled apologetically.
‘Just another minute, please,’ asked Paula. Hesitantly, the woman retreated and Paula reached out to gently stroke Violet’s hair.
‘I understand what you did. Why you did it,’ said William quietly.
Paula looked up sharply. ‘But you don’t approve,’ she said.
William ran a hand over his chin. ‘No, but … but she’s still your daughter, Paula. There’s no need to hide her any more. Violet has a new family now, but we don’t have to pretend she doesn’t exist.’
For a moment, Paula looked at him with hope. Was he suggesting that they could move on from this? No, that was too much to hope.
‘Your mother hates me,’ she said. ‘And the Billingtons will go crazy.’ For a moment she thought about her friends in New York, about her newly elevated social circle and how they would freeze her out, but suddenly their disapproval seemed immaterial compared to what her husband was thinking.
‘William, I … ’ she began, but he stepped forward and took her in his arms.
‘Shhh … ’ he said softly as she burst into tears, sobbing into his shoulder.
‘What’s so bad?’ he whispered into her hair. ‘What’s so bad? We’ve still got each other; we’ll always have each other.’
She shut her eyes, feeling the warm afternoon sunshine on her neck and enjoying the sensation of William’s arms wrapped tightly around her. At that moment, she realized how completely she loved him. Perhaps it was a different sort of love to the one she had read about as a teenager. This love was not breathless, thrilling, and sensual, but was protective, deep and, above all, forgiving. How could she ask for more than that?
The nurse walked over.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘Violet really needs to go inside now.’
Paula nodded sadly and she bent to kiss her daughter on the cheek. As she did so, her eyes met Violet’s, and she could have sworn they shone with happiness.
‘See you soon, darling,’ whispered Paula as she watched the nurse pushing her back into the building. William wrapped his arms around her from behind and squeezed.
‘She knows,’ he said simply.
Paula nodded sadly. ‘Let’s go home.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–THREE
David Billington was waiting for Tess when she got back to the apartment. She silently cursed when she saw him sitting in the living room. She had spent the last forty–eight hours flying from New York to Charleston to Wilmington and back to New York again. In that time she’d paid off a blackmailer, seen Paula’s long–lost daughter, and was frankly so emotionally and physically exhausted she felt quite sure she could sleep for a week, not that there was any hope of that. She gave David a bright smile, trying to hide her annoyance. After all, this was not what she had signed up to do. She was a publicist, for God’s sake! She was supposed to firefight any negative stories, massage the press, maybe set up a few interviews. Right now she felt like a cross between Henry Kissinger and Bruce Willis in Die Hard. But her irritation gave way to worry as she saw his grave expression. Besides which, he had never been to her flat before, and thus she had to assume he had good reason. She sat on the armchair and peeled off her coat.
‘Been waiting long?’ she asked. ‘Sorry, I’ve just been out of town on business.’
If only he knew where she’d been and why. Another mission impossible, covering up the tracks of the Asgill family. And what was it all for? The career of the handsome, if tired–looking man sitting opposite her. He shook his head.
‘Just twenty minutes or so. Jemma was in but she just popped out to get cigarettes.’
He was fiddling with the cuffs of his white shirt and it unnerved her. Tess had never seen David look anything less than immaculate and composed. There was a pot of coffee on the table in front of him. Tess leant over and poured herself a mug. It was thick, hot, and black and it sent an instant jolt around her body. No wonder New Yorkers loved the stuff. Tea just didn’t pep you up like this.
‘So is everything okay?’ Now she was more awake she could sense his troubled vibe.
David reached into the inside pocket of his cashmere overcoat and pulled out a magazine. ‘Ever heard of the Washington Spy?’
Tess was vaguely aware of it, although it was outside of her usual fra
me of reference. A satirical Washington magazine printed on grey recycled paper, it had a small circulation but was a popular guilty pleasure for the younger Washington movers and shakers, who loved its irreverent and scurrilous take on political events and life on Capitol Hill. She took the magazine from David and examined the cover. It was a line drawing of David Billington opening a wardrobe full of skeletons.
‘What have they got?’ she asked, flipping to the story anxiously.
‘The Olivia Martin story. I assume you know all about that saga?’
Tess nodded as she scanned the pages. It was a rehash of the Olivia Martin story, except this piece was bolder than the cuttings Tess had previously read. It stated that Howard Asgill had been having an affair with Olivia, insinuated that Howard had something to with the drama of her disappearance, and asked the question as to whether David Billington could weather the scandal if he ran for Congress next year. Tess felt her heart sink. The Washington Spy might be a small–time magazine but it still had influence, particularly where it mattered, in the corridors of power and, by extension, the news media. And while Tess had warned Meredith on several occasions that she couldn’t control tabloid gossip, she felt sure David’s mother held her personally responsible for every nasty blind story or unflattering paparazzi shot of her daughters. Well, the shit is really going to hit the fan this time, thought Tess. And this time she felt sure that the Billingtons were going to take exception to the story too.
‘This is an early subscribers’ edition, so the story won’t have broken in any of the papers yet,’ said David. ‘I don’t think my father knows about it yet, but I have my lawyer on it already seeing what we can do.’
Despite her misgivings, Tess shifted into reassurance mode.
‘This is old news, David. It’s just tittle–tattle, nothing more.’
‘Come on, Tess. We all know about this story, but this is the first time Howard Asgill’s name has been publicly linked to Olivia’s disappearance.’
Tess knew he was right. This story had always unsettled her, but when it was just a missing actress at a wedding, even a semi–famous actress who had supposedly drowned in a drugged–up stupor, Tess knew it would not have any direct impact on David’s popularity and electability.
But the Washington Spy story was exactly the kind of ‘no smoke without fire’ story that could easily smear someone’s name, and Tess knew how these things could easily run out of control.
‘It may all have happened over forty years ago, Tess,’ he added. ‘But for many people, especially for the younger politicos in Washington, this story would be a fresh scandal. And scandal is the last thing we need right now.’
‘It’s not necessary going to pan out like that,’ said Tess firmly.
‘You know, three months after I started dating Brooke, my father came to me to talk about Olivia Martin.’ said David, looking down at his hands. ‘He told me it might cause “problems”. He had an investigator snoop around the story, but it threw up nothing.’
He looked up at Tess with genuine sadness. ‘I love Brooke, Tess, and I want to marry her. I don’t care about what her father might or might not have done because, whatever it is, it’s nothing to do with us. But my father does care, and if any more stories start coming out of the woodwork–’
‘Well, we can’t let that happen,’ said Tess quickly. ‘Besides, I’m sure there’s nothing more to say on the subject. No one knows what happened to Olivia Martin.’
His dark blue eyes grew softer. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
Tess rubbed her cheeks to shake off her tiredness. ‘Look, I doubt we can injunct the magazine, seeing as they are simply rehashing an old story, but see what your lawyers say. Either way, I’d say it’s better to try to get the magazine on our side rather than against us. Do we know who owns it?’
‘Ben Foley, I know him vaguely. Rich parents. The magazine is a very successful little hobby for him.’
‘Well, see if you can speak to him,’ said Tess. ‘We don’t want this Olivia Martin story to run and run. In the meantime, the best way of killing it off once and for all is to find out what really happened.’
Just then Jemma burst through the door with a cigarette in her mouth and a brown bag under her arm.
‘I got wine,’ she said, looking hopefully from Tess back to David.
‘Great,’ said Tess. ‘Get three glasses, because we have to talk.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–FOUR
Liz had arrived first. She let herself into the hotel suite at The Carlyle with her own key. It was a welcome change to meet here instead of Wendell’s place at the Pierre, as Liz never felt truly in control unless she was on her own or neutral territory. She took off her clothes and had just slid naked under the crisp white sheets when Wendell appeared at the bedroom door.
‘You’re late,’ she smiled, stretching her arms out languorously on the pillows.
Instead of his usual smile, Wendell frowned and threw a copy of the Washington Spy on the bed.
‘Have you seen this?’ he asked.
Liz bent forward, clutching the sheet around her body.
‘What is it?’
‘Take a look and then you might understand why you’re not the person I most want to see this afternoon.’
Confused, she flicked through the magazine.
‘Not this bullshit story again,’ she said with irritation. Wendell slipped off his Brioni jacket and unfastened his tie. His mouth was set in a firm, fixed line. She knew the expression well – she called it ‘the death–mask’. It only hinted at the ruthlessness he was prepared to bring to a problem.
‘You would say it was bullshit,’ he said sitting on the edge of the bed. His implication annoyed her. She was not her mother, or Brooke, or Tess Garrett, all of whom would be scared stiff of this story derailing their precious wedding. Liz couldn’t care less whether they got married or not, none of that fairy–tale shit bothered her. What did bother her, however, was the idea that Wendell – and every other gossip down the years – was accusing her father of being somehow involved in Olivia Martin’s disappearance. It was a foul slur Liz would not tolerate.
‘Screw you, Wendell,’ she spat, pulling the sheet further up her body. ‘Olivia Martin was a crazy bitch who killed herself, end of story. It’s nothing to do with my father or my family, and the idea that you believe in this groundless crap pisses me off.’
There was a long silence as they glared at each other, then Wendell slowly shook his head. He looked up sceptically. ‘I hope you’re right about it having nothing to do with the Asgill family, because I’m not in the mood to take any chances.’
Liz took a deep breath to calm herself. She was still mad as hell, but tearing into Wendell wasn’t going to solve anything. She especially didn’t want to rock the boat with the Skin Plus buyout so imminent. It had been like extracting teeth to get Wendell to agree to finance the deal; he was a bitch about negotiating even the finest details of the contract. If Liz had been expecting any special favours because she was sleeping with him, she was very much mistaken. Instead Wendell had demanded eighty per cent of the equity in return for the purchase price from Asgill, although Liz had worked out some share clawback provisions if certain optimistic sales targets were reached. She was confident they would be and she was also confident she and Wendell would be a sensational partnership out of bed, as well as in it. The man was a pit bull: a huge asset if he was on your side, but you really didn’t want him snapping at your heels.
‘Come here,’ he said gruffly.
She paused and then crawled across the mattress, sitting behind him with her long, smooth legs either side of him. Pressing her naked breasts into his back, she planted feather–light kisses on the back of his neck and unbuttoned his shirt, caressing his chest.
‘Between us,’ she whispered, ‘we can sort out anything.’
Sliding her hands down the front of his body, her nimble fingers undid his trousers and eased out his hardening cock.
‘D
avid and Brooke should do a pre–wedding interview,’ she said, coiling her fingers around his thick pink shaft, moving her hand expertly up and down as she felt him grow bigger and harder in her grip.
‘We’ll manage the story,’ she whispered, feeling herself moisten. ‘Control it, tell our side. Look at Obama, he came clean about taking drugs before he came to office and everyone forgave him. But Clinton with that whole “I didn’t inhale” bullshit? They crucified him.’
‘That was a joint,’ growled Wendell. ‘This is murder.’
Her hand stopped moving and her fingers tightened on his cock just a fraction.
‘It was suicide,’ she said firmly, ‘or an accident. Fuck, maybe Olivia is still alive, who knows. There was never a body.’
Suddenly Wendell stood up and, facing away from her, zipped himself back up. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea today.’
She looked at him fiercely. ‘I guess not.’
Sliding out of bed, she strode into the bathroom, still smarting, her body denied its pleasure. Putting her black trouser suit back on she splashed water onto her face and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. Calm down, Liz, remember the big picture, she told herself. Control your story. Manage him.
When she reappeared, to Liz’s surprise, Wendell had a sheepish look on his face.
‘Liz I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind,’ he said, holding out his hand. She allowed him to pull her in.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, not used to hearing Wendell apologizing. ‘It’s just that this is my father.’
‘And this is my son.’
He kissed the soft fold of her ear lobe and it felt good. She stroked his neck, feeling his body become less tense.
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