Original Sin (50 page)

But it did and it had, and it didn’t look like the ground was going to open up and swallow her. So, groaning, Tess got up, grabbed the empty bottle of Chablis, and threw it into the bin with a thud.

CHAPTER THIRTY–EIGHT

Debs Asquith marched into Brooke’s apartment and handed her a takeaway coffee. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Not quite,’ said Brooke, hunting around her bedroom for a missing Jimmy Choo shoe. They were due to set off for a girlie afternoon of pampering at Skin Plus, Brooke’s treat to Debs for all the extra
Portico
–related work she’d had to pile onto her friend recently.

‘So, how good are these therapists at your sister’s spa exactly?’ asked Debs, sipping her Frappuccino. ‘Can they get me looking as good as you by this evening? I could do with it because, believe it or not, I have a date.’

‘A date!’ smiled Brooke, looking up from her closet. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘Well, you’ve been in La La Land for the last three days, haven’t you? Speaking of which, how was the City of Angels?’

‘Fantastic,’ grinned Brooke, still on a high. ‘Do you know what? I think I could live in LA.’

‘You? The die–hard New York City girl?’

Brooke had surprised herself by how much she had enjoyed herself on the West Coast, despite the scariness of the meetings at the Hollywood studios. At one point she and Eileen had been round a conference table with seven executives, one of whom actually had four flashing telephones in front of him, and there was still no word about whether they wanted to option
Portico
. But what Brooke had loved was the LA life. For a huge metropolis, teeming with freeways, cars, and beautiful people, she’d had an unusually relaxed time. She’d stayed at the home of one of Sean’s ex–girlfriends, an actress currently out of the country filming, which was high up and secluded in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by oleander bushes and covered with a wraparound sky that seemed so close Brooke could almost touch it. Even better had been when she and Eileen had ventured out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant recommended by one of the studio execs. The paparazzi’s flashbulbs had started popping on the streets as soon as she stepped out of her car but, to her astonishment, she saw that the fuss and excitement was actually over the arrival of Hayley Milano, an eighteen–year–old singer caught in the middle of a sex–tape scandal. Brooke realized with a flutter that outside of New York she just wasn’t as famous, and it felt
wonderful.

The missing shoe, inexplicably, was in her swimwear drawer. ‘Finally,’ sighed Debs, ‘let’s
go
!’

Brooke held up one finger. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, beckoning Debs towards her spare room. ‘What size feet are you again?’

‘Eight,’ replied Debs, following her friend with a puzzled look.

‘Wow,’ she gasped. The room was crammed with boxes and bags full of clothes, handbags, shoes, jewellery, and cosmetics, piled in heaps and spilling onto the floor. Debs ran a finger along a rail full of designer clothes.

‘Look at this stuff.’

‘Take what you want,’ smiled Brooke. ‘You have got a date tonight, after all.’

‘But … but there’s thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff in here,’ Debs protested.

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t pay for any of it,’ said Brooke. ‘As soon as I got engaged, whoosh, all this free stuff started appearing. Apparently celebrities get given free stuff by publicists and designers so they can wear it, get photographed in it, endorse it, so that thousands of women around the world run out and buy it. Cheap advertising for them, I guess.’

Debs clapped her hands together. ‘I love having a friend getting married to a famous billionaire.’

Brooke smiled with pleasure as she watched Debbie dance around the room like a child in a sweet shop. Debs was her most down–to–earth friend, openly disdainful of the society world and the fashion circus that Brooke was obliged to involve herself in, but every girl loved shoes and handbags, didn’t they? Putting down her drink, she joined in, opening bags and foraging in boxes. Debbie slipped on a pair of zebra–print heels, then unzipped a white linen garment bag, peeking inside. ‘Oh, now this is amazing,’ she said, pulling out a long, quartz–coloured gown and holding it against her. She posed in front of the full–length mirror, then pulled a face.

‘Nah, one for you I think,’ she said. ‘For a start, I wouldn’t get the zip halfway up, and I’m not quite sure where the hell I’d wear it in Queens.’

But Brooke was only half listening. She couldn’t take her eyes off the dress that she had just removed from a black garment bag. It was incredible. Long, lean, and so fluid it shimmered. An elegant V–shaped neckline curved into a finely beaded bodice, the slim column of the dress sweeping out into a fishtail. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t even bothered to open it before now.

She quickly stripped off her jeans and top.

‘Having a hot flush or something?’ smiled Debs, raising an eyebrow.

Ignoring her, Brooke slid into the dress. Looking into the mirror, her heart leapt. It was perfect, her dream dress. In fact it was exactly the dress she had imagined she would get married in. Not the colour, or even the fabric, but the shape – it was exquisite, both relaxed and romantic yet elegant and dramatic. It was exactly what she had been trying to describe to Guillaume Riche before he had steam–rollered her into an elaborate corseted gown she knew in her heart of hearts was wrong.

‘Now that’s … wow!’ was all Debs could say.

Feeling a little shudder of excitement, she went over to the bag to examine the label. Nicholas Diaz. She’d never heard of him. But he was going to hear from her, and soon.

*

Of Meredith’s many skills, one of her most impressive was entertaining. More precisely, she was a seasoned expert in commanding and coordinating a vast team of people – chefs, maids, butlers, waiters, and barmen – who together would create a dinner that looked, to its guests, effortless. In another life, Meredith would have made a great general. Every one of her talents was required for this night, however, as it would be the first time all of the Billingtons and Asgills would meet. The arranging of their respective diaries had been a military campaign in itself, but Meredith would not – could not – let a single detail slip on this important night. By three in the afternoon, Meredith’s house was chaos, with caterers, delivery boys, and flower arrangers all jostling for space. Liz was used to the pomp and circumstance of her mother’s parties, but she had never seen so much intense activity before a ‘casual supper’.

‘I don’t remember you making all this effort for a meet–the–family supper when I was getting married,’ said Liz, watching from the doorway of the formal dining room as her mother supervised three Filipina maids in the delicate task of arranging the place cards according to her intricate table plan.

‘We had a brunch,’ said Meredith distractedly, before turning her attention back to the maids. ‘No, no, Sunita. Wendell must go to my right, David to my left. Can we please do it
as per
the plan?’

Liz smiled as her mother flapped and clucked like a hen. Party arrangements were the only time she saw Meredith lose her seamless elegance. Then again, she was probably still upset about the sale of Asgill Cosmetics falling through. Well, it was swings and roundabouts; the very reason for her mother’s disappointment was Liz’s cause to celebrate tonight.

‘Correction, Mother. We had a brunch the day before the ceremony as part of the festivities,’ said Liz, pointedly.

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Meredith, picking a crystal goblet off the table and examining it in the light, ‘You are objecting to getting to know the Billingtons better on the basis of
wedding envy
?’

‘I never said that,’ snapped Liz, annoyed at the insinuation that she might be jealous of Brooke and her fairy–tale wedding. She narrowed her eyes as Meredith fussed over the china. She was almost pitiful, thought Liz. Meredith was like a downtrodden girlfriend running after a badly behaved boyfriend, knowing you are never going to get treated with the respect you deserve but still desperate for whatever scraps of attention you can get. She had no intention of behaving like a fawning schoolgirl that evening. The only way to get respect from people like the Billingtons was to behave as if you were on level pegging with them. In fact, she was quite looking forward to that.

‘Is this getting serious?’ asked Brooke in a low conspiratorial voice as she followed Liz into the dining room. Liz followed her gaze to Rav, who she had to admit looked utterly handsome in a navy blue suit and pale pink shirt.

‘Not all of us are obsessed with wanting a lifetime commitment,’ she whispered back.

Brooke frowned. ‘I don’t know why you are so wedding–phobic. Not when you’ve been down that road yourself.’

‘
Especially
as I’ve been down that road myself,’ said Liz, looking around the table with interest to see who had been seated next to whom. Wendell Billington, she smiled, picking up the place card. Thank goodness it wasn’t David, she thought, taking a few moments to observe her future brother–in–law. He was so clean–cut, she wondered if he squeaked between the sheets. Liz did admire his success and potential, however, although he still had that slightly useless look about him that Liz despised. Good–looking and charming, he was the perfect puppet. Success was easy when you’d been spoon–fed from the cradle; with the right schools and contacts, anyone with a modicum of drive would do well.

Conversation flowed steadily and politely over dinner. Paula talked about the decline of couture with Rose Billington, with such authority that the older woman assumed she was a long–standing couture client. William, Leonard, Robert, and Rav kept to the safe confines of sport, while Sean, who had been forced to make the journey from London, discussed David’s chances of an Emmy and Peabody award for his report on human trafficking between Cuba and the Florida Keys.

Meredith monopolized Wendell, while Liz quietly enjoyed the selection of fine wines – the very best that Meredith’s wine cellar had to offer.

After a dessert of rose–infused pannacotta, Meredith suggested they adjourn to the library for port.

‘I hear you are a cigar man,’ said Liz leaning over to Wendell.

‘Say that quietly. Rose has me on a health kick.’

‘We have an excellent selection,’ she whispered.

Everyone filed out of the room except Wendell, who loitered in his seat while Liz made a phone call to Sunita in the basement staff quarters. A few minutes later, one of Meredith’s hired waiters came through holding a heavy walnut humidor.

‘After you,’ said Liz.

‘You surprise me,’ said Wendell, arching an eyebrow.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t meet many female cigar smokers.’

‘Well, I have made it a rule never to smoke more than one cigar at a time,’ said Liz, smiling flirtatiously.

‘Mark Twain.’

‘Very good.’ Liz shrugged and went on, ‘I just like it. The rituals. The smell. It relaxes me. It’s a little like creating a fragrance.’

She watched him as he browsed through the humidor. Meredith had stocked it especially, largely from a cigar auction in Zurich; there were even some pre–Castro Montecristos, which must have cost her upwards of thirty thousand dollars. He looked up and saw her smiling.

‘I was just trying to guess what cigar man you were.’

‘Then why don’t you guess?’

‘Mature, robust … ’

Actually, she knew a great deal about Wendell Billington. His official age was fifty–eight, although Liz had worked out he was nearer sixty.

‘Ah, you flatter me.’

‘A Cohiba number five?’

Wendell laughed. ‘Good choice,’ he said, taking one from the box.

He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I hear Bruno Harris has re–evaluated his offer for Asgill’s.’

Liz nodded as she snipped the end off her cigar with a gold cutter.

‘Yes, it caused the deal to fall through,’ she said, not wanting to give away her own feelings.

She looked at Wendell. She wished she could tell him all about her business dealings over the past fortnight, feeling sure he would approve of her ruthlessness and single–mindedness. In fact, her idea to derail the sale of the family company to Bruno Harris’s Canopus Capital had been so simple it was almost laughable. Through a network of contacts, carefully hiding her trail as she went, Liz had leaked a number of damaging documents about the company to Bruno Harris’s advisers; most notably, the flurry of legal threats Asgill’s had suffered recently over a self–tanning product which, on certain types of skin, caused an extreme reaction, in some cases actually leading to scarring. Even more damaging were the potentially explosive revelations about Asgill’s iconic cleanser The Balm, which had been sent directly to Hugh Montague, who was in charge of the due diligence. According to her sources, the main reason Harris was so interested in purchasing Asgill Cosmetics was that he felt he could market it to the East, particularly the rapidly expanding Indian beauty market, thereby doubling its value as a brand. But Liz had correctly predicted that someone had not done their homework properly. One of the key ingredients of The Balm was beef tallow and enzymes derived from pigs, ingredients not welcome in either Hindu or Muslim markets. Five years earlier, anticipating a boom in the global beauty markets, the Asgill Research and Development lab had tried, unsuccessfully, to replicate The Balm using a beef tallow substitute, but the product just wasn’t as good and, anyway, it had pushed the price up considerably.