Original Sin

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘My instinct says we shouldn’t pay Russ,’ said Tess, thinking on her feet. ‘But if he does force our hand, would you be able to raise the funds?’

  ‘This time, yes. But I don’t want to have to keep on paying.’

  Tess walked to the window and gazed out at the park as she thought. Then she picked up her BlackBerry and made a call, checking her watch. It wouldn’t even be eleven o’clock in London yet. She saw Liz watching her and walked back towards the entrance.

  ‘Hi Jem. It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘Just a quick one. Which big–time movie producer did you say was at that sex party again?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  For as long as Brooke could remember, she had always loved fashion. As a little girl she had a big dressing–up box full of her mother’s flamboyant Seventies cast–offs and she had spent most of her teen years flitting from one iconic style to another. From the age of fifteen, when she had grown tall enough to pull it off, she had played with Left Bank beatnik, Gatsby preppie and Pre–Raphaelite boho, each change inspired by the art and literature she was encountering at school. She even had a brief, albeit cutting–edge flirtation with Goth when she had teamed her sister’s Comme des Garçon and Yohji Yamamoto hand–me–downs with thick black leggings. But as a woman, Brooke had settled into her style, which could be described as ‘chic with a twist’, especially as she liked supporting up–and–coming designers like Phillip Lim or Proenza Schouler, not that she was averse to mixing Chanel with American Apparel.

  Even before her relationship with David was made public, it was her fashion sense that had got her noticed on the New York society circuit, where she was recognized as one of the city’s most beautiful and stylish girls. But for all her fashion knowledge and experience, when it came to her wedding dress, Brooke was completely floored. It didn’t help that hers was one of the most high–profile weddings in years, so she had been approached by some of the biggest names in fashion; the choices were almost limitless, an embarrassment of riches. And while she had done her best to ignore her mother’s melodramatic statement that ‘this dress is going to be remembered by generations to come,’ Brooke knew it still had to be special, the most special dress she would ever wear in her life.

  ‘Darling, I think he’s here.’

  Meredith bustled out onto the terrace of their eighth–floor suite. They were staying at the Plaza Athénée, the opulent Left Bank hotel which had one of the best views of Paris’s skyline; Brooke could barely tear herself away. Dusk was settling over the city, the sky was streaked charcoal and gold behind the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, while the lights in the buildings below shone like a galaxy of stars.

  ‘Just coming,’ sighed Brooke, feeling both apprehensive and giddy. Guillaume Riche was one of the most flamboyant designers in the world, a master of showmanship. Over the past three decades he had created dresses for some of the most famous women on earth and his glorious evening dresses, seen many times on the red carpet at the Oscars, were nothing short of pure theatre. Preferring to work with vivid colours, Guillaume did not usually do wedding dresses, even as a tradition at the end of his couture show, but he had declared with typical modesty, ‘For this beautiful flower, I will create something of genius.’ At first Brooke hadn’t been convinced that she wanted to use him, as her all–time favourite wedding dress was Carolyn Bessette’s stunningly minimal column dress; surely that would be too simple for Guillaume’s tastes, she thought. Brooke had finally bowed to the pressure, however, as simply everyone had said that Guillaume was the best and, as the wedding dress was going to be Brooke’s first haute piece, it made sense to see the king of couture. It had also made sense to meet Guillaume in her hotel suite, despite the fact Brooke had been desperate to visit his atelier. One of her favourite childhood memories was visiting Yves Saint Laurent’s Avenue Marceau atelier with her mother. She could still vividly remember the rolls of exquisite fabric and the long wooden tables where the seamstresses worked, surrounded by swatches, pins, scissors and, to Brooke’s young eyes, magic. But although the problems with paparazzi were less severe in Paris, Brooke still had to be discreet while in the city. She couldn’t stand the general public knowing about the designer of her wedding dress before her husband–to–be.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t mind coming to the hotel this late,’ smiled Brooke, her excitement showing in her voice. ‘After all, we haven’t officially commissioned him yet, or whatever you do to order couture.’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t mind,’ said an irritated voice to her left. She looked over at Liz who was sitting upright in an armchair, flicking through a copy of French Vogue. ‘This will be a very high–profile commission for him; he’ll bend over backwards to secure it.’

  Brooke hated it when her sister’s mouth took on that thin, disapproving line; it reminded her too much of their mother. Liz had been in a particularly foul mood ever since they had boarded the flight at JFK. Meredith had thought it a good idea that the two sisters have a bonding weekend in Paris, combining the meeting with Guillaume with shopping on the Rue du Faubourg Saint–Honoré and a spa day at Carita, but now Brooke wasn’t so sure. When Liz was in a mood like this, she could make life unpleasant for everyone. Really unpleasant. The doorbell buzzed and Liz went to answer the door, her cold, stiff demeanour instantly changing to warmth and graciousness as she welcomed Guillaume.

  The designer kissed Liz, swept into the suite, and then kissed Brooke and Meredith on both cheeks. He flung off his black cashmere cape and settled into a duck–egg blue armchair.

  Brooke sat opposite him and instantly felt his eyes on her, already appraising her and sizing her up as she moved.

  ‘Ma cherie, I am blessed,’ he said finally. ‘You have a model figure and a complexion that will suit all shades of white.’

  ‘So white is not white?’ smiled Brooke.

  ‘Mais, non!’ he laughed, waving away the offer of champagne. ‘There is pure white – what artists call Chinese White, ivory, ice blue, oyster, blush, and a dozen shades in between.’

  Meredith picked up a document folder and spread its contents on the table between them.

  ‘As discussed, I’ve brought some photographs of the venue,’ she said, her voice crisp and polite. ‘The wedding is being held on a small cay off the Florida Keys. Sadly there is no church big enough to accommodate all our guests in the immediate area, so the ceremony will be held at the venue, with a small blessing the following day for close friends and family.’

  Guillaume began examining the photographs of Leonard Asgill’s white colonial–style mansion house. Every now and then he made notes in his leather notebook in long sloping handwriting.

  ‘It will be warm in the Keys in December, non?’

  ‘Hot, yes,’ replied Brooke. ‘Although the ceremony will be at six p.m. when it has cooled a little.’

  ‘This is not a beach wedding?’ he said with distaste.

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is good,’ said Guillaume, staring down at his notes. After seeming to gather his thoughts, he began sketching. Brooke craned her neck to see, too excited to speak.

  ‘Evening weddings can be dramatic,’ said Guillaume quietly, almost as if talking to himself. ‘So our fabrics can be sumptuous. Glorious tulle or silk jacquard, I think.’

  ‘I was thinking of perhaps a long silk column,’ said Brooke nervously. ‘Something elegant and timeless.’

  Guillaume chuckled good–naturedly. ‘How many times have you worn a tasteful little evening dress?’ he asked. ‘Something long and silk, slim–fitting? I suspect many times.’

  Brooke found herself nodding in agreement. Increasingly she had to attend all sorts of dinners and benefits with David, and she was always drawn to the dresses he had described, whether it was a Grecian style or a long silk bias cut. It was an obvious choice as they suited her tall, lean body; they did not shout too loudly for attention and they always looked fantastic. Guillaume now began asking Brooke all sorts of questions about seemingly banal details
of the day: the proposed music for the ceremony, the aspect of Leonard’s house, even the tone of David’s skin.

  ‘This is your wedding and you are fabulous,’ he explained. ‘You must therefore wear a fabulous creation, a dress you have never worn before or will ever wear again.’

  The thick black pencil lines of his sketch were already beginning to take shape. It had a voluminous ruffled skirt and a slim, fitted bodice with tiny cap sleeves. It was a Cinderella gown, a truly romantic confection, but somehow Brooke felt disappointed. It’s just an idea, she told herself firmly. This doesn’t have to be the one.

  ‘Remember, I want Brooke to look unforgettable,’ said Meredith, sipping at a flute of champagne as she paced around the art–deco suite.

  ‘You want me to create your dress, I will go away and draw. We will make you the dress of the century.’

  ‘How many fittings will I need?’

  ‘Couture takes time,’ he mused. ‘A dress like this will take the atelier maybe six or seven hundred hours. Many hundreds more for the embroidery work.’

  Brooke gasped.

  Guillaume continued. ‘First we make the pattern, a toile, then maybe we see you two more times. Finally I will come to the wedding and we can do the last adjustments on the day.’

  ‘Wow. Four fittings?’ said Brooke slowly.

  ‘Perhaps more for something this special.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Does that mean I will have to come to Paris for every fitting?’

  ‘Oui, oui. I like it for you to come to the atelier,’ he nodded. ‘Other couturiers work in different ways, their dresses get sent out to China, even Saudi; but for me, couture is Paris.’

  ‘It’s what we expected,’ smiled Liz, touching Guillaume lightly on the hand. ‘We know that art takes time, but we’re all so very, very excited.’

  Guillaume beamed, then kissed all three women lightly on both cheeks before swinging his cape around his shoulders like a villain in a silent movie.

  ‘I will go downstairs for supper now,’ he announced. ‘The chef Alain Ducasse is a friend, we do not need a reservation. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘And undo all the work we’ve done to keep this so secret?’ grinned Brooke.

  ‘Ah, but of course,’ he laughed. ‘I will get them to send you up a little chocolate pot.’ He held up one finger. ‘But only a little one. We must maintain this wonderful figure, no?’

  For a few seconds after he left the room, the three women were silent.

  ‘Well?’ asked Meredith, looking at her daughters. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought he was fabulous,’ said Liz, striding towards the window and looking out in the darkness. ‘What are we waiting for? Guillaume is the best at what he does.’

  Brooke gave a nervous laugh. ‘But one thousand five hundred man–hours to make my dress? I’ll have to put back the date of the wedding.’

  ‘But darling, it will be worth it,’ said Meredith.

  Brooke held up one hand.

  ‘Hold on, Mother, I thought this was just a conversation with Guillaume. We can talk to other people, right?’ She looked over at Liz for support, but she was staring out of the window, her arms folded. ‘David’s mother thinks we should go for a American designer like Vera Wang or Oscar de la Renta.’

  Meredith laughed tartly. ‘Speaks she who is dressed head to toe in Chanel couture.’

  ‘But an American couturier would be easier from a time point of view.’ She had already done a quick mental calculation, the thrill of her first couture gown giving way to drab practicalities. Four fittings, each one taking two or three days, not to mention the travel there and back: how was she supposed to fit in her working life at Yellow Door? They had two weeks’ holiday a year, and that had already been stretched like elastic. She had a vision of Mimi Hall having a full–on hissy fit and winced. ‘Just go with Guillaume, for goodness’ sake,’ said Liz, one hand distractedly playing with short blonde hair in the window’s reflection.

  Brooke looked at her sister with irritation. They had never been particularly close; growing up, Liz had always made Brooke feel that she was at best an annoyance, at worst a complete irrelevance. Brooke wanted to point out that it was her wedding dress, but Liz had that ‘do not mess with me or I will bite your head off’ expression.

  ‘And why are you so sure?’ she said tactfully instead.

  Liz went over to the drinks cabinet and began to pour herself a shot of vodka. She looked up and Brooke noticed Liz and her mother exchange a look.

  ‘Because commissioning Guillaume isn’t necessarily just about your wedding dress.’

  ‘Now then Elizabeth,’ said Meredith warily, ‘this isn’t the time or place.’

  ‘What else can it be about?’ asked Brooke with surprise. Liz took a sip of her drink and looked over at Brooke.

  ‘Don’t be so naive, Brooke,’ she said. ‘If Guillaume makes your dress it’s good news for the company. Asgill’s have been negotiating with Pierre Follet, Guillaume’s business manager for months about getting the licence to manufacture a fragrance for them. Riche pour Femme, Riche pour Homme. Frankly it’s amazing he hasn’t done a fragrance already. You could put Guillaume’s name on a bottle of cat–piss and it would sell through the roof, especially in Europe. So commissioning Guillaume to design your dress is Asgill’s chance to secure the licence. Perhaps make it a condition.’

  ‘Is this what my wedding is for you?’ said Brooke incredulously. ‘A business deal?’

  Liz looked unmoved and her coldness just upset Brooke all the more.

  ‘It’s not just about you all the time, Brooke,’ she said. ‘You have to think about the family. We can’t let business opportunities pass us by, not in this climate. Guillaume Riche is big deal in Europe, but designing your dress will make him a huge name in the States too. He knows that, and that’s why I want to go back to Pierre Follet and try and hammer out some initial agreement before we officially commission him to do the dress.’

  Brooke looked at her mother. ‘Mom, help me out here … ’

  ‘Brooke,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s only a dress.’

  Her skin burned hot. ‘Only a dress!’ This is my wedding dress!’

  ‘Now you know I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Meredith, coming over to hold Brooke’s shoulders. ‘What I mean is that Guillaume is one of the best designers in the world: why not have him design your dress? I saw how excited you were to come and meet him and, if you like what he does, then Liz’s idea is just a bonus. The dress is still the important thing.’

  She looked at her mother, feeling betrayed. She wasn’t a fool. Her mother had barely stopped smiling since her engagement to David. Brooke was aware that the alliance between the two families was a fantastic social and financial opportunity for both her mother and the Asgill Cosmetics brand, but she had hoped that what would matter most to Meredith was that her child was happy. It was her wedding day; Brooke wanted to feel like a princess, not a pawn.

  She thought of the afternoon she’d imagined together at the Carita spa and felt foolish. ‘So I suppose this girls’ weekend was just a ruse for Liz to meet Guillaume and position herself?’ she said, her eyes filling up with tears.

  ‘Now don’t be silly, Brooke,’ she said, stroking her daughter’s arms. ‘This is your special time, but you can’t blame Liz for wanting to take advantage of a situation. It’s all for the family, after all.’

  ‘Just think of it as your turn to do something for the family business,’ said Liz with a small triumphant smile.

  Brooke walked over to the table and snatched up a glass of champagne, drinking it down. She glanced across at her mother and sister, who were still staring at her with a mixture of annoyance and pity. Was she being selfish? Perhaps, but she was still furious at the way they had planned all this without having the courtesy, the respect for her intelligence, to consult her, to explain the business situation. That was what hurt. They still saw her as some flighty, soft–brained socialite who couldn�
��t be trusted with such sensitive information.

  ‘Brooke, honey. At least think about it,’ said Meredith. ‘This is a win–win situation for everyone.’

  Not quite everyone, thought Brooke, striding over to her bedroom and closing the door shut.

  *

  Larry Goldman, the eleventh most powerful man in Hollywood according to the latest Hot List in Variety, was a difficult man to track down. The fourth time Tess had phoned his New York office without response, she told his secretary she was calling about a movie entitled Wycombe Square, the name of the Venus party’s location. Tess added that she was sure he would want to talk to her. Within the hour, Tess and Larry had scheduled a meeting at the bar of the Four Seasons Grill Room. He was already there by the time she arrived and she recognized him immediately; short, rotund, salt–and–pepper hair, dark, hooded eyes and the round, worn face of a retired boxer. He certainly didn’t look one of LA’s biggest players, but then neither did he look like the kind of man who would routinely attend orgies. The restaurant had closed a couple of hours earlier and, although still open for drinks, the room was almost empty apart from two cocktail waiters polishing glasses and a couple of businessmen propping up the bar. Under the circumstances it was wise to be discreet.

  ‘Why do I suspect this conversation isn’t going to be good news?’ said Larry as he looked up from his drink – still water. Tess had heard that he’d been on a liquid–only diet for the last month in an attempt to take him from obese to merely overweight in readiness for his wedding – his fourth – to a glamorous Venezuelan set designer he had met on his last film.