She sat up, bristling again. ‘I’ll have you know I have a very rebellious streak.’
He chuckled down the phone. ‘Brooke. You’re hardly Che Guevara.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘You. A rebel. You think double parking is a felony.’
Her back stiffened. ‘I do not.’
‘Remember the first time we met at that party on Prospect Avenue? You told me the next day you went back to the house and took them a bag of bananas to replace the ones I’d taken for your hangover cure.’
‘It was somebody else’s food!’
‘We were students!’
They both laughed at the memory.
‘Well, I was just checking in,’ said Matt after a pause. ‘Making sure your ankle was okay. I’d better go.’
‘Me too,’ said Brooke quickly. ‘I have a night to myself … The week actually. David’s away so I thought I’d make the most of it by indulging in the Sex and the City box set.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Syria.’
‘Holiday?’
She laughed. ‘No. He’s signed up to do a series of six special reports for World Watch on CTV. He’s trying to sort out an interview with the President as we speak.’
‘He’s a busy guy.’
‘David or the President?’
‘Both, I dare say.’
‘Well, thanks again for this morning. Those painkillers have had me walking on air.’
There was another pause. ‘Listen, what are you doing this weekend?’ she said suddenly.
‘Not much. I’m not at the hospital.’
Well, let’s do something. You always had the best ideas for days out as I remember.’
‘There’s a challenge, Asgill. You can hardly walk. And I’m not being seen out dead with you if you have to wear those awful cycling goggles.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll leave it in your hands,’ she said. ‘And I promise, no more glasses.’
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO
‘This place is amazing,’ said Jemma with a shriek of pleasure, bouncing up and down on the small double bed in the spare room of Tess’s apartment. ‘Can we go down to the Magnolia bakery and get cupcakes? No. Century 21! I’m desperate for some new clothes. No, that restaurant in Central Park that overlooks the lake.’
‘The Boathouse?’ chipped in Tess.
‘That’s the one. God I just love New York, don’t you?’
Tess smiled at the genuine glee on her friend’s face as she looked around the West Village apartment. She had to admit it was impressive. The slim galley kitchen with the sleek, white fittings and granite surfaces. The bijou Philippe Starck bathroom, the living room painted in delicate creams with white shutters at the window that overlooked shady Perry Street.
‘I can’t believe you did this for me,’ said Jemma, running to the window and looking out.
‘Hey, I did it for me,’ grinned Tess. ‘I need you.’
‘And how much is the rent on this place again?’
‘It’s rent free.’
Jemma just laughed.
‘I have a friend who moved here about a year ago, she’s paying three thousand dollars a month for some dive in Brooklyn. And we thought London was a rip–off! New York, I am so ready for you,’ she laughed clapping her hands together.
Tess brought through two mugs of tea and they sat down on the sofa.
‘So how’s the Globe?’
Jemma pulled a face. ‘I haven’t sold one set of pictures to them since you left, not even a fifty–quid red–carpet shot. I suppose you know they made thirty people redundant?’
Tess had heard. It was on days like these that she felt as if she had made the right move.
‘Well, it’s going to be no picnic here either,’ she warned. ‘What do they say about the rich? They’re not like you and me? Well, it’s true. They get up to ten times more trouble.’
‘We can handle it,’ said Jemma. There was such a look of resolve on her face, it made Tess smile – it was if she was preparing to do battle. It was amazing the difference the last two years had made, she thought. Back then, Jemma had been a graduate from Wimbledon School of Art and about to start on a career in fashion photography. They weren’t close at first; in fact it had been Jemma’s sister Cat who was Tess’s good friend – she would only see Jemma popping in to say a glamorous hello at drinks parties or dinner. At that time, Jemma had struck her as a bit prissy and precious about her work. She had just landed a job in Paris as second assistant to French fashion photographer François Mitaud, and was full of her own creativity and fabulousness. Twelve months later, Tess had got a call. Jemma was in trouble and needed her help. Working late in Mitaud’s studio, the photographer had tried to seduce her, Jemma had said no. François wouldn’t accept it and had raped her. Tess had got on the Eurostar the next morning. Jemma’s sister Cat was now working in Canada and her parents had emigrated to New Zealand many years before, so Tess was the closest thing she had to family.
Tess had persuaded Jemma to go to the police, but they were unsympathetic and aggressive, insinuating that anyone who worked in the fashion industry only had themselves to blame. The same day, she had received a phone call from François, threatening that she would never work in the fashion industry again. Against Tess’s advice, Jemma had withdrawn her accusation, but the damage had already been done. Word was passed through the world of fashion that Jemma Davies was a troublemaker and she had returned to London broke and wounded. Tess looked at her friend, feeling terribly guilty. Despite knowing everything Jemma had been through, Tess hadn’t shied away from exploiting her either, and she knew she couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
‘Listen, Jem, I need to make a confession,’ she said. ‘It’s been weighing on my mind since I got here. Those photos of Sean Asgill at the Venus party that we didn’t use? I wasn’t quite straight with you about why they disappeared.’
Jemma cocked her head to one side. ‘I thought you said it was a legal situation.’
‘It was. Sort of. But the truth is I spiked the story because Meredith Asgill asked me to. I wanted this job, so I gave them the photographs.’
Jemma frowned. ‘So what are you sorry for? I thought you said those photos technically belonged to the Globe, didn’t they?’
Tess nodded.
‘Well then, you stitched the newspaper up, not me. And good for you; the Globe management stitched you up by not giving you the editor’s position when you were clearly the best person for the job. So I figure we’re all about even.’
‘Well, that would be true, but you don’t know the whole story,’ said Tess. ‘The Asgills offered me one hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the photographs at first. I turned that down.’
Jemma gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘I know, but it didn’t feel right. Taking a job with them was easier to accept and I’ve always wanted to work in New York. But I feel bad about denying you that money.’
Jemma shrugged. ‘It wasn’t as if I’d snapped Madonna in bed with the Queen, was it? Then I’d have been really pissed off if you’d swiped the pictures!’
She gave Tess a long searching look. ‘Look, so I might have been able to make a little bit of money, but Tess, without you, I’d probably be in some grotty bedsit in Camberwell on benefits. You have been a good friend to me, that’s all that matters.’
Tess closed her eyes and felt the relief flood through her. She’d only done what she could. After the Paris incident, Tess had persuaded the photo editor at the Globe to give Jemma a few shifts on the picture desk. Through that she had begun to talk to the paparazzi and discovered how much money they could make. Jemma still took her camera everywhere and, one night, shopping for Christmas presents just off Oxford Street, she had seen a little group of shoppers laden with parcels standing around a car. As she pushed to the front, she saw the driver was rock star James Bard – he had hit someone crossing the road. Jemma sold the pictures for ten thousand pounds
. In one sense it was the easiest money she’d ever made. In another, the hardest. Jemma had later told Tess how guilty, how dirty she had felt taking pictures of the scene. But with Tess’s encouragement, she hit the streets as a freelance paparazzo, and the second picture she took was easier, and the third and the forth. She set herself ground rules – she would never take a photo that hurt anyone. At least, no one who wasn’t fair game. Tess smiled inwardly; it was funny how those goalposts quickly changed.
‘Listen, Tess, don’t feel badly about any of this,’ said Jemma, gesturing towards the skyline. ‘Look, I’m here in New York, what could be better than that? I do this job because I love the buzz. Maybe it’s a different buzz than seeing my pictures in Vogue,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘But it’s a buzz all the same.’
Tess nodded slowly. She’d heard Jemma’s stories – three months earlier she’d been run off the road when she’d followed an A–lister’s 4x4 on her moped. The bodyguard driving the car had deliberately smashed into her, leaving Jemma and her bike mashed up on a lonely grassy verge. On another occasion, Jemma had been hit over the head with a bicycle pump by one of London’s most famous theatre actors. Some people might say that the paparazzi deserved it, but no one deserved to be killed or injured.
Jemma jumped up and went over to the window, gazing down with undisguised excitement at the yellow cabs in the street.
‘So, do you think you are going to be in my spare room for ever more?’ smiled Tess.
‘Given half a chance,’ grinned Jemma. ‘Now, are we going to paint this town red, white, and blue?’
*
Matt picked up Brooke the following Saturday at 7.30 a.m. It seemed ridiculously early to go for breakfast, let alone lunch, but then Brooke reminded herself that he was an ER doctor, who had his days and hours out of synch. It must be like having permanent jet lag.
Walking out of her building, she glanced left and right. There were no paparazzi she could see, but netherless she had taken precautions. She’d dressed down in dark indigo jeans, her favourite Stella McCartney T–shirt and white pumps, because her ankle was not yet completely healed. Her hair was tied up and covered with a knitted cap. She had also covered her eyes with a pair of wide black sunglasses; it was a bright sunny morning so plenty of people were doing the same. The night before she had almost cancelled today’s day out, feeling unsettled and guilty meeting Matt with David out of the country. But she’d shaken herself out of it. There was nothing to feel guilty about. Matt was just a friend and she was not going to let David, Tess Garrett, or the paparazzi dictate who she was going to be friends with. Was she supposed to go through life avoiding all men just because she was engaged and famous? Somehow going out with Matt felt like regaining control of her life.
‘Now that’s better,’ smiled Matt, pointing to her sunglasses as she got into his car, discreetly hidden in a side street.
‘I thought so,’ she grinned. ‘More Audrey Hepburn than Lance Armstrong. I have my Peggy Guggenheim in my bag too,’ she said, pulling out a large pair of cream framed sunglasses. ‘But I try to match my glasses with my disguises.’
‘Ah, it must be exhausting being a style icon,’ he said, turning the key and setting off. ‘Although where we’re going, you won’t need them.’
She looked at him suspiciously. Matt had been vague about their destination on the phone, only saying that no paparazzi would think to go there.
Brooke felt a little thrill of excitement as they left the metropolis behind.
‘I’m surprised you ended up in book publishing,’ said Matt as they drove along.
‘Funny you should say that. I was interviewed for Vogue the other week. They asked me why I got into children’s book publishing.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Because I have an English degree and I’m not sure you can do a great deal else with it. Plus the books that have had the most impact in my life are supposedly for children: Charlotte’s Web, The Giving Tree, even Tolkien.’
‘It’s a good answer, but is it true?’
She smiled. ‘The truth is I fell into it. After I graduated, my friend’s mother fixed me up with work experience at Yellow Door. I took it mainly because it seemed like a nice way to make a living without working for the family company and being constantly compared to my workaholic sister Liz. Then I found out I loved publishing, so when they offered me an editorial assistant’s position after my work experience stint, I jumped at it.’
‘I bet your mother didn’t like that.’
‘The strange thing is, I really don’t think she cared. Maybe because she already had William, Sean, and Brooke working for the company. Maybe because she thought publishing would be better for me.’
‘I can’t imagine she just shrugged, though.’
‘She said ‘Brooke, publishing is a very nice career for a girl looking for a suitable husband. And ever since I got together with David, she keeps reminding me that Jackie Onassis was an editor at Doubleday. If it’s good enough for Jackie … ’
Matt laughed.
‘Well, if David does get to be president and you’re his first lady, think of all the secrets you’ll find out, like who really killed Kennedy.’
‘Jack or Bobby?’
‘Both. And find out about Roswell too.’
‘Alien autopsies?’ She grinned. ‘I’d could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’
The roads out of New York were quiet. Conversation was casual and untaxing – gossip about mutual friends at Brown, her upcoming wedding, and life at Yellow Door.
Glancing at the clock on the dashboard she realized they had been driving for over two hours. Towns had thinned out to open farmland and a sign shot past announcing they were in Pennsylvania.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.
Seeing she wasn’t going to get an answer, she opened the window to let in the crisp country air. They passed through small towns with funny names: ‘Intercourse’ and ‘Bird–in–the–Hand’ zipped by, their solitary high streets crowded with soda fountains and blacksmith’s shops. Soon they were overtaking quaint farmers driving horse and buggies. If it were not for the constant presence of SUVs and pick–up trucks with tinted windows, she could almost convince herself that they had gone back in time. The penny finally dropped.
‘We’re in Amish Country,’ said Brooke, turning towards Matt.
‘Is it a really stupid idea?’ he asked. ‘You said you hate getting hassled when you go out in public, so I thought we should go where people didn’t have the slightest clue who you were.’
They looked at each other and burst out laughing. While Brooke could see that there were men with the trademark Amish spade beards and women in bonnets and pinafores, the towns still had fast–food joints and garish gift shops bristling with tourists. Brooke slipped her glasses back on.
‘I never said my idea was foolproof,’ smiled Matt.
They drove on into a valley. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and glanced at it, keeping one eye on the road.
‘Well, I think we’re here.’
‘It’s incredible that communities like this can still exist in the twenty–first century,’ said Brooke quietly.
‘Actually the Amish are one of the fastest–growing communities in the world,’ said Matt. ‘They marry within other Amish communities and have lots of children.’
‘That’s so … so old fashioned,’ said Brooke.
Matt smiled. ‘Not really. People tend to marry their own kind. Look at you and David. In fact all the way through college you had boyfriends like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Boys with trust funds and sports cars.’
She blinked at him for a moment, then decided silence would be the best response. She wanted to disagree with him but her ex–boyfriends were of a type. No bad boys or losers. Just a string of Mr Rights. The one time she strayed off the path of nice boys from good f
amilies – with Dr Jeff Daniels, her former tutor who had bowled her over with his suave intelligence – it had ended quickly and badly. Looking back, that relationship had started when she had been in the throes of grief after her father’s death, and he had been in the throes of a mid–life crisis. After that she’d reverted to type. And now she was getting married to David Billington – the prototype rich, successful, all–American male.
They took a right down a quiet dusty road. Finally they passed through a picket–fenced field and into the grounds of a small farm.
‘Matt, we can’t just drive into here,’ Brooke hissed. ‘This isn’t Disneyland, it’s someone’s home!’
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine from Brown, Tom Chance, knows this family. He’s a doctor at a local hospital with an outreach programme for the Amish.
As they got out of the car, a woman came out to greet them. She was dressed in a blue dress with a long full skirt, white apron, and a bonnet. Brooke thought she looked like Kelly McGillis in the film Witness – it was her only reference point for the Amish community.
‘Welcome, Matthew,’ she said with a smile. There was a faint inflection to her accent. German? thought Brooke. Dutch perhaps?
‘Good to see you, Ruth. How’s your little girl?’
‘She’s fine now. Tom is a good doctor. Now who is this?’ she asked, turning her attention to Brooke.
‘Ruth, may I introduce Brooke Asgill? She is an old friend from college.’
‘Friends?’ she said mischievously.
‘Yes, Ruth,’ Matthew said seriously.
‘A man should not be without a wife, Matthew,’ she said. ‘It has been too long for you.’
Brooke watched his cheeks redden and smiled to herself.
‘Okay, okay. Now how about this buggy ride we were talking about?’
The horse and buggy was standing outside a red barn. Ruth climbed into the front seat of the buggy, taking hold of the reins. Brooke and Matt clambered into the seat behind her.
‘Our journey is going to be about three miles,’ said Ruth as she geed the horse into a trot. She turned and gave them a mischievous smile.
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