Tess simply nodded. ‘Well, I’d better get back to my apartment,’ she said. She didn’t want to get sucked into the internal workings of another bad relationship. She’d had enough of that to last her a lifetime.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SIX
Paula Asgill only had to wait five weeks and three days before her daughter was invited to Princess Katrina’s Seventy–Second Street townhouse. Strictly speaking, Casey hadn’t been singled out for the play–date. By happy accident, Carlotta’s sixth birthday was in May and, in an effort to get her fully integrated with her new classmates, her mother had decided to throw a party at her house. Even so, Paula felt a sense of triumph when the stiff, pale pink invitation bearing Carlotta’s family crest arrived by courier at the house. She had immediately gone down to FAO Schwarz, the toy store where Carlotta’s birthday list was held, to ensure that Casey could be assigned one of the best gifts on the list. Paula had then spent hours in Bonpoint on Madison Avenue selecting a new outfit for her daughter. But if Paula had put careful consideration into her daughter’s appearance, it was nothing compared to the agony of deciding what to wear herself. Standing in her walk–in closet in just her Hanro underwear, her hair already cut and blow–dried by Paul Podlucky that morning, Paula silently bemoaned the fact that she had not one piece of couture to wear. She flipped through the racks dismissively. To her left were rows of white bags that contained her evening gowns. Above it, in see–through boxes, were other dresses that had been worn more than a handful of times; clearly they could not be seen out in public again until she handed them down to Casey and Amelia at sixteen, when they would be sufficiently vintage. Skirts in an assortment of neutral shades were to her right, colour coordinated cashmere tops were behind her. Her shoes were lined up in perfect symmetry, six pairs per row, like soldiers on parade, not one even slightly scuffed or dirty. Finally she picked up a cap–sleeved dress made by a small but promising French designer she had found through an obscure British fashion magazine. She put on a pair of high Zanotti heels, being careful not to touch the soles, which had been in contact with dirty streets, and examined herself in the mirror. The kingfisher blue colour suited her; every time her photograph had appeared in Vogue she had been wearing this striking shade. She definitely wanted to stand out today.
Finally ready, Paula gripped her daughter’s hand as she stood outside Princess Karina’s Seventy–Second Street townhouse. She knew the six–storeyed building well, although had never been inside. Double–fronted in dove–grey stone, with an ornate iron gate, it had originally belonged to a billionaire hedge–funder who had been jailed after a fraud scandal a year ago. Karina’s husband Arlo Savoy had bought it before it had even gone on the open market, for a sum rumoured to be in excess of eighty million dollars.
‘Is Carlotta’s daddy really a king?’ whispered Casey as Paula rang the heavy doorbell.
‘Almost,’ replied Paula. She had researched the Savoy family obsessively and knew that, were it not for the revolution, Arlo would have been a prince of Italy. In his youth, the royal line had made Arlo one of Europe’s finest catches, but then Karina had been pretty eligible in her own right; her German father had made billions from steel and industry in Europe. Such a combination of wealth and class had catapulted them into the top strata of New York society the second they had arrived to follow Arlo’s career at an Italian bank.
As a butler opened the door, Paula handed over the invitation and waited as their names were read out under the gaze of an unblinking security camera. Paula could barely suppress her delighted smile. She rarely thought about the old days any more. She had spent so long blocking out the memories, creating a newer, vaguer, more palatable past for those people who cared enough to ask, that it was as if her time growing up in North Carolina never really happened. But every now and then, she silently congratulated herself on how far she had come; and this moment, stepping inside one of the Upper East Side’s finest homes, this was one of those times. Paula tried not to register any emotion as she walked into the grand living room, but it was undeniably impressive. Original Rothkos hung on the high walls above expensive furniture, modern pieces mixed with precious antiques in such an artful, studied way that it must surely have been the work of one of the city’s most accomplished interior designers.
Instead, Paula examined the people, feeling a rush of anxiety as she examined the faces; there were some serious heavy–hitters from the social circuit already here, women from the golden circle of wives, the partners of some of the most wealthy and influential men in the city. These exquisitely groomed women sat on the most prestigious charity committees and could usually barely bring themselves to acknowledge Paula, other than to enquire after Brooke, despite the fact she had met them several times. A waiter approached and respectfully offered her a drink from his silver tray. She took a Bellini – she usually avoided alcohol in the daytime, but today she felt she needed it. She could feel her neck flush prickly and red, as it sometimes did when she was stressed or worried. Calm down, pretend you do this every day, she told herself sternly. To her dismay, Paula didn’t see any friends; Casey was new to her class and, consequently, Paula did not know the parents. She took a sip of her drink and steeled herself. Remember Carolina, honey, she said to herself. It was true: she had been in far worse situations than this.
She turned to a tall, Latin–skinned brunette dressed in skinny jeans and white Hermès shirt and smiled. ‘Do you know where the birthday girl is?’
The brunette simply looked through her and raised a finger in the air to summon the waiter. Paula turned away, trying to smother the anger she felt. The bitch! Of course, Paula knew she had never been one of the Queen Bees on Manhattan’s social scene; she knew many of the women considered the Asgill family gauche. They secretly sniggered at Meredith’s Rolls–Royce and the family’s cheap range of cosmetics, but she had expected that Brooke’s engagement would have given her a greater standing. She had obviously been wrong.
Suddenly she felt a tugging at her dress. ‘Mummy, Carlotta wants me to come and see her bedroom. Can I go?’
She felt a new affection as she saw Princess Carlotta of Savoy standing in the doorway beckoning her new friend over. Her new friend Casey Asgill, thought Paula, looking at the tall woman who had snubbed her with glee.
‘Of course, darling. Off you go,’ smiled Paula, touching Casey’s head.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’
Paula turned to see Princess Karina standing next to her. She was petite and slim, wearing a navy Chanel Couture dress, and had hair the colour of roasted hazelnuts pushed back off her face. She radiated star quality in a way that Paula knew only a small number of celebrities did. Every inch of her looked expensively groomed; her skin was so smooth it looked polished, and whoever had done the Botox around her forehead and mouth had done a fantastic job, thought Paula. Unlined, sculpted, yet completely natural. I must find out where she goes, thought Paula absently.
‘Paula Asgill,’ said Paula, offering her hand.
Katrina’s smile was warm and genuine and it caught Paula off guard. In her experience, there were two standard society smiles: the tight, false variety usually sported by someone looking over your shoulder, or the bright paparazzi–friendly smile which was, if anything, even more insincere. In New York, real smiles like the Princess’s were as rare as hens’ teeth.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ replied Karina. ‘I think your daughter joined Transition at the same time as Carlotta.’
Feeling flattered, but completely wrong–footed, Paula took an exuberant sip of Bellini.
‘It’s a shame they’ll be breaking up for summer before we know it,’ she said. ‘Still, Casey can’t wait to get to Bermuda.’
Katrina’s smile shone even brighter and she touched Paula on the arm. ‘Really? That’s great news; perhaps see you there. We have a house in Tucker’s Town. My family have had it forever.’
‘No! What a coincidence,’ smiled Paula. ‘It’d be wonderful if the girls cou
ld get together while we’re over.’
In actual fact, Paula wasn’t going to Bermuda at all – not yet, anyway. She, William, and the girls were due to fly to Maine as soon as school had finished. It was William’s favourite place and, as Paula had already decided on the rest of their holiday destinations for the year – St Barts, Careyes, Aspen, and Maui – she had been in no position to argue. But when Google had turned up a British Vogue interview wherein Katrina had described her Tucker’s Town home as one of her favourite places, Paula knew she would have to shoehorn in a trip to the Atlantic island as well. It was just a matter of twisting William’s arm the right way.
‘We’ve been thinking of buying in Bermuda ourselves,’ said Paula. ‘Maybe you can point us in the right direction?’
‘Of course,’ said Katrina. ‘We must get a play–date arranged for the girls, then we can talk more.’
Paula smiled, pleased that her well–placed white lies had worked. Not that she liked to view her words as lies, simply a stretch of the truth, a wishing thinking of things that would be correct given half the chance. It was something Paula was very good at, and over the years it had been a useful tool in her arsenal. To become an Upper East Side player, you needed wealth, contacts, and a talent for putting designer clothes together, but most of all, you needed a Machiavellian ability to spin the facts in your favour.
Katrina clasped Paula’s hand. ‘Well, I’d better mingle,’ she smiled. ‘We have the most amazing ballet on at three; we’ve flown over some girls from the Royal Ballet School to perform this crazy little version of Angelina Ballerina. Carlotta just loved those stories when we lived in London.’ Karina began to move away, but then turned back and grabbed Paula’s hand again.
‘Paula, you must meet Lucia De Santos,’ she said, leading her over towards the rude brunette in the Hermès shirt. Paula instantly recognized the name: she was a Colombian heiress whose father owned half of Bogatá.
‘Lucia, meet Paula. Paula, Lucia has just moved to New York so you must be nice to her.’
Lucia smiled broadly at Paula and then kissed her on both cheeks.
‘How wonderful to meet you,’ she said, making Paula instantly forget her snub just minutes earlier.
‘I think we’re going to be great friends,’ said Paula.
CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN
In the late spring months, the twenty minutes before dawn was one of Liz’s favourite times of the day. She loved sitting at her window that overlooked the park, watching the sky lighten from the horizon in gentle stripes of colour, bringing the city to life. It was not a time to work, but a time to think and collect those thoughts in a way that she could use to her advantage.
Draining off the last of her freshly pressed mandarin juice, she bent down and slipped on her running shoes. She had already showered, put on her white tracksuit, and was now ready to go. Her tennis lesson, aimed at brushing up her second serve, was at six thirty and she liked to get there early. But before she could leave the apartment, there was one thing she needed to do first.
Standing up, she noticed someone hovering in the doorway.
‘Hey. I was just about to wake you,’ she said in a polite but not too friendly way.
Liz had met Rav Singh, a thirty–three–year–old banker at one of the big investment houses at a drinks party at the Downtown Association, a private members’ club on Pine Street, the night before. He was half–Indian, half–Swedish, with latte–coloured skin, long almond–shaped eyes and an interesting perspective on global capitalism, having spent eighteen months in Mumbai. She had already gleaned that his father was a well–off Indian businessmen living in London, although she had no idea if he was simply one of Mumbai’s newly wealthy middle–class, or whether he was one of those Asian billionaires, with interests in steels and manufacturing that marked them out as the new titans of the business world, who lived in London for tax purposes.
They had caught a cab together uptown, had a late supper and too many caiprihinas in a Brazilian restaurant on Broadway and ended up at her apartment drinking a good Château Mouton Rothschild until midnight. When Liz had kissed Rav, and she had made the move first, she had almost laughed at loud at how proper her seduction had been. The sex had lacked the raw, drug–like excitement of her usual encounters with men she met in bars, but there had still been an urgency, a need to feel a man inside her. Regardless of the disdain she felt towards Dana’s Shapiro’s therapy, Liz had still avoided any more random one–night stands since Russ Ford. The restraint had made her irritable and easily distracted, even at work. It had driven her back to smoking, which she had quit after business school, and her alcohol consumption during her sexual abstinence had been high.
‘I’d like to see you again.’
‘I’m not the relationship kind,’ she replied in an amused, detached way. She had no doubt given Rav the fuck of his life; no wonder he wanted to come back for more.
‘Because of the divorce?’
‘You’ve been swotting up on me,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Just something I heard. It was eighteen months ago, Liz. You know, it might be time to move on … ’
She found herself nodding slowly. Maybe it was time for a new strategy. This much she knew; she wanted sex. The incident with Russ Ford had frightened her. No–strings sex was now simply out of the question. And she could hardly pay for it for exactly the same reasons, although she heard about one Chinese masseur who offered ‘extras’. But, try as she might, (the urban myth was that he had brought one Park Avenue Princess to orgasm half a dozen times in a one–hour session), Liz could not track him down, not knowing whether she had been too discreet in her investigations, or whether he simply did not exist. A relationship was beginning to look like an appealing option, if she could control it in the right way.
‘I have to go,’ she said quickly. ‘I have to lock up.’
‘You going running?’ asked Rav, fastening the buttons on his shirt.
She pointed at her racket bag in the corner of the room.’
‘Tennis.’
‘Where are you playing?’
‘Sutton East.’
He nodded. ‘Do you want company?’
‘Why? Do you play?’
‘A little. But mainly squash and court tennis down at the Racquet and Tennis Club.’
Her interest in Rav suddenly moved up a notch. Liz longed to play at the prestigious Park Avenue club, one of the few social–sporting establishments yet to extend their membership policy to admitting women. It gave Rav immediate social clout.
‘Okay. You’re on.’
‘Let me swing by my apartment and pick up my stuff. I’ll see you there.’
She smiled sweetly and watched him go. He would do. He would do for now.
*
‘Tess Garrett?’
Tess leant over her desk to peer at the caller ID window. ‘Unknown number’, it read. She didn’t recognize the voice, either, but after Brooke and David’s Key West coup, her phone had been ringing off the hook.
‘It’s Sean Asgill.’
‘Oh,’ she said, instantly pulling a face, aware that her voice had betrayed her disapproval.
‘Hey, great to speak to you too,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Sorry, it wasn’t you,’ she said, trying to back–pedal. ‘Someone was just waving at me at my office door.’
‘Well, I hope you didn’t ask them to get you coffee,’ said Sean, more good–humouredly. ‘Because it sounds as if you expect them to poison you.’
Save your charm for someone who gives a damn, she thought.
‘What can I do for you, Sean?’
Sean laughed. ‘I seem to remember that the last time we met, you told me you wouldn’t do a damn thing for me.’
‘Well, things change,’ said Tess, reminding herself that – whatever she might think of him – looking after Sean Asgill was actually part of her job description. ‘How can I help?’
There was a pause before Sean spoke.
‘I need an escort,’ he said, ‘Thursday night.’
This time it was Tess’s turn to laugh. ‘And that escort is supposed to be me? Or are you asking me to flip through the Classifieds to find you a professional?’
‘Come on, Tess, it can’t be that bad spending time with me, can it? And you did say you wanted to vet my dates.’
For a moment, Tess began to consider the idea, but then remembered that Sean was based on the other side of the Atlantic.
‘Hang on, you’re asking me to fly to London for this?’
‘You like London,’ said Sean. ‘They have red buses and fish and chips.’
Tess was smiling, despite herself.
‘Well, I would have loved to go with you, Sean, but I can’t,’ she said, trying to suppress the grin. ‘I’m already flying out to London on Friday.’
‘Excellent,’ said Sean smoothly. ‘I’ll change your flight.’
‘You can’t,’ insisted Tess. ‘It was one of those cheap fares.’
‘Well, I’ll buy you a new one, first class. It will be a treat for you.’
‘Actually I’ve travelled first class before,’ she lied, annoyed at the suggestion that she was a coach class girl.
‘And I’ll throw in a couple of nights at Claridge’s.’
Despite herself, she felt a rush of excitement. It felt as if she were being whisked off her feet by a rich suitor who could brush all her objections aside with a wave of his chequebook. She tried to remind herself that it was Sean Asgill – effectively her boss – and that he’d probably used this routine on hundreds of girls in the past. Not that she was interested in that way, of course, but it still felt nice to be pampered.
‘Sean, I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you’re a popular guy. You can get a million girls to go to some dinner with you.’
There was another pause down the line and, for a moment, Tess thought they’d been cut off.
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