‘So what do you think?’ asked William nervously, glancing across at Meredith for support. ‘Do you agree to the plan? Because, if you do, I’ll get a meeting in the diary with Bruno Harris as soon as we’re back in the office.’
Liz didn’t say anything for a moment; it was as if she hadn’t heard him. William and Meredith exchanged worried looks.
‘Liz?’
She glanced back at William, then simply nodded and walked towards the window. In her direct line of vision she could see an old oak tree on a stretch of grass that ran down to the river. It was where she used to go to sit and think. She would go there this afternoon. It was time to make a plan of her own.
CHAPTER THIRTY–TWO
Since Tess’s arrival in New York, it had become a tradition that once a week she would have a catch–up with Brooke. Although their first meeting had been more like a council of war, Brooke had slowly come to enjoy their meetings, which were now more usually held at a lunch or at her flat over drinks. As much as Brooke had wanted to dislike Tess Garrett, assuming she would be pushy and sleazy like every other tabloid hack she’d ever met, to her surprise she had found the pretty English girl to be smart and refreshingly straightforward. On the face of it, their meetings were about work – which press had been offered or turned down, which stories had been deflected or buried, which events Tess thought Brooke should attend – but they often quickly descended into long girly gossip sessions that she rather enjoyed.
Her intercom buzzed just as she had finished showering and changing into her favourite cashmere jogging pants. Tess was early, she thought, worrying that she had no time to blow–dry her hair, then laughing out loud at herself. It’s only Tess, she reminded herself. Those best–dressed lists have gone to my head. She buzzed her in and poured a chilled Sauvignon from the fridge. It felt cold and fresh as it slipped down her throat.
‘Hi. Sorry, I’m a bit early,’ said Tess breathlessly as she bustled into the apartment laden down with bags and folders, dumping the lot on the B&B Italia dining table.
‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Brooke, handing her a glass of wine. She probably needs it, she thought. Brooke had heard through the grapevine that Tess had just split with that handsome English boyfriend of hers. Tess took a long sip of the drink.
‘Cheap wine. Yuck,’ she said. Brooke looked up with alarm before she saw a smile break out on her publicist’s face.
‘I’m joking,’ smiled Tess. ‘Sorry, English sense of humour. That is the most delicious Sauvignon I have ever tasted. Brooke, you have the best wine, the best clothes, the best men. I hate you.’
Brooke thought that this so–called English sense of humour seemed to comprise of sarcasm, half–truths, and irony, but she was too polite to say so.
‘I shouldn’t really be drinking,’ said Brooke, taking a seat at the table. ‘I’ve just had a crazy session with my new personal trainer. Apparently I’ll have a muffin top over my strapless wedding dress if I don’t lose another one per cent of body fat.’
‘Do you trust him?’ asked Tess.
‘My trainer? He has good results with other girls … ’
‘I don’t mean that,’ said Tess seriously. ‘Can you trust him to keep quiet? I mean, if you’re giving him details about your wedding gown being strapless, that sort of information can get out.’
Brooke felt herself blush. Obviously she hadn’t thought about that when she’d told him.
‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’
Tess smiled. ‘Don’t be silly, I’m probably just being cynical and paranoid, but then that’s my job, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, we should probably talk about my trip to LA next week,’ said Brooke, a little disappointed to be talking about PR matters so soon. ‘I know the paps are pretty vicious out there, although really it’s just an in–and–out trip to see the Studio and then home.’
Tess was already reaching into her leather document case.
‘First I think you should look at this.’
Brooke glanced up at Tess; she recognized the ‘calm before the storm’ coolness in her voice.
‘A contact at one of the tabloids sent me this. It’s a pap picture sent to her from Splash Pictures, one of the big photo agencies. My contact just wanted to check the designer of the jacket you’re wearing because they plan to run the picture on the fashion pages.’
Brooke frowned. She couldn’t see any reason for her publicist’s concern, unless she had made some unforeseen fashion faux pas. Then Tess handed her the print and Brooke’s heart leapt into her mouth. The picture was of herself and Matt Palmer. Since their day out to Amish Country, Matt had called several times suggesting they meet for drinks or the movies. Most of the time she’d refused – there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for anything non crucial like friends these days – but last week Matt had called just as someone had cancelled on her for lunch. Matt had stepped into the breach and they’d met for pasta in Luigi’s restaurant, back in the booth where they’d reconnected months ago. He’d told her a funny story about a young man who’d been brought into ER with a foreign body inside him which turned out to be a Barbie doll, while she’d told him about her difficult time in Newport and her forthcoming trip to LA. All very relaxed, just two friends catching up, yet Brooke looked down at the photograph with a sense of shame. It was certainly a poor picture, grainy and blurred, but it was obvious where they were, just emerging from the restaurant. Matt had been wearing sunglasses and on this shot his head was down. From that angle it looked like David, which surprised her because the similarity had never struck her before. Brooke kept quiet, waiting for Tess to speak first.
‘Luckily, this isn’t a big thing, Brooke,’ she said, ‘because the press clearly think it’s David.’
Brooke had been so busy staring at the picture and worrying about the implications that she hadn’t read the caption below the shot – a standard paparazzi agency practice – which read, ‘Brooke Asgill and David Billington go shopping’.
‘But it isn’t David, is it?’ said Tess. Her voice wasn’t accusatory, but there was a definite note of concern. ‘Similar build, but the angle of the cheekbones is different, as is the shape of his chin. And this guy looks about six foot two, but David is only six foot.’
Brooke could feel her cheeks redden. ‘It’s Matt Palmer,’ she said as casually as she could.
‘Really?’ said Tess, tapping the photo. ‘You must have forgotten to mention how good looking he was.’
Momentarily Brooke stopped to marvel at how good her publicist was. Astute and accurate and detail–obsessed, like a good detective. In fact, she was exactly the sort of woman you wanted on your team – except when they were about to catch you out. But Brooke bristled at the implication; she had nothing to hide.
‘He’s just a friend Tess.’
‘Are you sure, Brooke?’ asked Tess. ‘Because I need you to be honest with me here. Are you both pretending you’re just good friends when really you want to jump each other’s bones?’
‘Of course we don’t want to jump each other’s bones.’
An uncomfortable memory shifted to the front of her mind. It was so vague she half wondered if she’d dreamt it. She was in a club with Matt, some time after her final examinations, and she’d been drunk. Really drunk. The music had been loud; they’d been dancing together face to face, laughing, beer bottles clinking, when he’d leant forward and said to her, ‘I think we should go home together.’ Or at least that’s what she thought he’d said over the pumping bass line. She’d ignored him, pretending not to hear, and he’d got the message.
She felt hot with embarrassment.
‘We’ve known each other a long time and he’s a really good listener.’
Tess rolled her eyes. ‘Shit, Brooke. A shrink would be less bother.’
‘When this picture was taken we’d met for lunch. It was in a public place, we weren’t hiding, and I haven’t mentioned him to you before because, well, it doesn’t matter. There’s no point
whipping up trouble where there is no scandal, is there?’
Tess looked at her searchingly. ‘Are you sure, Brooke?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she replied, her skin prickling.
‘Okay, fine,’ she said, ‘I know this is hard for you, having to monitor friendships, having to be careful who you’re seen with – and I’m sorry to give you the third degree. But at least you know I’m watching out for you, and at least you know it’s not forever.’
‘But it is, isn’t it?’ said Brooke softly. ‘This is what I’ve signed up to. A lifetime of being watched.’
Tess couldn’t really disagree. Brooke drained her wine glass.
‘I like the fact no one knows about Matt,’ she said. ‘I like the fact it’s a little part of my life that’s closed off, just mine.’
Her publicist was shaking her head. ‘I wish I could tell you it was okay to have friends like that, but there are different rules for people like you. Just be careful, okay?’
‘So, what do we do about this?’
‘Well, you were smart to take Matt to a public place,’ said Tess. ‘I think you should do it again, somewhere really high profile, somewhere where he can be photographed with you and David so it looks as if you are all friends. In fact, make sure he gets to know David.’
Tess looked at Brooke.
‘And Brooke, if Matt really is just a good friend,’ she said, ‘then that’s what you should be doing anyway.’
*
Tess stared out of the cab window, watching Manhattan slip by in a blur. For a smart, decent girl, Brooke Asgill could be incredibly stupid, she thought. Okay, so maybe it was all above board and innocent, but that doctor was gorgeous! Some girls have all the luck, she smiled, making a mental note to get Jemma to keep an eye on Matt Palmer. The cab pulled up on Perry Street. Inside her apartment, Tess went straight to the fridge to see what she could cobble together. It was true what they said about New Yorkers living off takeouts, but tonight she couldn’t wait. She found half a jar of pesto and stirred it into a bowl of piping hot penne and took it outside onto the deck with a glass of wine and a big stack of magazines. It was a balmy night, the faint sound of hip–hop in the distance, plus occasional honking cabs and police sirens: it was pure New York.
‘Hey, I didn’t know you were getting back so early.’
Tess was not annoyed to see Jemma coming through from the flat. She had been enjoying the rare solitude, but, despite sharing the flat, she rarely saw her friend. Jemma worked even longer hours than she did, stalking the hippest bars and restaurants in town for pap shots that she could sell back in England.
‘It is eight o’clock,’ said Tess. ‘You’re the one who works until three a.m.’
‘Well, no one’s out today,’ said Jemma, perching on the little wooden chair opposite Tess. ‘It’s a quiet night, no parties, no openings – quite a relief, to be honest. So how was your day?’ she asked, reaching over to pick a chunk of pasta from Tess’s bowl.
‘Oh, the usual,’ sighed Tess. ‘Exhausting. Do you know Dom had the cheek to phone me again today?’
‘What did he say?’
‘I never pick it up. But he’s left four messages this week saying we need to talk.’
Tess stabbed at her penne, then put the fork down. Suddenly she wasn’t feeing hungry any more. In the week after their split, she’d received a long email from him that started off apologetically but finished off by coldly suggesting that they should put their Battersea flat on the market. Well, he could go and screw himself. She didn’t need the money and she had no need for the flat either, not now. Neither did he, she thought with a pang of jealousy, imagining him shacked up in some luxurious Holland Park mansion with ‘Tamara’. She assumed he wanted the proceeds from the flat’s sale so he could keep up with his new rich, fabulous friends: trips to Mustique and dinners at the Cipriani were not easily afforded by mid–ranking members of the press. Well, I’m not going to help you with your little upper–class adventure. I’d rather burn that flat to the ground, she thought, a little surprised at her own anger.
‘So do you think he wants to get back with you?’ asked Jemma, playing with a string of fairy lights that were wrapped around the terrace’s railings.
‘Huh,’ snorted Tess, ‘in his dreams.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ grinned Jemma. ‘Chuck me a magazine.’
Both girls began flicking through the big pile of publications that Tess had brought out. Most of them were British editions she read for work purposes, but somehow, she also found their familiarity comforting, like a little glimpse of home.
‘Have you seen this picture of Sean with some dolly blonde?’ asked Jemma, showing her the party section of Tatler.
‘Hmm, yes. His new girlfriend, Annabel Russell.’
‘You know I think he’s cute,’ said Jemma casually. ‘Cuter than David Billington, anyway. I know David is classically good looking, but Sean looks as if he’d be very naughty in bed.’
‘Urgh. You wouldn’t say that if you’d met him.’
‘So which one would you do?’
Tess flicked over another page, ignoring the question. She really didn’t want to be asked questions about whether she found Sean Asgill attractive. She hadn’t even spoken to him since the episode in London where he had humiliated her for what seemed like his own entertainment. She glanced up and saw that Jemma was still waiting for an answer.
‘What?’ she sighed. ‘What was the question?’
‘Which one would you shag? If you had to, I mean.’
‘Jem, I work for them.’
‘So what?’ giggled Jemma. ‘That would only make it more exciting. I think I’d shag Sean.’
Tess fell silent.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jemma suddenly. ‘Oh God! Have the Asgills got the flat bugged? Have I just got us both fired?’
But Tess wasn’t listening. All her attention was focused on the Hello she had just opened. Right in the centre of the news page was a large picture of Dom and Tamara next to the headline ‘Society Beauty to Wed’. She tried to gulp in air but the oxygen failed to reach her lungs. She felt as if she was drowning.
‘Tess? What’s the matter?’
Tess finally took in a long, ragged breath. ‘So that’s why he’s been trying to get in touch with me,’ she whispered, her throat feeling dry.
Tess’s hands were trembling as she passed the magazine over to Jemma. ‘Look.’
Jemma’s mouth slowly opened in an expression of shock, which swiftly turned to anger.
‘The snake,’ she hissed. ‘This magazine must have gone to the printers over a week ago. He must have proposed to her just after you two had finished.’
Tess nodded numbly. ‘I can do the maths,’ she replied flatly.
She fumbled for her glass and drained it. As Jemma came over and put a reassuring arm around her, Tess’s shoulders began to shake.
‘I’m an idiot,’ she whispered. ‘I’m a bloody idiot.’
‘No you’re not,’ said Jemma softly. ‘He is.’
Taking deep, heavy breaths, Tess rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. She did not cry. She never cried. She wasn’t going to start now.
‘You know what pisses me off the most? We were together for nine years. That’s nearly a third of my life I’ve wasted on him.’
‘It wasn’t a waste, honey,’ said Jemma. ‘It’s just life – you fall in love and things end.’
Tess banged her fist onto the table. ‘But it’s so unfair, Jem! I’ve worked my butt off for ten years and where does it get me? Yet he just strolls along to party – a party I had to beg to get him invited to – and walks off with a millionaire fiancée, while I’m stuck here in someone else’s flat with no one but a twelve year–old boy for company at the weekend.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ said Jemma with mock outrage. ‘Jack gets top billing over me?’
But Tess was in no mood to laugh.
‘I actually don’t know why I’m so angry,’ she went on
. ‘Is it because he’s such a shallow, social–climbing rat and I didn’t realize quite how much? Or because he seemed to fall in love with someone else so quickly? Or … ’
‘What, honey?’
‘ … because he didn’t want to marry me.’
She felt her lip quiver as she said the final word, the anger finally giving way to self–pity. Tess remembered how she had reacted to her father’s death and how she had discovered that grief could be a selfish emotion. The distress for the loss of a loved one was often mixed up with a feeling of universal injustice: Why did it happen to me? How could I have made things different? Why didn’t I say all those things I wanted? In the end, it was all wasted emotion. What was done was done and no one could turn back time. The end of a relationship was no different. She looked at Jemma sadly.
‘You know, through the first year of our relationship I used to have a photo of Dom as my screensaver? Pathetic, isn’t it? I think it was to remind me that he was real. I couldn’t believe that someone like me was going out with someone as good looking as him.’
‘Oh Tess, now you’re just being silly,’ said Jemma. ‘You know you’re gorgeous. And I’ll be honest, Dom’s never done it for me.’
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