‘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.
Given this information, it was no wonder Bruno Harris had wanted to rethink the price he would pay for the company. For her part, Liz had no regrets about pointing out what thorough due diligence would have thrown up anyway. And why should she? William and Meredith hadn’t considered her feelings when they attempted to blind–side her with the sale; they hadn’t worried when they had tried to piggyback on her years of toil at Skin Plus.
‘So you think the family are right to sell Asgill’s?’
Wendell had the most confident, languid way about him that Liz found very attractive. Someone as sure of his own abilities as she was.
‘Some of the multinationals will be interested in us now Skin Plus is taking off,’ shrugged Liz. ‘But personally I don’t want to let the company go.’
‘I assume you’ve thought about floating a minority share like Estée Lauder?’
‘I’ve thought about every option,’ she said, walking over to the lacquered drinks cabinet and pulling out a bottle of Richard Hennessy, her favourite cognac.
Wendell nodded approvingly.
‘New York is becoming so healthy. I’ve friends – smokers of forty years – on microbiotic diets. I need a partner in crime. You must come to my club on Wall Street. Excellent cigar bar.’
‘You know where to find me,’ smiled Liz, pouring the golden nectar into two glasses.
Robert appeared at the door looking concerned.
‘Is everything all right? Mother was wondering where you’d got to.’
Wendell glanced over at Liz, his look loaded with meaning.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled. ‘We were just coming.’
CHAPTER THIRTY–NINE
Liz hadn’t been surprised when Wendell had called three days after Meredith’s dinner suggesting lunch at his club. They spent the better part of five minutes on the phone competitively comparing diaries, refusing dates as if to prove how busy and important they both were. Eventually they found a mutually convenient window in November, at which point Wendell buckled, suggesting that he could clear Friday afternoon if she could too. What did surprise Liz was that when a Billington executive car came to pick her up at one
p.m. as arranged, the silver Mercedes did not have Wendell in it. She was not particularly alarmed until she realized they were heading for the heliport at East Thirty–Fourth Street. As she was ushered through the terminal towards a helicopter in the Billington corporate colours, she picked up her phone and dialled Wendell’s number.
‘I assume we’re not going to your club,’ she said, amusement in her voice.
‘What? And have one hundred bankers gawk at us?’
‘So where are we meeting? I assume we are meeting?’
She heard Wendell chuckle, then the phone went dead. Rolling her eyes, she switched off her phone and the pilot started the engine. The helicopter hovered into the air, bobbing gently until it gathered speed and began its journey across the East River towards Long Island. Liz turned her face into the sunshine. The fact that she was heading to destinations unknown sent a sexual thrill through her. Most of the time she was in charge and she liked it that way, but a little chaos, a little mystery every now and then shook things up and gave life an edge.
Smiling, she watched the billowing clouds scud across a watery blue sky and she actually felt herself relax for once. After a short flight the helicopter spiralled down onto a large H in the grounds of one of the big oceanfront palaces on Southampton’s Gin Lane. Liz recognized the area even from the air, having often been to parties on this exclusive stretch. She’d heard the whispers around New York about how much these properties went for: sixty, seventy million dollars. She wondered who the house belonged to, knowing from Brooke that the Billingtons did not own a property in the Hamptons, and whether this was how really rich men operated – lending each other their exclusive homes for under–the–radar ‘entertaining’. She smiled to herself. At her mother’s dinner for the Billington family, Liz had decided that she wanted Wendell, and now she was going to have him. Another executive car was waiting for her at the helipad and it took her down a long gravel drive, stopping outside the white stucco house. It was impressive in size but not in architectural style, thought Liz; but then size mattered when it came to a statement of wealth. Liz stepped out of the car, annoyed that in her five–inch Manolo heels and severe Martin Margiela shift dress, she was not dressed for the beach.
The double doors to the house were open and Liz entered and proceeded down an eerily quiet hallway, at the end of which she could see a stretch of shimmering blue sea. It was the sort of property that usually had lots of staff, but today it was ghostly quiet.
She walked out onto the veranda and found Wendell sitting on an Adirondack chair, dressed in a fitted shirt and cream chinos, saluting her with a tumbler of gin.
‘So what happened to lunch?’ she said playfully.
He laughed. ‘I had the chef go. I thought there were more important things to do this afternoon.’
‘Like what?’
‘Talk.’
A bottle of Pouilly–Fumé was chilling in a silver bucket on a table beside him.
‘A drink before lunch?’ he asked, pouring her a glass. ‘Then how about we take a walk?’
Liz took off her shoes and followed him down a flight of wooden steps to the beach. She could tell that summer was winding to a close by the way the sand underfoot was losing its heat.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
They had reached the shore and paused for a moment to listen to the crashing sound of the Atlantic waves.
‘Is Brooke committed to David?’
As much as it annoyed Liz to see her sister as America’s crown princess, she could see how it might have its advantages.
‘Absolutely,’ replied Liz. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You heard she refused to go to a fundraiser dinner with him the other week? Some meeting in LA for one of her books was apparently more important.’
Liz smiled inwardly, feeling a rush of pleasure at the power she had in her hands right now. What if she told him that no, Brooke would not make a committed wife for his son, then what would Wendell Billington do? Would that bring the whole thing crashing down?
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ smiled Liz. ‘Brooke is just playing at publishing. Of course David has to let her run with it for now, but she will soon tire of it. She loved the social scene when she left Brown and now she complains about attending fundraisers?’ Liz laughed. ‘Give her time. Every young girl these days wants to feel as if she has a career. But that will change when she’s married, trust me.’
‘Well, of course I don’t object to her having a career,’ replied Wendell quickly. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but we don’t want her becoming a ball–breaker on us all of a sudden. David wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t like clever girls, never has. And, on the other hand, I don’t want him to appear a lightweight. A wife with a career, a small, successful career is fine, up to a point.’
‘Wendell, it would be hard to find anyone less controversial than Brooke – you must know that. She is perfect for David.’
Wendell was nodding his head. ‘Good. Because from now on we don’t need any more distractions.’
‘Why?’
He touched her arm and motioned for her to walk back up the sand to the house. She looked at him sideways, with a pique of annoyance. What was with the politics lesson? She had come here for a purpose, an agenda she thought was clear the minute he had phoned her private line. Liz began to wonder if she had misread the signals. Was he mocking her, bringing her out all this way, only for an innocent ‘getting to know you’ session? What would he think of her? Gullible, egocentric, a slut? Anger flashed inside her. She had rarely met a man who did not find her sexually attractive, it was one of her gifts, like a photographic memory and great posture; and while she conceded that Wendell was her future brother–in–law’s father, it was hardly incest. Besides, Wendell Billington was one of the most ruthless businessmen in the country: he’d been known to completely destroy people who stood in his way. He was certainly not above fucking someone he shouldn’t.
‘It looks like a Congressional seat in Connecticut will be coming available shortly,’ continued Wendell.
Liz tried to compose herself. It wasn’t over yet. ‘But it’s mid–term, surely?’
‘It would be a special election. The Congresswoman for the sixth district is going to announce her retirement in the New Year on the grounds of ill–health. The district leans Republican, and David would be perfect for it, although with his profile at the moment I think he’d win it even if the district were Democrat.’
Liz looked at him with increased respect, wondering how he’d got this information, even wondering whether Wendell in some way had influenced the Congresswoman’s decision to retire. With his reputation, she would not put it past him.
‘I thought David wanted to wait until the Congressional general election in a couple of years’ time?’ said Liz, as they approached the steps up to the house.
Wendell shrugged. ‘Yes, that was the original plan. My advisers have been eyeing up open or vulnerable seats in New York and Connecticut, states he can claim residency in through his own home or Belcourt, but it will certainly be easier this way. After all, David is still a political rookie, so he’s by no means a sure thing. But if David can win the special election, and we’ll put every resource behind him to make sure that happens, he’ll be an incumbent congressman at the general election. He’ll certainly win that. That will give him three years in the House, then we can move him up to Senate. I’ve already had meetings with some GOP seniors and a very well–respected campaign consultant. Everyone is agreed that David should make the move now.’
‘So, president by forty–five?’ she asked playfully.
‘Why not?’ said Wendell candidly. ‘We don’t just want the presidency, we want a notable presidency. As good as Lincoln, as dynamic as Kennedy.’
Liz nodded, pondering how ambition was such a limitless beast. Now matter how successful you were, there was always more to be done; it was something she understood very well. She also understand
why David’s political future was so important to Wendell. The Billingtons were rich beyond most people’s imagination, but having all the money they needed or wanted, they now desired power. More power equals more money, and so the cycle continues.
Wendell stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Liz.
‘You know you could have a future in politics, Liz,’ he said with a smile. ‘Although I’m not sure our families can cope with two rising stars.’
‘Me?’ she laughed, thinking instantly of Russ Ford. It would take an army of PRs to keep her secrets under wraps if she wanted political office.
‘The only thing I plan on running for is the New York marathon,’ she laughed, turning away and climbing the steps. As she reached the veranda, she turned, her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said flatly.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re eyeing me up as some filly you could run in the Derby.’
Wendell put his empty wine glass back on the table.
‘I was just thinking how capable you were,’ he said. His delivery was slow, deliberate, loaded with suggestion, and she felt the warmth of his half–smile.
‘Capable?’ said Liz seductively, feeling a change in the atmosphere between them. ‘If by that you mean I’m good at lots of things, then I guess I am.’
Wendell moved forward and touched her cheek. Liz shut her eyes, feeling his warm hand on her skin, smiling with anticipation, her sexual magnetism still intact. This is the real prize, she thought. If Brooke had the Billington prince then she wanted the king.
Silently he took her hand and led her into the house, up the grand staircase, and into a bedroom overlooking the ocean. By the window was a dressing table arranged with pomade and perfume, the chair draped with a robe in stripes of silken colour. Being surrounded by a stranger’s things was turning her on even more: the forbidden, the untouchable was hers for the taking. She turned, kissing him fiercely. Liz began to undo the buttons on his Charvet custom–made shirt, pushing back the cotton to expose a tanned, firm chest, only a circle of dark grey hair betraying his age.
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