Alicia frowned at the card then reluctantly beckoned her into the house.
‘Are you going to the wedding?’ asked Alicia, leading Tess into a sleek kitchen that smelt of flowers and fresh bread. Tess looked around enviously, doing a quick inventory of the ground floor. Painted in muted, elegant colours and dotted with impressive–looking modern art, the house had to be a ten–million–dollar property and yet Alicia Wintrop could be no more than thirty. How do these people do it? wondered Tess.
Alicia opened the fridge and poured two glasses of fresh juice.
‘Yes, I’ll be at the wedding,’ said Tess, taking her glass, ‘although I’m sort of working.’
‘So you work for Brooke?’
‘I’m her publicist.’
‘You must be busy,’ smiled Alicia, taking a sip of her juice.
Tess suppressed a sigh. There was no time for small talk.
‘Maybe my job has made me a cynic,’ she said, ‘but I don’t really believe in coincidences, do you Alicia?’
Alicia leaned against the granite worktop and shrugged.
‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ she replied guardedly.
‘Let me explain,’ said Tess evenly. ‘Brooke and David are extremely distressed about a story that appeared in the Washington Spy this week. A story that makes all sort of insinuations about Brooke’s family. A story that, to be frank, can cause a lot of damage.’
‘Really? I don’t read the Washington Spy,’ said Alicia, averting her green eyes.
‘That’s strange,’ said Tess. ‘Pillow talk obviously isn’t what it used to be. You see, I heard you’re sleeping with Benjamin Foley, the Spy’s proprietor, and I think you asked him to run the Olivia Martin story.’
Alicia’s cheeks coloured but her expression was defiant.
‘And I think you have horribly bad manners coming into my home and accusing me of such things. David Billington is my friend.’
‘Exactly,’ replied Tess.
Alicia stared down at the floor and Tess took her silence as her cue to continue.
‘A contact at the Oracle told me that the story about Brooke and her college tutor was leaked by an ex–girlfriend of David’s. I think that girlfriend was you, Alicia. I also think you persuaded Ben Foley to run the Olivia Martin story. The Billingtons are very influential in Washington, and not many people would want to piss them off by running something like this, not even a satirical magazine. This is a little rich even for their blood. But then, maybe a good fuck persuaded Foley, eh?’
Alicia dipped her chin and glowered. ‘This is outrageous!’ she spat. ‘Complete speculation.’
Tess didn’t move or speak. It was one of the tactics she had picked up from her old editor at the Globe, who used it to great effect with publicists and lawyers. It gave nothing away and yet hinted at power and knowledge.
‘You don’t want David to marry Brooke, do you?’ said Tess finally.
‘No I don’t!’ yelled Alicia finally, her nostrils flaring angrily.
Tess breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was right after all.
‘I have known David for fifteen years,’ said Alicia, her voice trembling. ‘I was in a relationship with him for two of those years. I know his family well and I know the plans they have for him. I loved David Billington, do you understand that? I believe in him. It may be your job to protect the Asgills, but at what cost? You know David’s political aspirations. You’d be a fool not to recognize that he’d be a great politician. But if his wife’s father murdered someone and it’s been covered up for all these years by her family, how is that going to look to the American public? They deserve more; they deserve the truth. Can you live with yourself trying to cover that up? Can you live with having denied this country a great leader – and for what? A salary?’
Tess looked at Alicia contemptuously. She did not believe for one second that Alicia’s motives had been so altruistic, that she cared so much about the American public. This was a woman who only cared about herself and was prepared to use any tactic to get her own way.
‘Don’t give me all this morality,’ said Tess. ‘This is about you still wanting David. It’s about you being jealous of Brooke Asgill and wanting to split them up.’
‘I had my whole life, our life, planned out before he met her.’
‘Your relationship was over by the time David met Brooke.’
‘Yes, and I ended it. I was foolishly playing hard to get, because he was showing no sign of proposing. I wanted him back and was prepared to play the long–game but then he met her. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’
Tess examined her face, seeing that her eyes were glossy with tears and, for a moment, felt sympathy. She remembered the sharp pain when she saw the sapphire ring in Sean’s bag in Maui. A ring for someone else. Yes, she knew what it was to want someone and discover that they wanted someone else. But that didn’t justify Alicia’s actions. She wasn’t just damaging Brooke; she could bring down a whole family, perhaps two.
‘The story about Howard Asgill and Olivia Martin is over forty years old,’ said Tess steadily. ‘It’s dead, forgotten. More to the point, it’s not even true. Don’t sabotage David’s relationship because of it.’
Alicia stared directly at her. ‘And you are sure about that, Tess? Absolutely sure about it?’ said Alicia with contempt. ‘Why don’t you speak to Olivia’s sister and then tell me you’re so sure. She certainly doesn’t believe that Olivia killed herself.’
‘Oh, and now you care about Olivia Martin’s family too?’ scoffed Tess.
‘At least I care about someone,’ said Alicia.
‘Oh please,’ said Tess rolling her eyes.
‘Just leave,’ said Alicia firmly.
Tess thought about challenging her some more but picked up her bag.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ she said crisply.
Out on the street, it was cold. Tess pulled her coat up around her ears and hurried back towards Perry Street. Who was Olivia Martin’s sister and why did she think what she did?
More of Alicia’s words grumbled uncomfortably around her mind. At least I care about someone. Maybe she was right. Would she be doing this if she wasn’t being so well paid? No, absolutely not. But she had come to think of Brooke as a friend and, for all Meredith’s frostiness and Sean’s cavalier way with her feelings, she did care about the Asgill family. What annoyed Tess more was Alicia’s claim to care for David and his career. It may be your job to protect the Asgills, she had said, but at what cost? It reminded her of a conversation she’d once had with a barrister friend of Dom’s. He was renowned for getting violent criminals off their charge and Tess had asked him, ‘How can you? How can you do it when you know they are guilty?’
His response had been simple; that if his client told him he was innocent, then that’s what he believed. Tess remembered mocking him for his self–seeking blindness, and he’d reminded her that journalists were not so moral creatures themselves. Maybe he was right, too. But that wasn’t why she had got into journalism: what she’d loved back in the days of the Colchester Observer was breaking stories and digging up the truth. Tess had to admit that, somewhere along the line, that ideal had become pushed to one side. The Sunday Globe had been as much about the fancy job title and the fat pay–cheque as about chasing down the truth. But was she still that way, she wondered? Was she still so blinded by ambition that the truth no longer mattered? She shivered as she opened the door to the apartment. Jemma was coming out of the kitchen holding a glass jug filled with something thick and creamy.
‘Oreo Cookie Jello,’ she smiled, holding it up. ‘Want some?’
‘Jello? At eleven o’clock in the morning?’
‘Jello is good any time,’ winked Jemma, plunging a spoon into the gloop with a satisfying slurp. Tess sighed and flopped down on the sofa.
‘Am I a bad person?’ she asked Jemma.
‘Why?’ said Jemma, sitting on the armchair. ‘Am I to assume you’ve just attacked Alici
a Wintrop and left her for dead?’
Tess smiled weakly. ‘No, not that, it’s just this job … Ah, sod it,’ she said, and reached for the Jello. She ate in silence for a moment.
‘What if Howard Asgill killed Olivia Martin?’ she asked quietly.
‘I thought you and David Billington were working diligently to make that story go away.’
‘But what if it’s true, Jem?’
‘I’m not sure it’s that important these days,’ she shrugged. ‘Bill Clinton’s brother was a coke dealer and it didn’t harm his career did it?’
‘It was his half–brother and Bill was already a governor,’ replied Tess quickly.
Jemma curled her feet under her and looked at her friend directly. ‘Why do you think this Olivia woman was murdered all of a sudden?’
Tess rubbed her lips thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know what happened to her. Certainly nobody has openly talked about Howard’s involvement before now, unless you count Charles Devine.’
‘Who’s a terrible old gossip.’
‘But I’ve just got a feeling that something’s not … not right here, Jem. We’re both news–hounds, aren’t we? That’s what we’d have been called in the old days. We sense stories like dogs sense blood. I’ve just got that tingle.’
‘So what’s your theory, Sherlock?’
‘Charles Devine said that Howard was rumoured to be having an affair with Olivia. We know from press cuttings from the time that Olivia’s career was on the skids, plus she had a drug habit. What if she needed money and went to Howard demanding some kiss–off from him once he got married? He kills her. Gets rid of the body.’
‘Maybe, but Tess, maybe she got abducted by aliens who’d come to see the Beatles at Madison Square Gardens.’
Tess wasn’t listening. She stood there thinking for a moment.
‘Pass me the phone,’ she said quickly.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Dom.’
‘Dom?’ shrieked Jemma. ‘I thought you said you never wanted to see him again after he turned up last night to fuck with your mind … ’
‘He can get free hotels,’ said Tess, determined to be practical.
‘Is now the right time to be going on holiday?’
‘I’m not going on holiday,’ said Tess, putting the receiver to her ear. ‘I’m going to Louisiana. To Meredith’s family home.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can get on a plane.’
Jemma shook her head and slammed the jug of Jello on the coffee table.
‘Tess. For a long as we have known each other, you have always wanted to work in New York. You’ve wanted the life, the excitement, the buzz, and the Asgills have handed you that opportunity on a plate. Shit, if it wasn’t for the Asgills, I’d be back snapping celebrity cellulite as they get out of taxis. We owe them, Tess. We’re here to make sure this wedding happens, not to dredge up the past and point the finger. We’re supposed to be protecting them, not running around the country trying to stitch them up.
‘I’m not stitching them up. I’m doing my job, Jemma,’ cried Tess angrily. ‘This story has been rumbling around for decades, but if I don’t try and find out what really happened to Olivia Martin, it’s a story that is never going to go away.’
‘I just don’t want you chasing after ghosts,’ said Jemma. ‘You’ve been doing it for the last ten years. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone. Not any more.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Tess, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I do have something to prove. I have something to prove to myself. And no matter how much you think we owe the Asgills, if that family were involved in Olivia’s disappearance somehow, then I’m not going to turn a blind eye to murder.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–SEVEN
Brooke bit her lip and looked at her wedding dress. It had just arrived at her apartment, having flown across the Atlantic in its own first–class seat. It was magnificent, there was no denying that. The silk was exquisite, the construction intricate; everything about it was sumptuous and grand. She should have been pleased, delighted, delirious with excitement even. But she wasn’t.
It’s not what I wanted, she thought miserably, sliding to the floor of her closet and holding her head in her hands. It’s just not what I wanted, she thought over and over again as fat tears began to plop onto her knees. At the final fitting in Guillaume Riche’s atelier, she’d felt exactly the same way, but she hadn’t dared breathe a word to Liz and her mother. She knew how much was resting on it, especially now the company looked to be in trouble. Brooke wiped her eyes and looked up at it again. It wasn’t that it was an ugly dress by any means. It was beautiful, a work of art even. The beading, the work of French embroidery house Lesage, was jaw–dropping, hundreds of thousands of tiny crystals and baroque pearls hand–sewn into the shape of feathers with fine silver thread, while the vast dress coat was made of ninety–five metres of silk tulle. But hanging on its own gold rail in her closet, it just looked like a museum piece. Rich and voluminous, it would have suited an ancient queen like Catherine the Great or Marie Antoinette. And Brooke knew she was no queen, however hard she tried.
Getting to her feet, Brooke went into the kitchen to get herself a glass of wine, and then walked through to the living room carrying the bottle and a corkscrew. The dining table was still piled high with gifts from her bridal shower three days earlier at a suite at the Plaza. Bags of beauty products in brown and white candy–striped Henri Bendel bags, duck–egg–blue Tiffany boxes, notelets branded with the name Brooke Billington, gold Louboutin sandals for her honeymoon, and scores of other bits of girlie paraphernalia. She was the luckiest girl in the world. So why did she feel so anxious, so empty? She picked up the phone and dialled David, who was on his bachelor party weekend in Vegas.
‘Honey it’s me.’
‘Sweetheart, we’re just heading out,’ he said. In the background, she could hear laughter and jeering. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.
‘I hate my wedding dress,’ said Brooke.
David chuckled. ‘Shouldn’t you be keeping those details from me?’ he asked. ‘Look, Robert’s shouting for me and we should have left the hotel an hour ago. I hate to think what he’s got planned for me. Speak later?’
‘You go,’ said Brooke, feeling selfish and silly. ‘Have a great time, I’m fine. Really.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure.’
She put down the phone and paced around the room.
Knowing she had to get it off her chest, she returned to the phone, meaning to call Debs Asquith; but as her finger hit the digits, she dialled another New York number.
‘Matt, is that you?’
In the three weeks since her office confrontation with Mimi, she had tried to keep her distance from Matthew, citing work or hectic wedding preparations, although she hardly needed the excuse, she had been flat out. There had been hairstyling sessions, facials, meeting with photographers, florists, and caterers, not to mention the endless summits with Alessandro Franchetti over the tiniest details. But suddenly, out of nowhere, Matthew Palmer was the one person she wanted to talk to.
‘Hey,’ he said warily. ‘What’s up?’
‘My wedding dress looks like a snow storm.’
‘I thought it cost two hundred thousand bucks.’
Now she felt really sick. ‘It did. And that buys a lot of fabric.’
‘Bummer.’
His voice was distant and strange.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he muttered.
‘You don’t sound fine. In fact, you sound as lousy as I feel.’
There was an awkward silence. Brooke listened to the faint static on the line, trying to sense something of his mood.
‘Matt, what’s up? You’re worrying me.’
He sighed. ‘It’s no big deal. Just Susie and I split up.’
‘Oh no. When did it happen?’
‘A couple of nights ago,’ he said. ‘Look, Bro
oke, it’s nothing, seriously. I’m a big boy. I’m just a little tired. I’ve just got pizza and I need a sleep.’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I forget what you do sometimes. You go and get some rest, I’ll speak to you later.’
She put down the phone and slumped back on the sofa. Then, seized with a sudden impulse, she picked up her bag and the unopened bottle of wine. Forget Mimi trying to make me feel guilty, she huffed, snatching up her keys. In twenty minutes she was at his apartment.
‘Brooke?’ His eyes widened in surprise as he opened the door.
Matt looked dreadful. His face was pale and she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘Surprise,’ she said weakly, as she realized that he was not pleased to see her. Brooke was not generally a spontaneous person, and it was for reasons like this that she was usually more considerate. It was, however, too late to turn back, so she walked into the apartment, flushing with embarrassment. The living room smelt stale and sour. Beer bottles were littered all over the table, and the pizza lay barely eaten in its brown box, as if he had been unable to stomach it.
‘Sorry,’ he said, trying to scoop up some of the mess.
His movements were clumsy and slow, and Brooke could tell he was drunk. She was surprised to find that this annoyed her. For weeks he had been dismissing Susie as nothing serious, and yet here he was, drunk, depressed, self–pitying. She felt a prick of anger that he had lied to her.
‘No, don’t be sorry,’ said Brooke, lending a hand in the cleanup. ‘You’re allowed to wallow. When relationships end, it’s sad. Do you want to tell me what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘You know what’s it like. You disagree about something dumb and it escalates into an argument. Thirty minutes later you’ve said things you shouldn’t have and she’s slamming the door. Then, well,’ he gestured at the pile of bottles. ‘You wallow.’
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