She put the wine down on the side with an apologetic expression.
‘I guess we’d better not open this.’
‘I guess not.’
He looked up and managed a smile. ‘So how bad is the wedding dress?’
She pulled a face and suddenly they were both laughing.
‘You know what we need?’ she said.
He looked sceptical.
‘A good night out.’
‘Aren’t you knee–deep in wedding stuff? I mean, it’s your bachelorette night on Thursday. Then it’s Christmas. Then … ’
‘Well, what are you doing tomorrow night?’
‘I’m off. I’m down for a shift on Christmas Day instead.’
‘I want you to come with me somewhere,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not pulling me away from wedding stuff. In fact I’ll be multitasking.’
‘What, you want me to choose the bouquet?’ he asked.
‘Something like that.’
Matt rubbed his stubble thoughtfully, then smiled. ‘Well in that case, count me in.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–EIGHT
Liz caught sight of herself in the reflective surface of her oven door and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked dinner. After all, she’d had microbiotic meal packs delivered to her door every day for the last two years, which had left her body enviously lean and her gadget–packed designer kitchen remarkably untouched. She smiled to herself as she pulled the rack of honey–and–balsamic–glazed lamb out of the oven to add a few sprigs of rosemary before triumphantly removing her new beige Williams–Sonoma apron. Not quite Thomas Keller, but good enough. She was mildly freaked out by this rush of domesticity, although she had managed to convince herself – somewhere in between buying the rack of lamb and roasting it – that there was nothing wrong with showing the occasional glimpse of her feminine side. Wendell always said he liked to be surprised. Not that she was cooking for Wendell, she told herself firmly, merely expanding her portfolio of skills.
Outside, snow was falling, smudging her windows with wintry flakes that looked like sprays of diamonds on the glass. She loved how definite New York’s seasons were. The arctic chill of winter, the blistering humidity of summer, the freshness of spring and fall. The changes and precise cycles kept you feeling alive, as if things were constantly moving forward. It was the same reason she did not regret the emotional turbulence she had felt this year. The buyout of Skin Plus was now a matter of weeks rather than months away. It was taking a little while to get the intricate financing sorted out, as Wendell kept insisting there be no financial paper trail direct to him, while on top of that was all the other corporate paperwork. Her new company was going to be called Vincita, Italian for win. And that win had been all the sweeter for the difficulty of the journey.
The concierge buzzed her intercom to announce her visitor. Liz went to the bedroom, squirted bespoke scent between her breasts, applied a fresh layer of plum gloss, and smoothed her hands over her ink–black Balmain dress, so tight that it was just as well she was wearing no underwear. She surprised herself by how nervous she was feeling. They had scheduled a supper a week ago, and this was the first time Wendell had come to her apartment. Liz was sick of their low–key dinners in hotel suites or restaurants, whose only recommendation was that they were so far off the radar of fashionability that no one knew who they were. In the past Wendell had complained that her building, 15 Central Park West, was too high profile, too full of people he might bump into, but tonight he had agreed to come. Tonight could be the turning point in the relationship that she had been hoping for since that first fuck in the Hamptons. She was realistic enough to know that Wendell would not leave his wife for her, but she could name half a dozen rich, powerful men who had such long–term, stable relationships with their mistresses that the situation was a whisper away from bigamy. Was that what she wanted? Did Liz Asgill really want to tie herself to one man? She barely dared think of it, but what she did know with absolute certainty was that when she was with Wendell Billington, she was happy. That was the thought that scared her.
‘You cook?’ said Wendell, taking off his coat and putting it on the back of a chair. ‘I didn’t think you were the cooking kind.’
‘I can turn my hand to anything, darling,’ she smiled.
Liz lowered the lights, until the room just glowed with the candlelight from the expensive arrangement in the middle of the table. Taking the lamb from the oven, she put it on the table alongside china dishes of zucchini flowers, dauphinoise potatoes, and chestnut gravy. ‘Sit down and let me enjoy my Martha Stewart moment,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t come out on show very often.’
Wendell settled into one of the high–backed dining chairs, picking up a fork and rolling it around in his fingers.
‘So, how was Switzerland?’ she asked, leaning across and putting a perfect slice of meat onto his Wedgwood plate.
‘Cold and dull,’ he said taking a sip of the Château Margaux she had poured.
‘At least David will be having a good time,’ said Liz. ‘Brooke says he left for Vegas this morning. I thought you’d be going, although I didn’t quite think bachelor parties were your thing.’
‘Look Liz, we need to talk,’ he said, looking at her directly.
‘That’s one of the reasons you’re here,’ she smiled crisply. ‘There’re several Skin Plus matters that need discussing. I wanted to talk to you rather than the lawyers. I particularly want to run my first choice of CFO past you. Then, when we’ve agreed that, I’m going to give you the best sex you’ve had in your life.’
Cooking for Wendell was really just the window dressing for Liz. Really she was looking forward to the luxury of sex with him in her own bed. Momentarily she thought of Rav. She was still seeing him, although the only excuse she now had for keeping that relationship going was the smoke screen it provided for her affair with Wendell. As Rav had pointed out himself, their sex was becoming less frequent, less adventurous. But what did she need him for when she had Wendell, here, in her bed? She licked her lips with anticipation.
‘I don’t want to talk about business,’ said Wendell, his voice low and steady. Liz looked up sharply. She had always prided herself on razor–sharp instincts, and right now they were telling her to go on guard. Something was wrong.
‘So, what do you want to talk about?’ she said casually.
‘Us. I’m not sure it can continue.’
She sliced her knife through the tender lamb and did not look at him.
‘Liz, are you listening to me?’
She put down the knife, hoping he didn’t see her fingers tremble. ‘Yes, I’m simply waiting for your explanation.’
His dark, serious eyes looked away from her. ‘Robert spoke to me in private just before I left for Switzerland. He asked me straight out if we were seeing each other.’
She felt a jolt of illicit pleasure that their secret was out. ‘You denied it, of course,’ she said.
‘Of course I denied it,’ he said, his brows knitting together.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, Liz, that he’s my son and he knew I was lying.’
‘So fucking what? You know as well as I do that your sons, your wife, everyone knows what you get up to.’
‘That’s right,’ he said laying his hand flat on the expensive table linen. ‘They do know my needs can’t be satisfied by their mother. So I have sex with a waitress or a shop girl. They turn a blind eye to it. But you are not some bar girl, Liz. You are about to be my son’s sister–in–law.’
‘That didn’t seem to bother you in the Hamptons,’ she said, taking a long, determined gulp of claret.
Wendell pushed his chair back and massaged his temples. ‘I care about you Liz. I enjoy spending time with you, but you know how it works. The press won’t touch me for fucking a cocktail waitress; half the men in this city are banging someone they shouldn’t. But this can be damaging.’
Their gaze lock
ed. She could tell that he was still holding something back and it made her skin suddenly chill.
‘What about Skin Plus?’ she said, addressing the elephant in the room.
He was squirming now. ‘What do you think.’ he said. It was not a question.
‘Think?’ spat Liz. ‘I think we’ve put hundreds of man–hours into this deal. I think it’s the best investment you’re going to make all year. I think it’s far, far too good to pass up just because you’re getting cold feet about our relationship,’ said Liz, trying unsuccessfully to squash her panic.
Wendell’s voice was weary now. ‘I have enough good investments, Liz. What I don’t need is aggravation.’
‘Aggravation?’ She curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Is that what I am to you?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Wendell in a more placatory tone. ‘I just think it’s probably not a good idea if we’re connected in this way any more. It’s too much pressure, too much temptation.’
‘You’re pathetic,’ she hissed.
‘Liz, calm down. Don’t be so childish.’
Liz stared at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Oh. I can do childish, Wendell,’ she growled, lifting the gravy boat, walking over to him, and tipping the contents into the lap of his navy woollen Ralph Lauren trousers.
‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve scalded me!’
He stood up, thick brown liquid collecting around his crotch as he grabbed his mobile phone and started barking orders to his driver into it.
‘Rodney. Are you still outside? Get me some pants. I don’t care where from. Your own if necessary.’
Gravy had dripped all over her cream carpets, but she hadn’t even noticed.
‘Get out,’ she snarled, watching him grab his belongings and flee, the billionaire powerhouse reduced to a scampering tom cat.
‘I never want to see your face again!’
She waited until the front door had slammed, then she sank down to the floor. Hugging her knees, she rocked to and fro, sobbing and wailing, her tears flowing not just for the loss of her business but for the green shoots of love and joy that had just been ground into mud. Liz Asgill’s heart had finally been broken.
CHAPTER FIFTY–NINE
Tess almost gasped as her hire car swung off Louisiana’s Great River Road. She could see Riverview, Meredith’s childhood home, at the far end of the long, oak–lined drive, its full majesty becoming clearer as the car rolled closer. She had swotted up on Riverview’s history on the three–hour flight to Baton Rouge: how it had once been one of the biggest sugar plantations in the Deep South, how Meredith’s family had owned it from the mid–Fifties to the early Seventies, and how it had now been a luxury hotel for over thirty years. The main house, a restored 1808 colonial mansion, was white and imposing, with five long pillars at the entrance and tall windows. It was not dissimilar to Belcourt, if that house had been dipped in chalky paint. As she drove through the grounds, Tess caught a glimpse of a few of the twelve clapboard cottages dotted around the grounds, a grim reminder of the history of the house, although she doubted their present occupants had any clue as to their past. Today, the cottages were deluxe one–thousand–dollar–a–night bolt holes for well–heeled honeymooners and holiday–makers, but back in the nineteenth century, they were slave cabins.
She shuddered, wondering, not for the first time, whether she should be here. In fact, Tess had made the call to Dom before she had time to properly think about what she was doing. He was obviously excited to hear from her, and Tess had felt bad as the hope in his voice quickly died away when he realized Tess’s call was not to arrange a reconciliation.
‘I need you to do something for me,’ she’d told him bluntly.
‘I might have known you’d want something,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Well, what did you expect?’
There was a long pause.
‘I need a couple of nights at Riverview Plantation,’ said Tess. ‘It’s super–expensive, and I’m not sure I can write it off as expenses. Plus, I need an excuse to ask lots of questions.’
‘Why do you need to go snooping around Riverview?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Well, you’ll have to write the story up for me,’ he said.
Tess laughed. ‘Does that mean I can send you an invoice?’ she asked.
‘Does this mean we can be friends?’ he replied.
‘Maybe. One day.’
Tess put the thought out of her mind as she stepped out of the car and pulled her overnight case from the boot. The balmy honeysuckle–scented air was soothing and warm. Checking in at the desk of the beautiful mahogany reception, she was effusively greeted by the manager who introduced himself as Sidney Garner.
‘So you’re from the London Times?’ he said with a thick, deep Southern accent.
‘Chronicle,’ corrected Tess.
‘Well, we’re very pleased to welcome you here, Miss Garrett.’ He motioned to a waiter, who ran over with a tray bearing a mint julep.
Tess shook her head politely. ‘I have to drive again in a little while.’
‘But you only just got here!’ he protested. ‘Riverview is all about relaxation.’
Tess smiled at the way he separated the word into four syllables: ‘re–lax–ay–shun’.
‘Well, I’ll try,’ smiled Tess, ‘but sadly it’s not a holiday.’
Sidney shooed the waiter away. ‘Well, why don’t I show you to your room? You’re in the Dovecote.’
Tess tried to hide her disappointment. She had asked Dom to try and secure bungalow twelve, the guesthouse nearest the river. The one Olivia Martin had stayed in.
They wound down a path that took them through manicured gardens bursting with roses and flowering trees.
‘So, what can you tell me about the history of the house, Mr Garner?’ asked Tess.
‘Sidney, please,’ he blustered. ‘Well, the Portland hotel group bought Riverview from the previous owners three years ago. We’ve spent millions since then remodelling it, keeping the essence of the estate but bringing it into the twenty–first century.’
He led her up to a pretty grey outbuilding and handed Tess a key. ‘The Dovecote is one of our best rooms. Very quiet. I thought you’d prefer that to the rooms in the main house if you wanted to work.’
Tess smiled. ‘Do you mind if I have a look around?’
‘Not at all. Any questions, just let me know.’ He thrust a brochure into her hands. ‘A CD of images, a factsheet on the hotel’s history. It’s all in there.’
‘Is it possible to see bungalow twelve?’
He gave his head a half–shake. ‘Unfortunately not. We’re at eighty per cent capacity this weekend and twelve is occupied. Usually is. It’s very popular with honeymooners doing the River Road trail. We’ve got honeymooners in there now.’
‘See what you can do?’ said Tess, pressing a flirtatious hand on his arm. ‘I only need a few minutes to see the view and so on. I’d be very grateful.’
Sidney’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, attempting a coquettish look. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
He was just walking away when he turned back. ‘You know, another journalist phoned up a few weeks ago asking the same question. I believe there’s a history to number twelve. Some actress disappeared from a party here in the Sixties, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t put that in the story. Some tourists get a bit spooked by things like that.’
‘Of course,’ smiled Tess. ‘You can rely on my discretion.’
Tess wondered who had called. Alicia? Someone from the Washington Spy? One of Wendell Billington’s people? It hardly mattered. No one had got any further with the story or she would certainly have heard about it by now.
There was a chirping sound and Sidney took his cell phone out of his pocket.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, reading his message. ‘I’m wanted in the restaurant. New chef, I’m afraid,’ he said with a lame wink.
‘Well, I’ll just go and s
ettle into my room if that’s okay. I have a meeting in Vacherie in less than an hour.’
‘Better hurry,’ said Sidney. ‘It’s pretty far out.’
You said it, thought Tess.
*
Dennis Carson had been a difficult man to track down. Given that Tess only had limited time, she had been forced to ask Becky at the Oracle to help in return for another Brooke and David wedding story, but there was no other way to find the policemen who had been responsible for investigating Olivia’s disappearance. Vacherie was a small, pretty town set just back off the highway. It was mainly a cluster of creole cottages and clapboard buildings surrounding a small white church with a tall pointy steeple. The retired officer lived just behind the general store, and he was out in the garden digging in a rose bush when Tess walked up. Carson was around seventy, with military–short steel grey hair, a heavy jaw, and dark, alert eyes.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Tess, as Carson led her to a small cane sofa on the porch, sitting on a wooden chair opposite, wiping his brow with a spotty handkerchief.
‘I wasn’t too surprised,’ said Carson. ‘Someone called me up about this business a few weeks ago.’
‘So I keep hearing,’ replied Tess with a smile. ‘Could I ask who it was?’
‘Don’t know. They left a message on my machine, but I’ve been in Oregon for the last few weeks visiting my son.’
Tess nodded, feeling a sense of relief. Perhaps no one else had got to the bottom of this story.
‘So you work for the Asgills?’ he asked.
‘I work for Meredith Asgill, yes. I’m the family publicist. And, as I’m sure you’ll have gathered, the Olivia Martin story has resurfaced.’
Carson shrugged. ‘Bound to happen when her daughter’s marrying that old money guy. The one from the television?’
Carson smiled at Tess’s surprised reaction. ‘Hey, I’m retired,’ he laughed, ‘I ain’t dead. We get the newspapers here too, you know.’
Tess blushed a little.
‘So can you tell me what happened back then?’
‘Well, I ain’t too sure I’m gonna be able to tell you anything you ain’t already read,’ he shrugged. He rolled his neck and his eyes took on a faraway look. ‘After the wedding dinner, there was a big party out at Riverview. This was the Saturday night. According to witnesses, Olivia Martin was drunk and little high on something. About half a dozen guests said they saw her glassy–eyed and not too stable on her feet. She’d come to the party on her own and was staying in cottage twelve, I believe. The last people to see Olivia alive were Meredith’s folks, at about eleven p.m., when Olivia came to say thank you for the evening. No one saw her leave or go into her cottage, she just disappeared.’
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