Original Sin (24 page)

‘Do you know what time–?’ she began to croak, but she was quickly cut off.

‘Can you come round?’ The voice was female.

‘Who is this?’ asked Tess suspiciously.

‘Liz,’ came the testy reply, as if it were perfectly natural for Liz Asgill to call in the middle of the night.

‘Oh. Er, hi,’ said Tess. Her brain felt foggy and she felt slightly sick. One too many Manhattans, perhaps. She struggled to sit up in bed.

‘Is everything okay?’ Tess had only left Liz a few hours earlier at the launch. She had not said goodbye before she’d left – Tess hadn’t been there to handle the launch PR; her job was to keep an eye on Brooke and ensure her photographs got in all the right magazines and newspapers. When Brooke had left just after eleven, Tess had quickly followed. She badly needed the sleep; the two weeks since she had landed in New York had been a blur.

‘I need to see you,’ said Liz urgently. ‘Right away.’

‘Well, I’ll be in the office at seven,’ said Tess blearily. ‘Let’s grab a coffee as soon as we both get in.’

‘No, I need to see you
now
.’

There was an agitated, desperate edge to Liz’s voice that made Tess reach over and switch on her bedside light.

‘Liz, it’s two thirty,’ she said, immediately regretting the words the second they were out of her mouth.

‘This is not a nine–to–five job, Tess,’ snapped Liz. ‘I wouldn’t be calling you unless it was urgent.’

So far, Tess had had very few dealings with Liz and she had been rather relieved that their paths hadn’t crossed. Tess had met many formidable women in her time, but Liz was something else. There was a chilliness about her that made Tess feel as though she was treading on eggshells whenever they met. She was certainly not a woman to piss off before the day had even begun.

‘
Okaaay,’
sighed Tess. ‘Give me your address.’

Unable to find a pen, she wrote it down with lipstick on the front of a magazine.

‘I’ll see you in thirty minutes.’

*

Liz lived in a two–bedroomed apartment in one of the most luxurious condominiums in the city. Fifteen Central Park West, a huge wedding–cake of a building overlooking the park, was home to some of the most powerful people in New York: celebrities, CEOs, and money–men; people who could afford to pay up to one hundred million dollars for the privilege of living there. At three a.m., the building’s lobby was silent and stately with its oak panelling and marble pillars, the only noise the occasional crackle of the huge log fire. Tess took the elevator to the twenty–fifth floor where she found the door to Liz’s apartment slightly ajar. After two tentative knocks, she walked in. Her first thought was that Liz’s home was not as stark or minimalist as she was expecting. Sophisticated and tasteful, yes, but Tess had expected an ice queen like Liz to go for chrome and exposed brick. In the dim light, however, the living room actually felt quite warm and comforting, although she supposed the spotlessness of the big white sofas and cream carpet, along with the complete absence of clutter, did reflect the perfectionism of its owner.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said a voice, and Tess jumped. Liz was standing by the windows overlooking the park, half hidden in the shadow. She was still wearing her slate–grey cocktail dress from the party, her arms wrapped tightly in front of her as she nursed a tumbler of amber liquid and gazed out at the city lights twinkling in the dark.
What a view
, thought Tess. New York looked so majestic and peaceful, she could see why people were prepared to spend so much to live here. Liz, however, looked anything but at peace. As she stepped into the light, her face was as pale and expressionless as a corpse’s.

‘This is uncomfortable for me,’ she began, ‘so I only want to say it once.’

Tess nodded. ‘I’m listening,’ she said quietly.

Liz took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I am being blackmailed.’

Tess simply stood and listened. Years spent interviewing a whole range of people, from aggrieved neighbours to political protestors to celebrities, had taught Tess not to interrupt her subjects; to let them simply talk until they had nothing left to say.

‘A few weeks ago, I had sex with someone, an actor called Russ Ford,’ continued Liz. ‘I didn’t use my real name and I didn’t see him again afterwards, but tonight he showed up at the party and now he is asking for money.’

Tess frowned. She had been expecting a much bigger revelation given Liz’s grey–faced demeanour. It wasn’t good, of course, but neither was it a disaster. Liz having a one–night stand was hardly going to derail the Asgills’ social standing.

‘Okay,’ she said, trying to sound both sympathetic and businesslike. ‘What’s Russ Ford threatening you with exactly? I don’t mean to be rude, but the newspapers aren’t going to be too interested in a single woman having a one–night stand.’

Liz paused again. ‘He saw me again a few nights later in another bar with another man.’

‘And he was jealous?’ asked Tess, still confused.

Liz remained silent.

‘Liz, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything,’ said Tess with a little irritation. ‘I really don’t see how a one–night stand–’

‘I like casual sex, okay?’ Liz interrupted. ‘
Very
casual sex. This guy Russ says he is going to the papers with details. “Sex Addict Liz Asgill screws men in bathrooms of seedy clubs”: do you think that’s the sort of headline the tabloids might be interested in?’

Tess nodded. She understood better than Liz knew – after all, covering up the story of her brother Sean’s overdose at an orgy was what had brought her to work for the Asgills in the first place.
It’s a funny old family
, she thought, almost smiling at the understatement. Ten years ago, Tess would hardly have believed that a successful, elegant woman like Liz Asgill would have such a sordid sex life, but years on Fleet Street had opened her eyes to what went on behind closed doors. And, of course, some of the most hair–raising stories – the breakfast TV presenter who let her Alsatian lick dog food off her naked body, the cosy soap actress who could only have sex after her boyfriend blew cocaine up her arse, the supermodel who was a thirty thousand pound–a–throw hooker – they never saw the light of day thanks to prompt behind–the–scenes intervention of lawyers and publicists, who made deals and threats to keep it all quiet.

‘Listen Liz, having a couple of one–night stands doesn’t make you a sex addict,’ said Tess soothingly.

Liz shook her head. ‘It’s more than just a couple,’ she said, a slight catch in her voice.

‘How many?’

She shrugged. ‘Once, twice a week.’

‘A
week?
’

Tess hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, but it was crazy – and amazing that she hadn’t been caught before. What was Liz playing at? Russian roulette with men she hardly knew? Tess had a sudden sinking feeling.

‘Do you ever pay them?’ she asked.

‘
No!
’

Liz glared at Tess for a second, then closed her eyes, trying to gain control. She sat down on the corner of the white sofa and lit a cigarette, her long legs crossing in front of her.

‘I don’t want to get Patty Shackleton involved,’ she said, blowing the smoke out in a long stream. ‘And I certainly don’t want my mother to know. Can I trust you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Liz looked down at the sofa, brushing imaginary crumbs from the material. ‘Good. I haven’t got time to give you a lesson on Asgill family politics. But let’s just say my mother won’t like it. She’ll make me suffer.’

Tess had a sneaking suspicion that
she
was the one Meredith would make suffer if she ever found out that Tess had been colluding with Liz to keep secrets, but she knew that she didn’t really have a choice. She had enough problems with the Asgill family already, without making an enemy of Liz.

‘So tell me what you know about this guy,’ said Tess, sitting on the opposite sofa.

‘Hardly anything,’ said Liz. ‘As I said, we didn’t exactly talk the first time I met him.’

‘And do we know what he wants?’

‘He says he is going to call you to arrange a meeting. He says he can get two hundred thousand dollars for his story.’

As Liz spoke, Tess was calling up the Internet on her BlackBerry. She typed ‘Russ Ford’ into imdb.com. He had a very short list of credits in some minor made–for–TV productions; he was hardly Tom Cruise. It figured.

‘Do you know if he’s spoken to anyone yet?’ she asked.

‘He could have spoken to everyone for all I know,’ snapped Liz. ‘Forgive me for not going into too much detail with him at my company’s launch party. What are we going to do?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tess confidently, ‘I’ll take care of it.’

As she said the words, she felt a real surge of adrenaline. She had spent the last two weeks constantly on the phone or taking meetings in fancy watering holes around the city like Per Se, Michael’s and Tao, simultaneously buttering people up and playing hardball. It had paid off, of course – she had managed to swing a cover for Brooke in
Vanity Fair
, without allowing her to be interviewed, which was no mean feat. But this sort of publicity work wasn’t rocket science, especially given Brooke’s white–hot social standing. This, on the other hand, felt like real drama, a real challenge.

‘My instinct says we shouldn’t pay Russ,’ said Tess, thinking on her feet. ‘But if he does force our hand, would you be able to raise the funds?’

‘This time, yes. But I don’t want to have to keep on paying.’

Tess walked to the window and gazed out at the park as she thought. Then she picked up her BlackBerry and made a call, checking her watch. It wouldn’t even be eleven o’clock in London yet. She saw Liz watching her and walked back towards the entrance.

‘Hi Jem. It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘Just a quick one. Which big–time movie producer did you say was at that sex party again?’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

For as long as Brooke could remember, she had always loved fashion. As a little girl she had a big dressing–up box full of her mother’s flamboyant Seventies cast–offs and she had spent most of her teen years flitting from one iconic style to another. From the age of fifteen, when she had grown tall enough to pull it off, she had played with Left Bank beatnik, Gatsby preppie and Pre–Raphaelite boho, each change inspired by the art and literature she was encountering at school. She even had a brief, albeit cutting–edge flirtation with Goth when she had teamed her sister’s Comme des Garçon and Yohji Yamamoto hand–me–downs with thick black leggings. But as a woman, Brooke had settled into her style, which could be described as ‘chic with a twist’, especially as she liked supporting up–and–coming designers like Phillip Lim or Proenza Schouler, not that she was averse to mixing Chanel with American Apparel.

Even before her relationship with David was made public, it was her fashion sense that had got her noticed on the New York society circuit, where she was recognized as one of the city’s most beautiful and stylish girls. But for all her fashion knowledge and experience, when it came to her wedding dress, Brooke was completely floored. It didn’t help that hers was one of the most high–profile weddings in years, so she had been approached by some of the biggest names in fashion; the choices were almost limitless, an embarrassment of riches. And while she had done her best to ignore her mother’s melodramatic statement that ‘this dress is going to be remembered by generations to come,’ Brooke knew it still had to be special, the most special dress she would ever wear in her life.

‘Darling, I think he’s here.’

Meredith bustled out onto the terrace of their eighth–floor suite. They were staying at the Plaza Athénée, the opulent Left Bank hotel which had one of the best views of Paris’s skyline; Brooke could barely tear herself away. Dusk was settling over the city, the sky was streaked charcoal and gold behind the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, while the lights in the buildings below shone like a galaxy of stars.

‘Just coming,’ sighed Brooke, feeling both apprehensive and giddy. Guillaume Riche was one of the most flamboyant designers in the world, a master of showmanship. Over the past three decades he had created dresses for some of the most famous women on earth and his glorious evening dresses, seen many times on the red carpet at the Oscars, were nothing short of pure theatre. Preferring to work with vivid colours, Guillaume did not usually do wedding dresses, even as a tradition at the end of his couture show, but he had declared with typical modesty, ‘For this beautiful flower, I will create something of genius.’ At first Brooke hadn’t been convinced that she wanted to use him, as her all–time favourite wedding dress was Carolyn Bessette’s stunningly minimal column dress; surely that would be too simple for Guillaume’s tastes, she thought. Brooke had finally bowed to the pressure, however, as simply
everyone
had said that Guillaume was the best and, as the wedding dress was going to be Brooke’s first
haute
piece, it made sense to see the king of couture. It had also made sense to meet Guillaume in her hotel suite, despite the fact Brooke had been desperate to visit his atelier. One of her favourite childhood memories was visiting Yves Saint Laurent’s Avenue Marceau atelier with her mother. She could still vividly remember the rolls of exquisite fabric and the long wooden tables where the seamstresses worked, surrounded by swatches, pins, scissors and, to Brooke’s young eyes, magic. But although the problems with paparazzi were less severe in Paris, Brooke still had to be discreet while in the city. She couldn’t stand the general public knowing about the designer of her wedding dress before her husband–to–be.