Original Sin (31 page)

Dr Shapiro cocked her head. ‘What do you think, Elizabeth?’

‘I think it’s a lot of horseshit, Dana.’

‘Well, I think we’ve achieved a great deal today,’ said Shapiro, standing up and smoothing her skirt. ‘Let’s both have a think about what we’ve discussed and meet back here in a week?’

Liz closed the door behind her.
‘We’ve achieved a great deal today,’
she mocked. What exactly had it achieved? It was a waste of her precious time and money. But at least she’d fulfilled her obligations to Tess Garrett. She was free – and that meant she wouldn’t be going back to see Dr Dana Shapiro again. She had other plans.

*

The line from Damascus was faint and crackly.

‘Hey, how are you?’

Brooke paused the
Sex and the City
DVD she was watching from bed, glad to hear David’s voice, even though it sounded so remote and tinny it was like talking to a stranger.

‘Hey. You’re there.’ David had flown out to Syria almost twenty–four hours earlier to do a report on its political importance in the Middle East.

‘Just about. It was the journey from hell.’

‘Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.’

‘Sleep, yeah right. It’s nearly six a.m. here. I’ve got meetings and filming all day. So how are you? How’s work? Didn’t you have a meeting with that agent?’

‘All cancelled. I didn’t even make it into work.’

‘Really? Why not?’

‘Just a bit of an accident.’

‘Accident? Brooke, what happened?’

‘I was out running. A pap was following me and I fell and sprained my ankle.’ She tried to say it as casually as she could, but David was obviously concerned.

‘Shit, baby. Are you okay?’

She looked down at her swollen, purple–tinged foot, which was balanced on a cushion. ‘Nothing some very effective painkillers didn’t sort out.’

She heard a low decisive snort down the phone. ‘We need to get you security.’

She squirmed at the thought of herself flanked by burly men, Paris Hilton–style, and groaned. ‘Oh come on David, that’s not necessary.’

‘Honey, I think it’s very necessary.’

The television was freeze–framed on a bare–breasted Samantha. She grabbed the remote control and switched it off. ‘I don’t want a bodyguard. It just looks ridiculous.’

‘Baby, you need one. Today it’s a pap guy and a swollen ankle, tomorrow it could be … well anything.’

Brooke heard the disapproval in his voice but she was determined to stand her ground. It wasn’t the actual bodyguard she objected to – in the last few months she’d met lots of bodyguards, and most of them were just like drivers just with extra kung–fu skills. What bothered Brooke was what getting a bodyguard represented.

‘David, the second I get a bodyguard,’ she said firmly, ‘is the second I admit I’m living in a prison. I don’t want to live my life like that.’

‘Robert told me recently about a really great guy who’s worked with a lot of female celebrities. Ex–Israeli army. He’s very good. Very discreet.’

Was he even listening to her?

‘David … ’

‘So, the ankle. Is it all strapped up properly?’

Despite Tess Garrett’s reaction, she wanted to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. Matt Palmer had a look at it. I didn’t want to go to Cedar Sinai.’

‘Matt Palmer strapped your ankle,’ he said. There was a long pause. Brooke felt sure it wasn’t the poor telephone connection. ‘What were you doing at Columbia–Presbyterian?’

She hesitated. ‘I wasn’t. I went to his apartment. It’s not too far from where I fell.’

‘Well, that was convenient.’

‘Oh David, don’t be like that. He’s just a friend. Barely even that.’

‘You can do without friends like him.’

Brooke felt her hackles rise. ‘Do you want to tell me who I can and can’t have as friends now?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he snapped.

‘Well what
did
you mean?’

There was a long, crackling pause.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve got a meeting at the Baath Party headquarters in an hour.’

‘Fine,’ she said quietly. ‘You go off and play.’ Then she hung up the phone, her hands shaking with anger.

For a few seconds she just stared at the television screen in front of her, eyes not focusing, just seeing shapes and colour. Then she began to move, as if on autopilot, sliding off the bed and hobbling to the kitchen. The fridge contained nothing of interest – carrot juice, a bottle of Skin Plus prebiotics (‘Look after your skin from the inside out!’ screamed the bottle), an artichoke, and a carton of egg whites to make the breakfast omelettes her personal trainer had recommended but she had never cooked. Moving to the cupboard her heart gave a little flip of pleasure when she saw a large box of chocolates sent by a publicist a few weeks earlier, hidden behind her coffee grinder.

She ripped open the tasteful brown papers and orange ribbons, took a pink truffle from the box and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as it melted on her tongue.

It felt good. Brooke didn’t consider herself a diet Nazi like half of the fashionistas and society girls in the city. But all the clothes she had sent to her were sample sizes, small and unforgiving, and paparazzi camera angles could be very unflattering, even with just a few surplus pounds on her tall, slim frame. Giving up chocolate had seemed a small price to pay.

She returned to her bed, lay back on the plump pillows and rifled through the box to find another pink truffle. She felt naughty and defiant, as if she were playing hookey from school, not that Brooke could remember ever playing hookey from school.

When her phone rang again she was tempted not to answer it. She hated leaving things awkward with David, but she felt so angry at his high–handed attitude, she really didn’t want to speak to him.

Reluctantly she picked it up.

‘How’s the patient?’ She recognized Matt’s voice immediately.

‘A box of truffles is dulling the pain,’ she said, suddenly thinking about her foot again. ‘I particularly recommend the pomegranate champagne truffle.’

‘The medicinal powers of chocolate. I thought you society girls didn’t touch the stuff.’

‘I’m rebelling,’ she said.

‘That’s not like you, Little Miss Perfect.’

She sat up, bristling again. ‘I’ll have you know I have a very rebellious streak.’

He chuckled down the phone. ‘Brooke. You’re hardly Che Guevara.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You. A rebel. You think double parking is a felony.’

Her back stiffened. ‘I do not.’

‘Remember the first time we met at that party on Prospect Avenue? You told me the next day you went back to the house and took them a bag of bananas to replace the ones I’d taken for your hangover cure.’

‘It was somebody else’s food!’

‘We were students!’

They both laughed at the memory.

‘Well, I was just checking in,’ said Matt after a pause. ‘Making sure your ankle was okay. I’d better go.’

‘Me too,’ said Brooke quickly. ‘I have a night to myself … The week actually. David’s away so I thought I’d make the most of it by indulging in the
Sex and the City
box set.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘Syria.’

‘Holiday?’

She laughed. ‘No. He’s signed up to do a series of six special reports for World Watch on CTV. He’s trying to sort out an interview with the President as we speak.’

‘He’s a busy guy.’

‘David or the President?’

‘Both, I dare say.’

‘Well, thanks again for this morning. Those painkillers have had me walking on air.’

There was another pause. ‘Listen, what are you doing this weekend?’ she said suddenly.

‘Not much. I’m not at the hospital.’

Well, let’s do something. You always had the best ideas for days out as I remember.’

‘There’s a challenge, Asgill. You can hardly walk. And I’m not being seen out dead with you if you have to wear those awful cycling goggles.’

She laughed. ‘I’ll leave it in your hands,’ she said. ‘And I promise, no more glasses.’

CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

‘This place is amazing,’ said Jemma with a shriek of pleasure, bouncing up and down on the small double bed in the spare room of Tess’s apartment. ‘Can we go down to the Magnolia bakery and get cupcakes? No. Century 21! I’m desperate for some new clothes. No, that restaurant in Central Park that overlooks the lake.’

‘The Boathouse?’ chipped in Tess.

‘That’s the one. God I just
love
New York, don’t you?’

Tess smiled at the genuine glee on her friend’s face as she looked around the West Village apartment. She had to admit it was impressive. The slim galley kitchen with the sleek, white fittings and granite surfaces. The bijou Philippe Starck bathroom, the living room painted in delicate creams with white shutters at the window that overlooked shady Perry Street.

‘I can’t believe you did this for me,’ said Jemma, running to the window and looking out.

‘Hey, I did it for me,’ grinned Tess. ‘I need you.’

‘And how much is the rent on this place again?’

‘It’s rent free.’

Jemma just laughed.

‘I have a friend who moved here about a year ago, she’s paying three thousand dollars a month for some dive in Brooklyn. And we thought London was a rip–off! New York, I am so ready for you,’ she laughed clapping her hands together.

Tess brought through two mugs of tea and they sat down on the sofa.

‘So how’s the
Globe
?’

Jemma pulled a face. ‘I haven’t sold one set of pictures to them since you left, not even a fifty–quid red–carpet shot. I suppose you know they made thirty people redundant?’

Tess had heard. It was on days like these that she felt as if she had made the right move.

‘Well, it’s going to be no picnic here either,’ she warned. ‘What do they say about the rich? They’re not like you and me? Well, it’s true. They get up to ten times more trouble.’

‘We can handle it,’ said Jemma. There was such a look of resolve on her face, it made Tess smile – it was if she was preparing to do battle. It was amazing the difference the last two years had made, she thought. Back then, Jemma had been a graduate from Wimbledon School of Art and about to start on a career in fashion photography. They weren’t close at first; in fact it had been Jemma’s sister Cat who was Tess’s good friend – she would only see Jemma popping in to say a glamorous hello at drinks parties or dinner. At that time, Jemma had struck her as a bit prissy and precious about her work. She had just landed a job in Paris as second assistant to French fashion photographer François Mitaud, and was full of her own creativity and fabulousness. Twelve months later, Tess had got a call. Jemma was in trouble and needed her help. Working late in Mitaud’s studio, the photographer had tried to seduce her, Jemma had said no. François wouldn’t accept it and had raped her. Tess had got on the Eurostar the next morning. Jemma’s sister Cat was now working in Canada and her parents had emigrated to New Zealand many years before, so Tess was the closest thing she had to family.

Tess had persuaded Jemma to go to the police, but they were unsympathetic and aggressive, insinuating that anyone who worked in the fashion industry only had themselves to blame. The same day, she had received a phone call from François, threatening that she would never work in the fashion industry again. Against Tess’s advice, Jemma had withdrawn her accusation, but the damage had already been done. Word was passed through the world of fashion that Jemma Davies was a troublemaker and she had returned to London broke and wounded. Tess looked at her friend, feeling terribly guilty. Despite knowing everything Jemma had been through, Tess hadn’t shied away from exploiting her either, and she knew she couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.

‘Listen, Jem, I need to make a confession,’ she said. ‘It’s been weighing on my mind since I got here. Those photos of Sean Asgill at the Venus party that we didn’t use? I wasn’t quite straight with you about why they disappeared.’

Jemma cocked her head to one side. ‘I thought you said it was a legal situation.’

‘It was. Sort of. But the truth is I spiked the story because Meredith Asgill asked me to. I wanted this job, so I gave them the photographs.’

Jemma frowned. ‘So what are you sorry for? I thought you said those photos technically belonged to the
Globe
, didn’t they?’

Tess nodded.

‘Well then, you stitched the newspaper up, not me. And good for you; the
Globe
management stitched you up by not giving you the editor’s position when you were clearly the best person for the job. So I figure we’re all about even.’

‘Well, that would be true, but you don’t know the whole story,’ said Tess. ‘The Asgills offered me one hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the photographs at first. I turned that down.’