Original Sin (32 page)

Jemma gave a low whistle. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

‘I know, but it didn’t feel right. Taking a job with them was easier to accept and I’ve always wanted to work in New York. But I feel bad about denying you that money.’

Jemma shrugged. ‘It wasn’t as if I’d snapped Madonna in bed with the Queen, was it? Then I’d have been really pissed off if you’d swiped the pictures!’

She gave Tess a long searching look. ‘Look, so I might have been able to make a little bit of money, but Tess, without you, I’d probably be in some grotty bedsit in Camberwell on benefits. You have been a good friend to me, that’s all that matters.’

Tess closed her eyes and felt the relief flood through her. She’d only done what she could. After the Paris incident, Tess had persuaded the photo editor at the
Globe
to give Jemma a few shifts on the picture desk. Through that she had begun to talk to the paparazzi and discovered how much money they could make. Jemma still took her camera everywhere and, one night, shopping for Christmas presents just off Oxford Street, she had seen a little group of shoppers laden with parcels standing around a car. As she pushed to the front, she saw the driver was rock star James Bard – he had hit someone crossing the road. Jemma sold the pictures for ten thousand pounds. In one sense it was the easiest money she’d ever made. In another, the hardest. Jemma had later told Tess how guilty, how dirty she had felt taking pictures of the scene. But with Tess’s encouragement, she hit the streets as a freelance paparazzo, and the second picture she took was easier, and the third and the forth. She set herself ground rules – she would never take a photo that hurt anyone. At least, no one who wasn’t fair game. Tess smiled inwardly; it was funny how those goalposts quickly changed.

‘Listen, Tess, don’t feel badly about any of this,’ said Jemma, gesturing towards the skyline. ‘Look, I’m here in New York, what could be better than that? I do this job because I love the buzz. Maybe it’s a different buzz than seeing my pictures in
Vogue
,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘But it’s a buzz all the same.’

Tess nodded slowly. She’d heard Jemma’s stories – three months earlier she’d been run off the road when she’d followed an A–lister’s 4x4 on her moped. The bodyguard driving the car had deliberately smashed into her, leaving Jemma and her bike mashed up on a lonely grassy verge. On another occasion, Jemma had been hit over the head with a bicycle pump by one of London’s most famous theatre actors. Some people might say that the paparazzi deserved it, but no one deserved to be killed or injured.

Jemma jumped up and went over to the window, gazing down with undisguised excitement at the yellow cabs in the street.

‘So, do you think you are going to be in my spare room for ever more?’ smiled Tess.

‘Given half a chance,’ grinned Jemma. ‘Now, are we going to paint this town red, white, and blue?’

*

Matt picked up Brooke the following Saturday at 7.30 a.m. It seemed ridiculously early to go for breakfast, let alone lunch, but then Brooke reminded herself that he was an ER doctor, who had his days and hours out of synch. It must be like having permanent jet lag.

Walking out of her building, she glanced left and right. There were no paparazzi she could see, but netherless she had taken precautions. She’d dressed down in dark indigo jeans, her favourite Stella McCartney T–shirt and white pumps, because her ankle was not yet completely healed. Her hair was tied up and covered with a knitted cap. She had also covered her eyes with a pair of wide black sunglasses; it was a bright sunny morning so plenty of people were doing the same. The night before she had almost cancelled today’s day out, feeling unsettled and guilty meeting Matt with David out of the country. But she’d shaken herself out of it. There was nothing to feel guilty about. Matt was just a friend and she was not going to let David, Tess Garrett, or the paparazzi dictate who she was going to be friends with. Was she supposed to go through life avoiding all men just because she was engaged and famous? Somehow going out with Matt felt like regaining control of her life.

‘Now that’s better,’ smiled Matt, pointing to her sunglasses as she got into his car, discreetly hidden in a side street.

‘I thought so,’ she grinned. ‘More Audrey Hepburn than Lance Armstrong. I have my Peggy Guggenheim in my bag too,’ she said, pulling out a large pair of cream framed sunglasses. ‘But I try to match my glasses with my disguises.’

‘Ah, it must be exhausting being a style icon,’ he said, turning the key and setting off. ‘Although where we’re going, you won’t need them.’

She looked at him suspiciously. Matt had been vague about their destination on the phone, only saying that no paparazzi would think to go there.

Brooke felt a little thrill of excitement as they left the metropolis behind.

‘I’m surprised you ended up in book publishing,’ said Matt as they drove along.

‘Funny you should say that. I was interviewed for
Vogue
the other week. They asked me why I got into children’s book publishing.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Because I have an English degree and I’m not sure you can do a great deal else with it. Plus the books that have had the most impact in my life are supposedly for children:
Charlotte’s Web
,
The Giving Tree
, even Tolkien.’

‘It’s a good answer, but is it true?’

She smiled.
‘
The truth is I fell into it. After I graduated, my friend’s mother fixed me up with work experience at Yellow Door. I took it mainly because it seemed like a nice way to make a living without working for the family company and being constantly compared to my workaholic sister Liz. Then I found out I loved publishing, so when they offered me an editorial assistant’s position after my work experience stint, I jumped at it.’

‘I bet your mother didn’t like that.’

‘The strange thing is, I really don’t think she cared. Maybe because she already had William, Sean, and Brooke working for the company. Maybe because she thought publishing would be better for me.’

‘I can’t imagine she just shrugged, though.’

‘She said ‘Brooke, publishing is a very nice career for a girl looking for a suitable husband. And ever since I got together with David, she keeps reminding me that Jackie Onassis was an editor at Doubleday. If it’s good enough for Jackie … ’

Matt laughed.

‘Well, if David does get to be president and you’re his first lady, think of all the secrets you’ll find out, like who really killed Kennedy.’

‘Jack or Bobby?’

‘Both. And find out about Roswell too.’

‘Alien autopsies?’ She grinned. ‘I’d could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

The roads out of New York were quiet. Conversation was casual and untaxing – gossip about mutual friends at Brown, her upcoming wedding, and life at Yellow Door.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard she realized they had been driving for over two hours. Towns had thinned out to open farmland and a sign shot past announcing they were in Pennsylvania.

‘Where
are
you taking me?’ she asked.

Seeing she wasn’t going to get an answer, she opened the window to let in the crisp country air. They passed through small towns with funny names: ‘Intercourse’ and ‘Bird–in–the–Hand’ zipped by, their solitary high streets crowded with soda fountains and blacksmith’s shops. Soon they were overtaking quaint farmers driving horse and buggies. If it were not for the constant presence of SUVs and pick–up trucks with tinted windows, she could almost convince herself that they had gone back in time. The penny finally dropped.

‘We’re in Amish Country,’ said Brooke, turning towards Matt.

‘Is it a really stupid idea?’ he asked. ‘You said you hate getting hassled when you go out in public, so I thought we should go where people didn’t have the slightest clue who you were.’

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. While Brooke could see that there were men with the trademark Amish spade beards and women in bonnets and pinafores, the towns still had fast–food joints and garish gift shops bristling with tourists. Brooke slipped her glasses back on.

‘I never said my idea was foolproof,’ smiled Matt.

They drove on into a valley. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and glanced at it, keeping one eye on the road.

‘Well, I think we’re here.’

‘It’s incredible that communities like this can still exist in the twenty–first century,’ said Brooke quietly.

‘Actually the Amish are one of the fastest–growing communities in the world,’ said Matt. ‘They marry within other Amish communities and have lots of children.’

‘That’s so … so old fashioned,’ said Brooke.

Matt smiled. ‘Not really. People tend to marry their own kind. Look at you and David. In fact all the way through college you had boyfriends like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Boys with trust funds and sports cars.’

She blinked at him for a moment, then decided silence would be the best response. She wanted to disagree with him but her ex–boyfriends
were
of a type. No bad boys or losers. Just a string of Mr Rights. The one time she strayed off the path of nice boys from good families – with Dr Jeff Daniels, her former tutor who had bowled her over with his suave intelligence – it had ended quickly and badly. Looking back, that relationship had started when she had been in the throes of grief after her father’s death, and he had been in the throes of a mid–life crisis. After that she’d reverted to type. And now she was getting married to David Billington – the prototype rich, successful, all–American male.

They took a right down a quiet dusty road. Finally they passed through a picket–fenced field and into the grounds of a small farm.

‘Matt, we can’t just drive into here,’ Brooke hissed. ‘This isn’t Disneyland, it’s someone’s home!’

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine from Brown, Tom Chance, knows this family. He’s a doctor at a local hospital with an outreach programme for the Amish.

As they got out of the car, a woman came out to greet them. She was dressed in a blue dress with a long full skirt, white apron, and a bonnet. Brooke thought she looked like Kelly McGillis in the film
Witness
– it was her only reference point for the Amish community.

‘Welcome, Matthew,’ she said with a smile. There was a faint inflection to her accent.
German?
thought Brooke.
Dutch perhaps?

‘Good to see you, Ruth. How’s your little girl?’

‘She’s fine now. Tom is a good doctor. Now who is this?’ she asked, turning her attention to Brooke.

‘Ruth, may I introduce Brooke Asgill? She is an old friend from college.’

‘Friends?’ she said mischievously.

‘Yes, Ruth,’ Matthew said seriously.

‘A man should not be without a wife, Matthew,’ she said. ‘It has been too long for you.’

Brooke watched his cheeks redden and smiled to herself.

‘Okay, okay. Now how about this buggy ride we were talking about?’

The horse and buggy was standing outside a red barn. Ruth climbed into the front seat of the buggy, taking hold of the reins. Brooke and Matt clambered into the seat behind her.

‘Our journey is going to be about three miles,’ said Ruth as she geed the horse into a trot. She turned and gave them a mischievous smile.

As they jogged along, Ruth told them all about her life, using the various landmarks in the valley to illustrate her story. She showed them the simple wood–framed houses of their neighbours where they worshipped on Sundays, and the one–roomed Amish schoolhouses.

Brooke closed her eyes and let the warm spring breeze stroke her face. It was the most pleasant sensation she’d felt in weeks. Simplicity. Anonymity. No one in this valley had any idea who Brooke Asgill was; they had no interest in where she bought her clothes or where she went out to eat. When they pulled up back in front of the farm, Ruth invited them into her large white house. It was simply decorated but the furniture – the long wooden table and dresser – were beautiful. It was scrupulously clean and there was a delicious smell in the air. She gave them a plate of pretzels that were thick, warm, and spicy. Brooke had not tasted pastry this good since she had been skiing in St–Moritz a few years ago. She didn’t mention it as she didn’t know if Ruth would approve of a place like St–Moritz.

‘Do you work, Brooke?’ asked Ruth after a pause.

She nodded. ‘I edit children’s books.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ she smiled. ‘That is a true calling.’

Ruth asked a few questions about life in New York, which seemed to both fascinate and repel her in equal measure, and then Matt gestured that it was time to go.

‘That was great,’ said Brooke as they climbed into the car. ‘I might bring David.
You
should bring a date. Ruth wants to see you paired off again.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah.’