Original Sin (36 page)

David looked over at her and his eyes softened. ‘What’s really wrong here, Brooke? You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?’

His expression was grave and earnest; Brooke called it his ‘big story’ face, the face he pulled when reporting from war zones or disaster areas.
God, is that what he’s thinking about our relationship?
she wondered.

‘You know there’s something wrong, David,’ she said quietly. ‘Remember how good things were before we decided to get married?’

A deep frown appeared between his brows. ‘Are you saying you don’t want to get married?’

He sounded like David Frost quizzing Richard Nixon.

‘No,’ she said, honestly. ‘But don’t you miss the time when we could go to the movies, or eat hot dogs in Central Park without it being a circus?’

She had thought a lot lately about what point it had all become so crazy. The press attention had sneaked up on her. At first it was the odd photograph of them in
US Weekly
or
People
of them coming from a party, the occasional chase down the street by an enthusiastic pap. That had actually been quite exciting the first few times. Brooke supposed that before they had gone public as a couple there was no reason to suppose David’s relationship with her was any more serious than it had been with any of his other girlfriends. But their engagement in February had caught the media by surprise. The day the story broke there had been at least fifty reporters outside her apartment.

‘Yes, I loved that time,’ said David, ‘But I love the time we spend together now too. I know I’m busy, but won’t be forever, honey, I promise.’

He reached out for her and pulled her into his arms. ‘That scarf looks really pretty on you.’

She grinned, remembering all the little gifts and trinkets he’d bought back from his travels. He kissed her bare shoulder, his lips moving up to her neck to the soft curve of her cheek.

‘Hmm. That’s lovely,’ she smiled, her anxiety melting away.

As their kisses became deeper, he used both hands to lift off her slip dress.

‘Maybe we
should
argue more often,’ she smiled, letting him push her down onto one of the soft cream sofas.

‘Maybe we should,’ he growled, taking off his T–shirt and unsnapping her bra. He lowered his mouth back onto hers, his taste warm and sweet, and as dark chest hair brushed over her tight, erect nipples, she groaned with arousal and spread her thighs. Suddenly David pulled up on his elbows, his head cocked.

‘Shit, my work phone.’

‘Leave it, leave it, leave it,’ she begged, linking her arms around his neck. He began to kiss her again, but the insistent ringing continued.

‘Honey I have to get it,’ said David, pulling away.

‘You were the one who said we were on holiday.’

‘It could be important,’ he said, getting up and reaching for the phone.

She watched his face cloud with concern, her ardour cooling. Brooke had a love–hate relationship with David’s job. She smiled when her friends called him ‘Action Man’, and she enjoyed the fact that he was involved in important world events, even having some influence over them, however small. But it also bothered her every time he was sent away. David was not a war correspondent and rarely reported from the line of fire – David suspected his father had spies inside the newsroom making sure he never went anywhere near a mortar or landmine – but still, he was reporting from hot spots such as Palestine and Sudan and there always seemed to be some element of danger.

‘What wrong?’ she asked, pulling her dress back on.

‘It’s the studio,’ he said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘A boat is on fire just off Islamorada.’

Brooke’s eyes widened. ‘But that’s in the Keys, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Is it national news?’

He nodded. ‘The boat was full of people. Women and kids. A fishing trawler is trying to get people out of the water now. Search and rescue are on the way there.’

David pulled his T–shirt back on awkwardly, trying to keep the phone to his ear.

‘I’m on hold,’ he said, ‘they’re trying to get hold of a local cameraman.’

‘They want you to do a broadcast?’

David perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘This is immigrant smuggling gone horribly wrong.’

‘Immigrant smuggling?’

He held up a finger. He was back on the phone.

‘Great,’ he said into the receiver, his voice clipped and business–like. ‘No, thirty minutes isn’t fast enough. Okay, just get there as soon as you can.’

She watched him, mesmerized, as he shifted into full gear, gathering his things, dialling numbers, barking orders. She found it strangely erotic. Finally he reached for his jacket.

‘So what’s happening?’ asked Brooke.

‘I’m going down there. I can be there quicker than a news team coming down from Miami.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said suddenly, jumping to her feet.

‘Honey, no,’ said David, ‘you stay here.’

Brooke shook her head adamantly. ‘I’m not staying here thinking about canapés where there’s kids drowning in the sea ten miles away.’

He gave her a grateful smile and took her hand. They ran out of the house and jumped into Leonard’s Jeep and roared away down the drive.

‘So tell me about immigrant smuggling,’ said Brooke. As they bumped along, her heart was racing at the drama of it all and, given her worried thoughts only minutes ago, she was excited to be involved with David’s other life for once. She reached over and squeezed his hand. One of the many things she loved about David was that he seemed to know everything. He was not intellectual in the way those foul people at Estella Winston’s party had been, but his head was like a dusty old library, packed with endless facts.

‘Well, it’s been going on for years,’ said David, not taking his eyes from the road. ‘Everyone thinks it’s all about smuggling drugs in Florida, but human trafficking is, if anything, even bigger business. Every day of the week, you can almost guarantee there’s some boat sliding up to some deserted beach along the Keys, dropping off people from Cuba, Puerto Rico, even Mexico. Smugglers can get up to ten thousand dollars a head, so if you’re ferrying over thirty people, that’s three hundred thousand a trip. It’s illegal, of course, but the penalties for transporting heroin and cocaine and those for carrying a handful of farm workers just don’t compare.’

‘And what happens to the people?’ asked Brooke, fascinated now.

‘Ah, well, that’s where it gets controversial,’ said David. ‘Generally, if they make it to land they can stay, but if they are found at sea they are sent back home. Although that only applies to Cubans. People from Haiti are usually sent straight back.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

‘Life’s not fair, honey,’ said David, pulling the car to a stop and pointing out to sea.

They had turned off the main road onto a beach track with what looked like a landing jetty, surrounded by vehicles, their lights still on. On either side, the beach looked grey in the moonlight, but out in the inky distance, possibly less than a thousand metres offshore, was a fireball. Above it, she could see a helicopter training its spotlight onto the choppy blackness of the sea. A pick–up truck was parked by the jetty and a tall man jumped out. David climbed out to meet him.

‘Charlie, hi,’ he said. ‘You made good time.’

‘We’re the first media to get here,’ said the cameraman, already unloading his equipment.

‘Have you spoken to the police yet?’

Brooke could see the man’s teeth flash in the Jeep’s headlights. ‘I thought I’d save that treat for you.’

Brooke saw her fiancé run over towards a police cruiser, its red and blue lights swirling.

‘Sir, you’re going to have to move back,’ said the officer. He shone his flashlight into David’s face and his tone immediately changed. ‘Sorry, Mr Billington,’ he said more politely. ‘But you’re still going to have to move.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Can’t say,’ said the officer vaguely. ‘I do know they’re pulling bodies from the sea.’

‘Alive or dead?’ asked David without emotion.

‘I don’t know,’ said the officer grimly. David quickly asked him a few more questions, memorizing the facts and figures.

‘Please, sir,’ said the officer, holding up his hands. ‘You’re going to have to move further down the beach. I’ll speak to my captain, and see if someone will come talk to you later.’

They jumped in Charlie’s pick–up and moved a hundred metres down the beach to the edge of the police cordons.

‘Okay, we’re not going to wait for the official version,’ said David decisively. ‘Let’s roll from here, Charlie, with the fire in the background.’

He looked back at Brooke. ‘Charlie can feed this straight back to the studio in New York from that little satellite dish in the back of his pick–up.’

Charlie grabbed some lights and set them up on the sand, running power cables from the truck. David stood in front of them and winked at Brooke.

‘Well, this is going to be basic,’ he said under his breath. She could see his sheer professionalism, his passion for what he was doing. She ran over to him and straightened his collar and smoothed down his hair, then ducked out of sight of the camera. He looked straight ahead, paused, then launched into an eloquent monologue about the events unfolding before them.

He’s good
, thought Brooke, unable to take her eyes from her fiancé. He had no speechwriter, no script, and few hard facts available, yet he spoke with knowledge and authority. He wasn’t just good, he was brilliant. She felt a rush of pleasure, which turned into a curl of lust. She stopped herself, thinking how completely inappropriate it was to be thinking about sex when there was a search and rescue effort going on behind her.

Brooke’s eyes drifted out behind David. The glow from the fire was illuminating the tops of the waves, like the last rays of a sunset. If it wasn’t for the horror of what was happening out there, she thought, you might even think it was pretty. Suddenly she stopped, narrowing her eyes. There was something at the water line. Was it seaweed? Debris from the boat? Then she realized it was a body. Before she could think, she was running towards the sea.

‘David!’ she shouted. She turned and saw him drop his microphone and begin sprinting across the sand towards her.

Brooke splashed into the water, freezing cold against her bare legs, but David got there first. He hauled her out and, with Brooke’s help, dragged her onto the sand. David glanced up at Brooke and said simply: ‘Get help.’ Then he bent over the woman and began to pump her chest.

Brooke ran across the beach, towards the police cordon, waving her arms.

‘Quick!’ she screamed to a paramedic beyond the barrier. ‘We have a woman over here.’

When she got back, David was bent low over the woman, his hand under her chin as he blew air into her lungs. Finally, a small plume of water exited her mouth, her whole body shaking as she turned onto her side, coughing violently. An ambulance roared up to them, the noise of the siren surrounding them.

David jumped out of the way as the paramedics got to work. Brooke threw her arms around him he squeezed her back as tightly as he could, kissing her neck. She didn’t mind the cold wetness of his shirt sticking to her, she didn’t mind the camera pointed at her tear–stained face. She felt safe and proud, in the embrace of the man she was going to marry.

‘I love you David. I love you so much,’ she said, not wanting to let him go. And for the first time in months, she was more sure of those words than anything else in her life.

CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE

Two weeks after her trip to London for the Lupin launch, Tess was bustling around her apartment, getting ready for a day out in the Big Apple with Dom. After their glorious reunion in the low–rent hotel, she could barely remember a time she had felt so excited to see him. He had arrived late the previous night, but today Tess had a packed itinerary planned for him as she was keen to share all her newly discovered favourite places with him: the Conservatory Garden in Central Park, high up on One Hundred and Third Street which, at this time of year was a riot of colour, or the Morgan Library in midtown, which housed everything from a Gutenburg Bible to Bob Dylan’s original handwritten lyrics to ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’. Later, they would share freshwater crab at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station and hot chocolate at the Tea & Sympathy café, a slice of old England in the midst of the Manhattan exotica. Tess was beginning to think of New York as her home – at least for now – and she wanted to show it off like a prize.

It was nine a.m. by the time Tess walked into the living room. She had already taken a shower and put on her carefully chosen outfit for the day: a white skinny–rib T–shirt and dark J Brand jeans that made her legs look especially long and lean. After the shock of putting on five pounds in her first three weeks in the city, she had been on a ruthless eight–hundred–calorie–a–day grapefruit–and–egg diet given to her by one of the girls at work, which had miraculously shifted almost a stone. Feeling sexy, happy, and ready for anything, she ran through to the kitchen, which was flooded by New York sun.