Original Sin (39 page)

‘Of course,’ said Katrina. ‘We must get a play–date arranged for the girls, then we can talk more.’

Paula smiled, pleased that her well–placed white lies had worked. Not that she liked to view her words as lies, simply a stretch of the truth, a wishing thinking of things that would be correct given half the chance. It was something Paula was very good at, and over the years it had been a useful tool in her arsenal. To become an Upper East Side player, you needed wealth, contacts, and a talent for putting designer clothes together, but most of all, you needed a Machiavellian ability to spin the facts in your favour.

Katrina clasped Paula’s hand. ‘Well, I’d better mingle,’ she smiled. ‘We have the most amazing ballet on at three; we’ve flown over some girls from the Royal Ballet School to perform this crazy little version of Angelina Ballerina. Carlotta just loved those stories when we lived in London.’ Karina began to move away, but then turned back and grabbed Paula’s hand again.

‘Paula, you must meet Lucia De Santos,’ she said, leading her over towards the rude brunette in the Hermès shirt. Paula instantly recognized the name: she was a Colombian heiress whose father owned half of Bogatá.

‘Lucia, meet Paula. Paula, Lucia has just moved to New York so you must be nice to her.’

Lucia smiled broadly at Paula and then kissed her on both cheeks.

‘How wonderful to meet you,’ she said, making Paula instantly forget her snub just minutes earlier.

‘I think we’re going to be great friends,’ said Paula.

CHAPTER TWENTY–SEVEN

In the late spring months, the twenty minutes before dawn was one of Liz’s favourite times of the day. She loved sitting at her window that overlooked the park, watching the sky lighten from the horizon in gentle stripes of colour, bringing the city to life. It was not a time to work, but a time to think and collect those thoughts in a way that she could use to her advantage.

Draining off the last of her freshly pressed mandarin juice, she bent down and slipped on her running shoes. She had already showered, put on her white tracksuit, and was now ready to go. Her tennis lesson, aimed at brushing up her second serve, was at six thirty and she liked to get there early. But before she could leave the apartment, there was one thing she needed to do first.

Standing up, she noticed someone hovering in the doorway.

‘Hey. I was just about to wake you,’ she said in a polite but not too friendly way.

Liz had met Rav Singh, a thirty–three–year–old banker at one of the big investment houses at a drinks party at the Downtown Association, a private members’ club on Pine Street, the night before. He was half–Indian, half–Swedish, with latte–coloured skin, long almond–shaped eyes and an interesting perspective on global capitalism, having spent eighteen months in Mumbai. She had already gleaned that his father was a well–off Indian businessmen living in London, although she had no idea if he was simply one of Mumbai’s newly wealthy middle–class, or whether he was one of those Asian billionaires, with interests in steels and manufacturing that marked them out as the new titans of the business world, who lived in London for tax purposes.

They had caught a cab together uptown, had a late supper and too many caiprihinas in a Brazilian restaurant on Broadway and ended up at her apartment drinking a good Château Mouton Rothschild until midnight. When Liz had kissed Rav, and she had made the move first, she had almost laughed at loud at how
proper
her seduction had been. The sex had lacked the raw, drug–like excitement of her usual encounters with men she met in bars, but there had still been an urgency, a need to feel a man inside her. Regardless of the disdain she felt towards Dana’s Shapiro’s therapy, Liz had still avoided any more random one–night stands since Russ Ford. The restraint had made her irritable and easily distracted, even at work. It had driven her back to smoking, which she had quit after business school, and her alcohol consumption during her sexual abstinence had been high.

‘I’d like to see you again.’

‘I’m not the relationship kind,’ she replied in an amused, detached way. She had no doubt given Rav the fuck of his life; no wonder he wanted to come back for more.

‘Because of the divorce?’

‘You’ve been swotting up on me,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Just something I heard. It was eighteen months ago, Liz. You know, it might be time to move on … ’

She found herself nodding slowly. Maybe it was time for a new strategy. This much she knew; she wanted sex. The incident with Russ Ford had frightened her. No–strings sex was now simply out of the question. And she could hardly pay for it for exactly the same reasons, although she heard about one Chinese masseur who offered ‘extras’. But, try as she might, (the urban myth was that he had brought one Park Avenue Princess to orgasm half a dozen times in a one–hour session), Liz could not track him down, not knowing whether she had been too discreet in her investigations, or whether he simply did not exist. A relationship was beginning to look like an appealing option, if she could control it in the right way.

‘I have to go,’ she said quickly. ‘I have to lock up.’

‘You going running?’ asked Rav, fastening the buttons on his shirt.

She pointed at her racket bag in the corner of the room.’

‘Tennis.’

‘Where are you playing?’

‘Sutton East.’

He nodded. ‘Do you want company?’

‘Why? Do you play?’

‘A little. But mainly squash and court tennis down at the Racquet and Tennis Club.’

Her interest in Rav suddenly moved up a notch. Liz longed to play at the prestigious Park Avenue club, one of the few social–sporting establishments yet to extend their membership policy to admitting women. It gave Rav immediate social clout.

‘Okay. You’re on.’

‘Let me swing by my apartment and pick up my stuff. I’ll see you there.’

She smiled sweetly and watched him go. He would do. He would do for now.

*

‘Tess Garrett?’

Tess leant over her desk to peer at the caller ID window. ‘Unknown number’, it read. She didn’t recognize the voice, either, but after Brooke and David’s Key West coup, her phone had been ringing off the hook.

‘It’s Sean Asgill.’

‘Oh,’ she said, instantly pulling a face, aware that her voice had betrayed her disapproval.

‘Hey, great to speak to you too,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Sorry, it wasn’t you,’ she said, trying to back–pedal. ‘Someone was just waving at me at my office door.’

‘Well, I hope you didn’t ask them to get you coffee,’ said Sean, more good–humouredly. ‘Because it sounds as if you expect them to poison you.’

Save your charm for someone who gives a damn
, she thought.

‘What can I do for you, Sean?’

Sean laughed. ‘I seem to remember that the last time we met, you told me you wouldn’t do a damn thing for me.’

‘Well, things change,’ said Tess, reminding herself that – whatever she might think of him – looking after Sean Asgill was actually part of her job description. ‘How can I help?’

There was a pause before Sean spoke.

‘I need an escort,’ he said, ‘Thursday night.’

This time it was Tess’s turn to laugh. ‘And that escort is supposed to be me? Or are you asking me to flip through the Classifieds to find you a professional?’

‘Come on, Tess, it can’t be that bad spending time with me, can it? And you did say you wanted to vet my dates.’

For a moment, Tess began to consider the idea, but then remembered that Sean was based on the other side of the Atlantic.

‘Hang on, you’re asking me to fly to
London
for this?’

‘You like London,’ said Sean. ‘They have red buses and fish and chips.’

Tess was smiling, despite herself.

‘Well, I would have loved to go with you, Sean, but I can’t,’ she said, trying to suppress the grin. ‘I’m already flying out to London on Friday.’

‘Excellent,’ said Sean smoothly. ‘I’ll change your flight.’

‘You can’t,’ insisted Tess. ‘It was one of those cheap fares.’

‘Well, I’ll buy you a new one, first class. It will be a treat for you.’

‘Actually I’ve travelled first class before,’ she lied, annoyed at the suggestion that she was a coach class girl.

‘And I’ll throw in a couple of nights at Claridge’s.’

Despite herself, she felt a rush of excitement. It felt as if she were being whisked off her feet by a rich suitor who could brush all her objections aside with a wave of his chequebook. She tried to remind herself that it was Sean Asgill – effectively her boss – and that he’d probably used this routine on hundreds of girls in the past. Not that she was interested in
that way
, of course, but it still felt nice to be pampered.

‘Sean, I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you’re a popular guy. You can get a million girls to go to some dinner with you.’

There was another pause down the line and, for a moment, Tess thought they’d been cut off.

‘My mother suggested you,’ said Sean.

‘Your mum?’ said Tess incredulously.

‘Actually, she said I needed someone who will just sit there and look pretty.’

‘Well I’m flattered … ’ began Tess, ‘but … ’

‘No, that’s not why I asked you, actually.’

‘Oh.’

‘I need someone with brains. This is actually a very important dinner. It’s with Sir Raymond Greig, who’s opening a new retail paradise; we need to sweet–talk them to get Lupin into prime display space.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Tess, ‘and you’re worried that your usual kind of date might not reflect well on you in the intelligence department?’

She could hear the smile in his voice as he said: ‘They might not necessarily say the right things.’

She laughed.

‘Come on, Tess, you’d be doing me a massive favour.’

Tess shrugged. It never did any harm to have someone like Sean owing her favours, especially since her primary function as Asgill’s PR was to keep him under control. Plus, she was going to London anyway. She thought about it for a moment, then smiled.

‘First class, you say?’

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

‘Please, Brooke, you’ve got to do something!’

Debs Asquith was standing in the doorway of Brooke’s office, her hands clasped together in front of her. Brooke’s friend and fellow commissioning editor looked so anxious, it was making her feel even more edgy.

‘Okay, so how long is he going to be in with Mimi?’ asked Brooke, drumming her manicured nails on the desk nervously.

‘He’s only here until twelve,’ said Debs, glancing at her watch. ‘He’s meeting Mimi, then he’s leaving. You can’t let him out of the building without this.’

She picked up a proof copy of
Portico
and waved it in front of Brooke’s face. Brooke chewed her lip. She was glad Debs was on her side. The two women had started at Yellow Door at the same time and they had quickly bonded over their mutual dislike of Mimi Hall and their frustrations with the way the rest of the company looked down on the children’s division. Even so, it wasn’t Debs who had to risk the wrath of Mimi Hall by trying to get to her contact. Mimi was currently meeting with Hollywood movie executive P. J. Abramski about any Yellow Door books that might be suitable film vehicles.

She looked at Debs anxiously. ‘Do you think she’ll give him
Portico
?’

‘Of course not,’ said Debs, her hands now on her hips. ‘She’s not called Me–Me for nothing. That woman is totally self–seeking. Mimi might be publisher of this division, but the only time she wants a film made from a Yellow Door book is if it’s one of hers.’

Debs popped her head out into the corridor and then jumped back into the room.

‘Quick! Quick!’ she hissed, flapping her hands, ‘Go! He’s just leaving Mimi’s office.’

Debs grabbed the proof and thrust it into Brooke’s hands. ‘Ambush him!’

The lift doors were just closing when Brooke’s hand shot through the gap, allowing her to jump inside. Suddenly she felt stupid and tongue–tied.
What the hell am I doing?
she asked herself.
Mimi’s going to kill me
.

‘Mr Abramski,’ said Brooke, her voice faltering. ‘You don’t know me, but I was wondering if you had a minute?’

The man favoured her with a hawkish smile. He was short and wiry and was wearing a sharp three–piece suit.

‘Of course I know you,’ he said pleasantly, ‘you’re Brooke Asgill. I was hoping I might bump into you, but Mimi said you were tied up in meetings.’

Brooke offered up a prayer of thanks to Page Six. She knew this situation had been made easier by being well known.

‘I’ll be quick, Mr Abramski, I’m sure you’re very busy,’ she said. ‘I have a book I think you might be interested in.’