Original Sin (68 page)

Getting to her feet, Brooke went into the kitchen to get herself a glass of wine, and then walked through to the living room carrying the bottle and a corkscrew. The dining table was still piled high with gifts from her bridal shower three days earlier at a suite at the Plaza. Bags of beauty products in brown and white candy–striped Henri Bendel bags, duck–egg–blue Tiffany boxes, notelets branded with the name Brooke Billington, gold Louboutin sandals for her honeymoon, and scores of other bits of girlie paraphernalia. She was the luckiest girl in the world. So why did she feel so anxious, so empty? She picked up the phone and dialled David, who was on his bachelor party weekend in Vegas.

‘Honey it’s me.’

‘Sweetheart, we’re just heading out,’ he said. In the background, she could hear laughter and jeering. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.

‘I hate my wedding dress,’ said Brooke.

David chuckled. ‘Shouldn’t you be keeping those details from me?’ he asked. ‘Look, Robert’s shouting for me and we should have left the hotel an hour ago. I hate to think what he’s got planned for me. Speak later?’

‘You go,’ said Brooke, feeling selfish and silly. ‘Have a great time, I’m fine. Really.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

She put down the phone and paced around the room.

Knowing she had to get it off her chest, she returned to the phone, meaning to call Debs Asquith; but as her finger hit the digits, she dialled another New York number.

‘Matt, is that you?’

In the three weeks since her office confrontation with Mimi, she had tried to keep her distance from Matthew, citing work or hectic wedding preparations, although she hardly needed the excuse, she had been flat out. There had been hairstyling sessions, facials, meeting with photographers, florists, and caterers, not to mention the endless summits with Alessandro Franchetti over the tiniest details. But suddenly, out of nowhere, Matthew Palmer was the one person she wanted to talk to.

‘Hey,’ he said warily. ‘What’s up?’

‘My wedding dress looks like a snow storm.’

‘I thought it cost two hundred thousand bucks.’

Now she felt really sick. ‘It did. And that buys a lot of fabric.’

‘Bummer.’

His voice was distant and strange.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ he muttered.

‘You don’t sound fine. In fact, you sound as lousy as I feel.’

There was an awkward silence. Brooke listened to the faint static on the line, trying to sense something of his mood.

‘Matt, what’s up? You’re worrying me.’

He sighed. ‘It’s no big deal. Just Susie and I split up.’

‘Oh no. When did it happen?’

‘A couple of nights ago,’ he said. ‘Look, Brooke, it’s nothing, seriously. I’m a big boy. I’m just a little tired. I’ve just got pizza and I need a sleep.’

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I forget what you do sometimes. You go and get some rest, I’ll speak to you later.’

She put down the phone and slumped back on the sofa. Then, seized with a sudden impulse, she picked up her bag and the unopened bottle of wine.
Forget Mimi trying to make me feel guilty
, she huffed, snatching up her keys. In twenty minutes she was at his apartment.

‘Brooke?’ His eyes widened in surprise as he opened the door.

Matt looked dreadful. His face was pale and she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘Surprise,’ she said weakly, as she realized that he was not pleased to see her. Brooke was not generally a spontaneous person, and it was for reasons like this that she was usually more considerate. It was, however, too late to turn back, so she walked into the apartment, flushing with embarrassment. The living room smelt stale and sour. Beer bottles were littered all over the table, and the pizza lay barely eaten in its brown box, as if he had been unable to stomach it.

‘Sorry,’ he said, trying to scoop up some of the mess.

His movements were clumsy and slow, and Brooke could tell he was drunk. She was surprised to find that this annoyed her. For weeks he had been dismissing Susie as nothing serious, and yet here he was, drunk, depressed, self–pitying. She felt a prick of anger that he had lied to her.

‘No, don’t be sorry,’ said Brooke, lending a hand in the cleanup. ‘You’re allowed to wallow. When relationships end, it’s sad. Do you want to tell me what happened?’

He shrugged. ‘You know what’s it like. You disagree about something dumb and it escalates into an argument. Thirty minutes later you’ve said things you shouldn’t have and she’s slamming the door. Then, well,’ he gestured at the pile of bottles. ‘You wallow.’

She put the wine down on the side with an apologetic expression.

‘I guess we’d better not open this.’

‘I guess not.’

He looked up and managed a smile. ‘So how bad is the wedding dress?’

She pulled a face and suddenly they were both laughing.

‘You know what we need?’ she said.

He looked sceptical.

‘A good night out.’

‘Aren’t you knee–deep in wedding stuff? I mean, it’s your bachelorette night on Thursday. Then it’s Christmas. Then … ’

‘Well, what are you doing tomorrow night?’

‘I’m off. I’m down for a shift on Christmas Day instead.’

‘I want you to come with me somewhere,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not pulling me away from wedding stuff. In fact I’ll be multitasking.’

‘What, you want me to choose the bouquet?’ he asked.

‘Something like that.’

Matt rubbed his stubble thoughtfully, then smiled. ‘Well in that case, count me in.’

CHAPTER FIFTY–EIGHT

Liz caught sight of herself in the reflective surface of her oven door and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked dinner. After all, she’d had microbiotic meal packs delivered to her door every day for the last two years, which had left her body enviously lean and her gadget–packed designer kitchen remarkably untouched. She smiled to herself as she pulled the rack of honey–and–balsamic–glazed lamb out of the oven to add a few sprigs of rosemary before triumphantly removing her new beige Williams–Sonoma apron. Not quite Thomas Keller, but good enough. She was mildly freaked out by this rush of domesticity, although she had managed to convince herself – somewhere in between buying the rack of lamb and roasting it – that there was nothing wrong with showing the occasional glimpse of her feminine side. Wendell always said he liked to be surprised. Not that she was cooking for Wendell, she told herself firmly, merely expanding her portfolio of skills.

Outside, snow was falling, smudging her windows with wintry flakes that looked like sprays of diamonds on the glass. She loved how definite New York’s seasons were. The arctic chill of winter, the blistering humidity of summer, the freshness of spring and fall. The changes and precise cycles kept you feeling alive, as if things were constantly moving forward. It was the same reason she did not regret the emotional turbulence she had felt this year. The buyout of Skin Plus was now a matter of weeks rather than months away. It was taking a little while to get the intricate financing sorted out, as Wendell kept insisting there be no financial paper trail direct to him, while on top of that was all the other corporate paperwork. Her new company was going to be called
Vincita
, Italian for win. And that win had been all the sweeter for the difficulty of the journey.

The concierge buzzed her intercom to announce her visitor. Liz went to the bedroom, squirted bespoke scent between her breasts, applied a fresh layer of plum gloss, and smoothed her hands over her ink–black Balmain dress, so tight that it was just as well she was wearing no underwear. She surprised herself by how nervous she was feeling. They had scheduled a supper a week ago, and this was the first time Wendell had come to her apartment. Liz was sick of their low–key dinners in hotel suites or restaurants, whose only recommendation was that they were so far off the radar of fashionability that no one knew who they were. In the past Wendell had complained that her building, 15 Central Park West, was too high profile, too full of people he might bump into, but tonight he had agreed to come. Tonight could be the turning point in the relationship that she had been hoping for since that first fuck in the Hamptons. She was realistic enough to know that Wendell would not leave his wife for her, but she could name half a dozen rich, powerful men who had such long–term, stable relationships with their mistresses that the situation was a whisper away from bigamy. Was that what she wanted? Did Liz Asgill really want to tie herself to one man? She barely dared think of it, but what she did know with absolute certainty was that when she was with Wendell Billington, she was happy. That was the thought that scared her.

‘You cook?’ said Wendell, taking off his coat and putting it on the back of a chair. ‘I didn’t think you were the cooking kind.’

‘I can turn my hand to anything, darling,’ she smiled.

Liz lowered the lights, until the room just glowed with the candlelight from the expensive arrangement in the middle of the table. Taking the lamb from the oven, she put it on the table alongside china dishes of zucchini flowers, dauphinoise potatoes, and chestnut gravy. ‘Sit down and let me enjoy my Martha Stewart moment,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t come out on show very often.’

Wendell settled into one of the high–backed dining chairs, picking up a fork and rolling it around in his fingers.

‘So, how was Switzerland?’ she asked, leaning across and putting a perfect slice of meat onto his Wedgwood plate.

‘Cold and dull,’ he said taking a sip of the Château Margaux she had poured.

‘At least David will be having a good time,’ said Liz. ‘Brooke says he left for Vegas this morning. I thought you’d be going, although I didn’t quite think bachelor parties were your thing.’

‘Look Liz, we need to talk,’ he said, looking at her directly.

‘That’s one of the reasons you’re here,’ she smiled crisply. ‘There’re several Skin Plus matters that need discussing. I wanted to talk to you rather than the lawyers. I particularly want to run my first choice of CFO past you. Then, when we’ve agreed that, I’m going to give you the best sex you’ve had in your life.’

Cooking for Wendell was really just the window dressing for Liz. Really she was looking forward to the luxury of sex with him in her own bed. Momentarily she thought of Rav. She was still seeing him, although the only excuse she now had for keeping that relationship going was the smoke screen it provided for her affair with Wendell. As Rav had pointed out himself,
their
sex was becoming less frequent, less adventurous. But what did she need him for when she had Wendell, here, in her bed? She licked her lips with anticipation.

‘I don’t want to talk about business,’ said Wendell, his voice low and steady. Liz looked up sharply. She had always prided herself on razor–sharp instincts, and right now they were telling her to go on guard. Something was wrong.

‘So, what do you want to talk about?’ she said casually.

‘Us. I’m not sure it can continue.’

She sliced her knife through the tender lamb and did not look at him.

‘Liz, are you listening to me?’

She put down the knife, hoping he didn’t see her fingers tremble. ‘Yes, I’m simply waiting for your explanation.’

His dark, serious eyes looked away from her. ‘Robert spoke to me in private just before I left for Switzerland. He asked me straight out if we were seeing each other.’

She felt a jolt of illicit pleasure that their secret was out. ‘You denied it, of course,’ she said.

‘Of course I denied it,’ he said, his brows knitting together.

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is, Liz, that he’s my son and he knew I was lying.’

‘So fucking what? You know as well as I do that your sons, your wife, everyone knows what you get up to.’

‘That’s right,’ he said laying his hand flat on the expensive table linen. ‘They do know my needs can’t be satisfied by their mother. So I have sex with a waitress or a shop girl. They turn a blind eye to it. But you are not some bar girl, Liz. You are about to be my son’s sister–in–law.’

‘That didn’t seem to bother you in the Hamptons,’ she said, taking a long, determined gulp of claret.

Wendell pushed his chair back and massaged his temples. ‘I care about you Liz. I enjoy spending time with you, but you know how it works. The press won’t touch me for fucking a cocktail waitress; half the men in this city are banging someone they shouldn’t. But this can be damaging.’

Their gaze locked. She could tell that he was still holding something back and it made her skin suddenly chill.

‘What about Skin Plus?’ she said, addressing the elephant in the room.

He was squirming now. ‘What do you think.’ he said. It was not a question.

‘Think?’ spat Liz. ‘I think we’ve put hundreds of man–hours into this deal. I think it’s the best investment you’re going to make all year. I think it’s far, far too good to pass up just because you’re getting cold feet about our relationship,’ said Liz, trying unsuccessfully to squash her panic.