‘I’m just not sure this is the best career move for us, Tess,’ said Dom, draining the rest of the vodka. ‘Granted, the money is fantastic, but whatever happened to “I want to be editor of the Sun”? Who wants to be some nouveau–riche nobody’s hired help?’
She looked at him, wondering if he had noticed how unhappy she had been at the Globe over the past two months, her ability constantly questioned by her new boss. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Dom, so long as her salary meant they could live life high on the hog.
‘This isn’t about how rich this family is,’ said Tess firmly. ‘And it’s certainly not about how big our suite is. The point is that Meredith Asgill might be right, and in a month’s time I might not even have a job at the Globe. We both know how tough it is on the papers at the moment. Who’s to say I’m going to get another job any time soon? And after the week I had last week, I’m not entirely sure I want to be an editor any more.’
He blinked at her, clearly taken aback by her response. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he said sulkily.
‘Think of the money with this Asgill offer, Dom. Think of that five–hundred–thousand dollar bonus,’ she said, her eyes glittering. ‘ Plus it’s New York, rent–free. I’ve always wanted to work here.’
‘But what about me?’ he asked, his lips in a thin, unhappy line.
‘I know this transatlantic thing is going to be hard,’ she said, stroking his cheek. ‘But if you come out to New York once a month and I come to London once a month, we’ll see each other every two weeks. It’s probably more than we see each other at the moment.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration …’
‘Okay, a little. But remember that it will be temporary – it’s a fixed–term contract until the wedding, then we’ll play it by ear.’
‘At which point they’d get me a visa?’
She looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. Only last week Dom had told her how his old friend Mungo had bagged some fancy editorial position on the Wall Street Journal. His handsome face had been etched with envy. At twenty–one Dom had been part of an elite band of graduates destined for the very top of the newspaper tree, starting his career on The Times training scheme. Although his peer group was only just touching thirty, they had begun to start scoring columns with The Spectator, jobs in Manhattan or senior positions on the big, prestigious broadsheets, making Dom’s deputy travel editor’s job seem not as impressive as he’d once thought. Perhaps Dom was unlucky; perhaps he was too fond of press trips and free lunches – Tess knew he was rarely in the office these days – but, either way, no fancy New York job offers had come his way and she knew how desperately he wanted the status he thought he deserved, especially when Tess’s own career, the recent wobble withstanding, had taken off like a rocket.
‘Well, we didn’t get round to the small print,’ Tess said cautiously. ‘But Meredith did invite you to the party this weekend, so she obviously wants to seduce you with New York too.’
‘That’s not the same as getting me a visa,’ grumbled Dom.
‘Well, if you want a visa that badly – ’ she began, running her fingers across his crotch and being gratified by an instant response – ‘then I guess you’re just going to have to marry me,’ she smiled mischievously.
He pulled her in close and grinned. ‘If I thought for one second that either of us was the marrying kind, I might just do that.’
Tess smiled back. It was one of their shared jokes, a pact almost. After eight years together they had no intention of taking the plunge. It wasn’t that they disagreed with marriage; they just wondered what was the point? Marriage was, after all, just a piece of paper, a shackle that made a break–up, should it ever happen, more difficult and expensive. Tess had seen her own parents’ marriage dissolve with such animosity and rancour that she had not spoken to her mother since she was nineteen. Besides, she had seen too many friends disappear into marriage, children, and that whole cloying suburban routine. She had no desire to follow them.
‘How do I look?’ asked Dom, taking one last look in the mirror.
‘Like James Bond,’ she said, ushering him towards the door.
‘Now come on, the car is waiting. We’ve got the world’s greatest party to get to.’
*
When Brooke had first agreed to the idea of an engagement party, she had assumed that it would be a small affair for friends and family. Looking down into the crowded, buzzing entrance hall of Belcourt, she almost laughed at her naivety. From her vantage point on the mezzanine terrace, it was obvious that tonight’s party would be more lavish than a state dinner. There were huge arrangements of rare orchids on every surface, silk draped everywhere, and a medieval feast was being arranged in the Great Hall. Such excess was inevitable, really, since they had left the arrangements to David’s mother Rose, but it was incredible what she’d been able to pull together in two weeks. I mean, where did you get so many orchids at this time of year? Waiters in white tails milled around in almost choreographed movement, their trays piled high with canapés. Vintage champagne was served in Baccarat crystal and the flowers perfumed the air like bespoke scent. Couture–clad women danced with captains of industry to the sounds of a big band jazz orchestra led, she could have sworn, by Harry Connick Jr on the grand piano.
There were hundreds, no, maybe even a thousand people here at Belcourt tonight, and they were all here for her. How ironic she didn’t even know most of them! Brooke’s first hour of the party was spent in a whirl, being introduced to scores of people she had never even heard of, let alone met, in nine months of dating David Billington. There were David’s Yale friends, CTV newsroom friends, Andover friends, celebrity friends (yes, that was George Clooney at the bar!). Friends from the think–tanks he belonged to, friends from across the political divide. David, it seemed, had friends everywhere. By contrast, when David’s mother Rose had her assistant call her future daughter–in–law for her list of invitees, Brooke had provided her with sixty or so names.
‘What are you doing hiding away up there?’
David met Brooke at the bottom of the steps and took her hand. Dressed in a midnight–blue suit that complemented the darkness of his hair and the pale olive of his skin, he looked devastatingly handsome.
‘I’m not hiding,’ she said, tapping him playfully. ‘Just taking a l
ittle time–out. I’m still in a state of shock that George Clooney is at my engagement party. If he’s at the wedding, I might pass out at the altar.’
‘I’d better hope he’s filming then,’ grinned David, handing her a stemmed glass.
‘Try that. My mom’s butler has come out of retirement just for tonight to mix his special martinis. They’ll keep you awake until sunrise.’
Brooke gaped as Colin Powell walked past and clapped David on the arm in a familiar way.
‘Are all these people coming to the wedding?’ she asked.