Original Sin

Liz looked down at the sofa, brushing imaginary crumbs from the material. ‘Good. I haven’t got time to give you a lesson on Asgill family politics. But let’s just say my mother won’t like it. She’ll make me suffer.’

Tess had a sneaking suspicion that she was the one Meredith would make suffer if she ever found out that Tess had been colluding with Liz to keep secrets, but she knew that she didn’t really have a choice. She had enough problems with the Asgill family already, without making an enemy of Liz.

‘So tell me what you know about this guy,’ said Tess, sitting on the opposite sofa.

‘Hardly anything,’ said Liz. ‘As I said, we didn’t exactly talk the first time I met him.’

‘And do we know what he wants?’

‘He says he is going to call you to arrange a meeting. He says he can get two hundred thousand dollars for his story.’

As Liz spoke, Tess was calling up the Internet on her BlackBerry. She typed ‘Russ Ford’ into imdb.com. He had a very short list of credits in some minor made–for–TV productions; he was hardly Tom Cruise. It figured.

‘Do you know if he’s spoken to anyone yet?’ she asked.

‘He could have spoken to everyone for all I know,’ snapped Liz. ‘Forgive me for not going into too much detail with him at my company’s launch party. What are we going to do?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tess confidently, ‘I’ll take care of it.’

As she said the words, she felt a real surge of adrenaline. She had spent the last two weeks constantly on the phone or taking meetings in fancy watering holes around the city like Per Se, Michael’s and Tao, simultaneously buttering people up and playing hardball. It had paid off, of course – she had managed to swing a cover for Brooke in Vanity Fair, without allowing her to be interviewed, which was no mean feat. But this sort of publicity work wasn’t rocket science, especially given Brooke’s white–hot social standing. This, on the other hand, felt like real drama, a real challenge.

‘My instinct says we shouldn’t pay Russ,’ said Tess, thinking on her feet. ‘But if he does force our hand, would you be able to raise the funds?’

‘This time, yes. But I don’t want to have to keep on paying.’

Tess walked to the window and gazed out at the park as she thought. Then she picked up her BlackBerry and made a call, checking her watch. It wouldn’t even be eleven o’clock in London yet. She saw Liz watching her and walked back towards the entrance.

‘Hi Jem. It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘Just a quick one. Which big–time movie producer did you say was at that sex party again?’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

For as long as Brooke could remember, she had always loved fashion. As a little girl she had a big dressing–up box full of her mother’s flamboyant Seventies cast–offs and she had spent most of her teen years flitting from one iconic style to another. From the age of fifteen, when she had grown tall enough to pull it off, she had played with Left Bank beatnik, Gatsby preppie and Pre–Raphaelite boho, each change inspired by the art and literature she was encountering at school. She even had a brief, albeit cutting–edge flirtation with Goth when she had teamed her sister’s Comme des Garçon and Yohji Yamamoto hand–me–downs with thick black leggings. But as a woman, Brooke had settled into her style, which could be described as ‘chic with a twist’, especially as she liked supporting up–and–coming designers like Phillip Lim or Proenza Schouler, not that she was averse to mixing Chanel with American Apparel.

Even before her relationship with David was made public, it was her fashion sense that had got her noticed on the New York society circuit, where she was recognized as one of the city’s most beautiful and stylish girls. But for all her fashion knowledge and experience, when it came to her wedding dress, Brooke was completely floored. It didn’t help that hers was one of the most high–profile weddings in years, so she had been approached by some of the biggest names in fashion; the choices were almost limitless, an embarrassment of riches. And while she had done her best to ignore her mother’s melodramatic statement that ‘this dress is going to be remembered by generations to come,’ Brooke knew it still had to be special, the most special dress she would ever wear in her life.

‘Darling, I think he’s here.’

Meredith bustled out onto the terrace of their eighth–floor suite. They were staying at the Plaza Athénée, the opulent Left Bank hotel which had one of the best views of Paris’s skyline; Brooke could barely tear herself away. Dusk was settling over the city, the sky was streaked charcoal and gold behind the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, while the lights in the buildings below shone like a galaxy of stars.

‘Just coming,’ sighed Brooke, feeling both apprehensive and giddy. Guillaume Riche was one of the most flamboyant designers in the world, a master of showmanship. Over the past three decades he had created dresses for some of the most famous women on earth and his glorious evening dresses, seen many times on the red carpet at the Oscars, were nothing short of pure theatre. Preferring to work with vivid colours, Guillaume did not usually do wedding dresses, even as a tradition at the end of his couture show, but he had declared with typical modesty, ‘For this beautiful flower, I will create something of genius.’ At first Brooke hadn’t been convinced that she wanted to use him, as her all–time favourite wedding dress was Carolyn Bessette’s stunningly minimal column dress; surely that would be too simple for Guillaume’s tastes, she thought. Brooke had finally bowed to the pressure, however, as simply everyone had said that Guillaume was the best and, as the wedding dress was going to be Brooke’s first haute piece, it made sense to see the king of couture. It had also made sense to meet Guillaume in her hotel suite, despite the fact Brooke had been desperate to visit his atelier. One of her favourite childhood memories was visiting Yves Saint Laurent’s Avenue Marceau atelier with her mother. She could still vividly remember the rolls of exquisite fabric and the long wooden tables where the seamstresses worked, surrounded by swatches, pins, scissors and, to Brooke’s young eyes, magic. But although the problems with paparazzi were less severe in Paris, Brooke still had to be discreet while in the city. She couldn’t stand the general public knowing about the designer of her wedding dress before her husband–to–be.

‘I hope he doesn’t mind coming to the hotel this late,’ smiled Brooke, her excitement showing in her voice. ‘After all, we haven’t officially commissioned him yet, or whatever you do to order couture.’

‘Of course he doesn’t mind,’ said an irritated voice to her left. She looked over at Liz who was sitting upright in an armchair, flicking through a copy of French Vogue. ‘This will be a very high–profile commission for him; he’ll bend over backwards to secure it.’

Brooke hated it when her sister’s mouth took on that thin, disapproving line; it reminded her too much of their mother. Liz had been in a particularly foul mood ever since they had boarded the flight at JFK. Meredith had thought it a good idea that the two sisters have a bonding weekend in Paris, combining the meeting with Guillaume with shopping on the Rue du Faubourg Saint–Honoré and a spa day at Carita, but now Brooke wasn’t so sure. When Liz was in a mood like this, she could make life unpleasant for everyone. Really unpleasant. The doorbell buzzed and Liz went to answer the door, her cold, stiff demeanour instantly changing to warmth and graciousness as she welcomed Guillaume.

The designer kissed Liz, swept into the suite, and then kissed Brooke and Meredith on both cheeks. He flung off his black cashmere cape and settled into a duck–egg blue armchair.

Brooke sat opposite him and instantly felt his eyes on her, already appraising her and sizing her up as she moved.

‘Ma cherie, I am blessed,’ he said finally. ‘You have a model figure and a complexion that will suit all shades of white.’

‘So white is not white?’ smiled Brooke.

‘Mais, non!’ he laughed, waving away the offer of champagne. ‘There is pure white – what artists call Chinese White, ivory, ice blue, oyster, blush, and a dozen shades in between.’

Meredith picked up a document folder and spread its contents on the table between them.