Original Sin

‘Almost,’ replied Paula. She had researched the Savoy family obsessively and knew that, were it not for the revolution, Arlo would have been a prince of Italy. In his youth, the royal line had made Arlo one of Europe’s finest catches, but then Karina had been pretty eligible in her own right; her German father had made billions from steel and industry in Europe. Such a combination of wealth and class had catapulted them into the top strata of New York society the second they had arrived to follow Arlo’s career at an Italian bank.

As a butler opened the door, Paula handed over the invitation and waited as their names were read out under the gaze of an unblinking security camera. Paula could barely suppress her delighted smile. She rarely thought about the old days any more. She had spent so long blocking out the memories, creating a newer, vaguer, more palatable past for those people who cared enough to ask, that it was as if her time growing up in North Carolina never really happened. But every now and then, she silently congratulated herself on how far she had come; and this moment, stepping inside one of the Upper East Side’s finest homes, this was one of those times. Paula tried not to register any emotion as she walked into the grand living room, but it was undeniably impressive. Original Rothkos hung on the high walls above expensive furniture, modern pieces mixed with precious antiques in such an artful, studied way that it must surely have been the work of one of the city’s most accomplished interior designers.

Instead, Paula examined the people, feeling a rush of anxiety as she examined the faces; there were some serious heavy–hitters from the social circuit already here, women from the golden circle of wives, the partners of some of the most wealthy and influential men in the city. These exquisitely groomed women sat on the most prestigious charity committees and could usually barely bring themselves to acknowledge Paula, other than to enquire after Brooke, despite the fact she had met them several times. A waiter approached and respectfully offered her a drink from his silver tray. She took a Bellini – she usually avoided alcohol in the daytime, but today she felt she needed it. She could feel her neck flush prickly and red, as it sometimes did when she was stressed or worried. Calm down, pretend you do this every day, she told herself sternly. To her dismay, Paula didn’t see any friends; Casey was new to her class and, consequently, Paula did not know the parents. She took a sip of her drink and steeled herself. Remember Carolina, honey, she said to herself. It was true: she had been in far worse situations than this.

She turned to a tall, Latin–skinned brunette dressed in skinny jeans and white Hermès shirt and smiled. ‘Do you know where the birthday girl is?’

The brunette simply looked through her and raised a finger in the air to summon the waiter. Paula turned away, trying to smother the anger she felt. The bitch! Of course, Paula knew she had never been one of the Queen Bees on Manhattan’s social scene; she knew many of the women considered the Asgill family gauche. They secretly sniggered at Meredith’s Rolls–Royce and the family’s cheap range of cosmetics, but she had expected that Brooke’s engagement would have given her a greater standing. She had obviously been wrong.

Suddenly she felt a tugging at her dress. ‘Mummy, Carlotta wants me to come and see her bedroom. Can I go?’

She felt a new affection as she saw Princess Carlotta of Savoy standing in the doorway beckoning her new friend over. Her new friend Casey Asgill, thought Paula, looking at the tall woman who had snubbed her with glee.

‘Of course, darling. Off you go,’ smiled Paula, touching Casey’s head.

‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’

Paula turned to see Princess Karina standing next to her. She was petite and slim, wearing a navy Chanel Couture dress, and had hair the colour of roasted hazelnuts pushed back off her face. She radiated star quality in a way that Paula knew only a small number of celebrities did. Every inch of her looked expensively groomed; her skin was so smooth it looked polished, and whoever had done the Botox around her forehead and mouth had done a fantastic job, thought Paula. Unlined, sculpted, yet completely natural. I must find out where she goes, thought Paula absently.

‘Paula Asgill,’ said Paula, offering her hand.

Katrina’s smile was warm and genuine and it caught Paula off guard. In her experience, there were two standard society smiles: the tight, false variety usually sported by someone looking over your shoulder, or the bright paparazzi–friendly smile which was, if anything, even more insincere. In New York, real smiles like the Princess’s were as rare as hens’ teeth.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ replied Karina. ‘I think your daughter joined Transition at the same time as Carlotta.’

Feeling flattered, but completely wrong–footed, Paula took an exuberant sip of Bellini.

‘It’s a shame they’ll be breaking up for summer before we know it,’ she said. ‘Still, Casey can’t wait to get to Bermuda.’

Katrina’s smile shone even brighter and she touched Paula on the arm. ‘Really? That’s great news; perhaps see you there. We have a house in Tucker’s Town. My family have had it forever.’

‘No! What a coincidence,’ smiled Paula. ‘It’d be wonderful if the girls cou

ld get together while we’re over.’

In actual fact, Paula wasn’t going to Bermuda at all – not yet, anyway. She, William, and the girls were due to fly to Maine as soon as school had finished. It was William’s favourite place and, as Paula had already decided on the rest of their holiday destinations for the year – St Barts, Careyes, Aspen, and Maui – she had been in no position to argue. But when Google had turned up a British Vogue interview wherein Katrina had described her Tucker’s Town home as one of her favourite places, Paula knew she would have to shoehorn in a trip to the Atlantic island as well. It was just a matter of twisting William’s arm the right way.

‘We’ve been thinking of buying in Bermuda ourselves,’ said Paula. ‘Maybe you can point us in the right direction?’

‘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.