he America’s Cup held in Newport hung on the wall. There was a shelf full of trophies from her fiancé’s school and college days, which always seemed to throw up more of David’s secret talents every time she looked: trophies for rowing, chess, sailing, soccer, cross–country running. The room was a perfect reflection of him: sporty, adventurous, successful.
‘How was the walk?’ asked David, emerging from the en–suite bathroom towelling his hair.
‘Hot,’ she smiled, pulling off her T–shirt and exposing her firm breasts. ‘I need to get a shower.’
‘Tease,’ he grinned, walking over and kissing the back of her neck.
Smiling, she shut the bathroom door behind her. At home he would have joined her in the wet room, but at Cliffpoint she felt strange about sex.
She emerged in her beige lace bra and Cosabella thong feeling clean and fresh. David was already in dress trousers and a white shirt that brought out the tan he had acquired sailing. Slipping into her cream Thakoon shift dress and five–inch heels, she caught sight of them both in the long Shaker–style mirror and felt a flood of contentment at how good they looked together.
David went to his bag and pulled out a slim black velvet case.
‘I was going to wait until tomorrow to give you this, but that dress calls for a change of plan. Happy anniversary, honey,’ he said, giving her a soft, tender kiss.
A year ago today they had met. Just a year. She thought back to that day in Biarritz. Meeting David on the beach when she had been standing on the shoreline in her wetsuit, boogie–board under her arm, a little afraid to step out into the cold Atlantic Ocean. Naturally he had been an adept surfer and he had spent the afternoon teaching her how to get the best rush from the waves. Afterwards, they’d gone for moules frites and lots of red wine, and, as the restaurant emptied out, they still kept talking, then onto a tacky tourist nightclub, desperate to extend the night until at three a.m. they had taken a walk along the beach and he had kissed her.
Her finger prised opened the stiff box and she gasped when she saw a pair of exquisite emerald chandelier earrings lying on a bed of crinkled snow–white silk.
Brooke touched them gingerly. ‘Can I put them on?’
‘It’s what they’re there for,’ he grinned. ‘They’ll look great with that dress.’
They did. She scooped her hair up, fastening it expertly into a chignon. Her neck felt longer and leaner.
‘Wow. This is my Audrey Hepburn moment.’
‘You can wear them at the Republican dinner in Houston, too. Maybe with that long green dress Oscar gave you.’
She looked down towards the floor. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, but it was too late – he had spotted the hesitation in her voice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Brooke. You’re a bad liar.’
The earrings weighed as heavy on her as the guilt. ‘About that,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be able to go.’
David looked puzzled. ‘You were fine about it a week ago.’
The last thing she wanted to was put a dampener on the evening ahead, but if she lied now it would be more difficult to get out of later. ‘Remember the Hollywood scout that came to see me?’ she asked. ‘Well, he loved Eileen’s book.’
‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’
Of course it was good news. Such good news that when P. J. had phoned her up two days earlier, she’d actually burst into tears when she’d got off the phone.
‘He wants to set up a meet with the VP of development and a few other executives. Eileen wants me to come.’ She paused. ‘It’s the same day as the Houston dinner.’
A vertical frown line appeared above his nose. ‘Why does Eileen want you with her? She’s got an agent, hasn’t she? That’s what they are there for – to hand–hold and do deals.’
‘This feels like my project too, David.’
‘So change the date of the meeting.’
‘Come on, David. We were given that date. If we start trying to change it, you know how these things can suddenly go cold.’
‘So this is more important than the Houston dinner,’ he said flatly.