Debs Asquith marched into Brooke’s apartment and handed her a takeaway coffee. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Not quite,’ said Brooke, hunting around her bedroom for a missing Jimmy Choo shoe. They were due to set off for a girlie afternoon of pampering at Skin Plus, Brooke’s treat to Debs for all the extra Portico–related work she’d had to pile onto her friend recently.
‘So, how good are these therapists at your sister’s spa exactly?’ asked Debs, sipping her Frappuccino. ‘Can they get me looking as good as you by this evening? I could do with it because, believe it or not, I have a date.’
‘A date!’ smiled Brooke, looking up from her closet. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘Well, you’ve been in La La Land for the last three days, haven’t you? Speaking of which, how was the City of Angels?’
‘Fantastic,’ grinned Brooke, still on a high. ‘Do you know what? I think I could live in LA.’
‘You? The die–hard New York City girl?’
Brooke had surprised herself by how much she had enjoyed herself on the West Coast, despite the scariness of the meetings at the Hollywood studios. At one point she and Eileen had been round a conference table with seven executives, one of whom actually had four flashing telephones in front of him, and there was still no word about whether they wanted to option Portico. But what Brooke had loved was the LA life. For a huge metropolis, teeming with freeways, cars, and beautiful people, she’d had an unusually relaxed time. She’d stayed at the home of one of Sean’s ex–girlfriends, an actress currently out of the country filming, which was high up and secluded in the Hollywood Hills, surrounded by oleander bushes and covered with a wraparound sky that seemed so close Brooke could almost touch it. Even better had been when she and Eileen had ventured out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant recommended by one of the studio execs. The paparazzi’s flashbulbs had started popping on the streets as soon as she stepped out of her car but, to her astonishment, she saw that the fuss and excitement was actually over the arrival of Hayley Milano, an eighteen–year–old singer caught in the middle of a sex–tape scandal. Brooke realized with a flutter that outside of New York she just wasn’t as famous, and it felt wonderful.
The missing shoe, inexplicably, was in her swimwear drawer. ‘Finally,’ sighed Debs, ‘let’s go!’
Brooke held up one finger. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, beckoning Debs towards her spare room. ‘What size feet are you again?’
‘Eight,’ replied Debs, following her friend with a puzzled look.
‘Wow,’ she gasped. The room was crammed with boxes and bags full of clothes, handbags, shoes, jewellery, and cosmetics, piled in heaps and spilling onto the floor. Debs ran a finger along a rail full of designer clothes.
‘Look at this stuff.’
‘Take what you want,’ smiled Brooke. ‘You have got a date tonight, after all.’
‘But … but there’s thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff in here,’ Debs protested.
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t pay for any of it,’ said Brooke. ‘As soon as I got engaged, whoosh, all this free stuff started appearing. Apparently celebrities get given free stuff by publicists and designers so they can wear it, get photographed in it, endorse it, so that thousands of women around the world run out and buy it. Cheap advertising for them, I guess.’
Debs clapped her hands together. ‘I love having a friend getting married to a famous billionaire.’
Brooke smiled with pleasure as she watched Debbie dance around the room like a child in a sweet shop. Debs was her most down–to–earth friend, openly disdainful of the society world and the fashion circus that Brooke was obliged to involve herself in, but every girl loved shoes and handbags, didn’t they? Putting down her drink, she joined in, opening bags and foraging in boxes. Debbie slipped on a pair of zebra–print heels, then unzipped a white linen garment bag, peeking inside. ‘Oh, now this is amazing,’ she said, pulling out a long, quartz–coloured gown and holding it against her. She posed in front of the full–length mirror, then pulled a face.
‘Nah, one for you I think,’ she said. ‘For a start, I wouldn’t get the zip halfway up, and I’m not quite sure where the hell I’d wear it in Queens.’
But Brooke was only half listening. She couldn’t take her eyes off the dress that she had just removed from a black garment bag. It was incredible. Long, lean, and so fluid it shimmered. An elegant V–shaped neckline curved into a finely beaded bodice, the slim column of the dress sweeping out into a fishtail. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t even bothered to open it before now.
She quickly stripped off her jeans and top.
‘Having a hot flush or something?’ smiled Debs, raising an eyebrow.
Ignoring her, Brooke slid into the dress. Looking into the mirror, her heart leapt. It was perfect, her dream dress. In fact it was exactly the dress she had imagined she would get married in. Not the colour, or even the fabric, but the shape – it was exquisite, both relaxed and romantic yet elegant and dramatic. It was exactly what she had been trying to describe to Guillaume Riche before he had steam–rollered her into an elaborate corseted gown she knew in her heart of hearts was wrong.
‘Now that’s … wow!’ was all Debs could say.
Feeling a little shudder of excitement, she went over to the bag to examine the label. Nicholas Diaz. She’d never heard of him. But he was going to hear from her, and soon.
*
Of Meredith’s many skills, one of her most impressive was entertaining. More precisely, she was a seasoned
expert in commanding and coordinating a vast team of people – chefs, maids, butlers, waiters, and barmen – who together would create a dinner that looked, to its guests, effortless. In another life, Meredith would have made a great general. Every one of her talents was required for this night, however, as it would be the first time all of the Billingtons and Asgills would meet. The arranging of their respective diaries had been a military campaign in itself, but Meredith would not – could not – let a single detail slip on this important night. By three in the afternoon, Meredith’s house was chaos, with caterers, delivery boys, and flower arrangers all jostling for space. Liz was used to the pomp and circumstance of her mother’s parties, but she had never seen so much intense activity before a ‘casual supper’.
‘I don’t remember you making all this effort for a meet–the–family supper when I was getting married,’ said Liz, watching from the doorway of the formal dining room as her mother supervised three Filipina maids in the delicate task of arranging the place cards according to her intricate table plan.
‘We had a brunch,’ said Meredith distractedly, before turning her attention back to the maids. ‘No, no, Sunita. Wendell must go to my right, David to my left. Can we please do it as per the plan?’