‘Brooke, this is my job, whereas tonight’s supper is for a guy I don’t even know; in fact it’s for someone I’m not actually that happy you’re seeing, if I’m honest.’
Brooke felt angry and defensive. When she had finally plucked up the courage to invite David to Matt’s birthday dinner, it had raised all sorts of difficult questions. Why had Matt invited Brooke when they weren’t even close friends? Who wouldn’t invite New York’s premier couple to their birthday party if they knew them? she’d answered. How many times exactly had she seen him? She could count them on one hand, she’d said. Was she regularly in touch with him on text and email? Yes! But wasn’t that how everybody maintained friendships in the twenty–first century?
‘If you had a problem with me going, you should have said so earlier,’ said Brooke with irritation. ‘Then I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation. I can’t exactly get out of it now when we’re supposed to be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Listen why don’t you just go?’ he said after a pause. ‘But come and stay at mine tonight? At least that way I’ll get to see you.’
‘Well, I’ll just have to see how busy I am,’ she said curtly and hung up. As she walked out of her building and stepped into the waiting car, she ran over David’s words. Why had he made a point of asking her over to his place? she wondered. Was it a test or did he really want to see her? She shook her head angrily and resolved not to think about it for the rest of the night.
*
Brooke stood outside Matt’s apartment, holding a bottle of Château Pétrus, feeling such nerves that she wanted to open the claret there and then. The endless parties and fundraisers she’d attended with David over the past year had made Brooke much more confident in social situations, but she still felt anxious. It hadn’t helped that she had told Tess Garrett that she was going to Matt’s dinner party – Tess hadn’t been pleased. How had she put it? Beware new friends, that was it. Brooke kept the advice in mind as she pressed the bell. A pretty blonde about her own age opened the door with a broad smile.
‘Hi, I’m Brooke.’
‘Of course you are,’ said the girl, moving out of the way to let Brooke inside. ‘I’m Susie, I’m Matt’s girlfriend.’
Her wheat–coloured hair was piled up on her head, slim jeans showed off her long legs, and a tie–dyed Indian smock top made Brooke irrationally wonder if she was into tantric sex. The thing she noticed most, however, was how wide her eyes were, giving her a slightly manic look. Brooke had met this type of girl at college. She’d heard men refer to them as ‘mad chicks’.
‘Hey.’ Matt came forward and awkwardly air–kissed her.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ said Susie, as Brooke handed her the wine.
Matt peered at the label on the bottle. ‘Wow, you really should have,’ he said.
Matt led her down a short hallway and into the living room; as she stepped through the door, everyone turned towards her and conversation hushed to a silence. Brooke could feel herself blushing. On the New York social circuit, no one ever acted in a self–conscious way around her because to do so would be tantamount to admitting Brooke was somehow more important than they were. Instead, they adopted an over–friendly and familiar tone, whether they had met her before or not. All of which made Brooke feel even more awkward, even more of a circus freak, standing in Matt’s small living room.
‘Please Brooke, come and meet Greg,’ said Matt, ushering Brooke over to a rangy blond man on the sofa. ‘Greg’s a friend from school,’ said Matt, ‘and this is his girlfriend Courtney.’
Courtney was the youngest in the room, perhaps early twenties, and had obviously dressed up for the occasion in a sequinned emerald cocktail dress. She seemed to be completely star–struck and could only offer an open–mouthed smile when Brooke said hello. Matt then introduced Peter and Ed, doctors from the hospital and their wives, Sally and Grace. While Matt went to get Brooke a drink, she glanced around the room, noting the changes since her last visit when she had twisted her ankle in the park. It had definitely had a woman’s touch: the boomerang and baseball had gone from the bookshelf to be replaced by a line of scented candles. She made a mental note to check the bathroom for signs of Susie’s permanency: another toothbrush by the sink, perhaps, or bath oil in the cabinet. Brooke took a glass of white wine and sidled up to Sally.
‘Great tan. Have you been anywhere nice?’ Brooke asked politely.
‘Actually we’ve spent the year in Ghana,’ said Sally. ‘We’ve been on a medical exchange programme. Grace is a nurse, too. We all went out together.’
‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ said Brooke. ‘Is that the programme Matt is interested in?’
She said it without thinking, realizing too late that Matt might not have made his plan public just yet. Future politicians’ wives have to learn to be more diplomatic, she reminded herself.
Ed seemed to pep up noticeably at the question. ‘Oh yes. I kept emailing him while I was out there, telling him what a life–changing experience it was. The poverty we saw out there was depressing, but it’s humbling to go out there and try and make a difference.’
Susie pulled a face to communicate that she had been rather less enamoured by the idea; Brooke noticed the atmosphere and dropped the subject. There was another lull in the conversation. Brooke was just about to remark on the change in the weather when Courtney piped up, ‘So, when’s the wedding?’
Brooke laughed out loud and everyone else followed suit. She felt a sense of relief that someone had pointed out the obvious and broken the ice.
‘She’s been dying to ask ever since Matt told her you were coming,’ said Grace in a stage whisper.
‘Oh please,’ said Courtney to Brooke eagerly. ‘Can’t you tell us? I read in US Weekly it was going to be May at some grand lodge upstate. But people are now whispering that it’s going to be over New Year at Belcourt.’
Brooke flashed her a smile. ‘You don’t expect me to tell you that, do you?’ she teased.
‘Yes, Courtney, the Secret Service will have you killed,’ said Susie, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
‘I doubt Brooke has any dealings with the Secret Service,’ replied Ed, not unkindly. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ he added with a wink.
‘But I bet you will, one day,’ said Courtney, pushing her olive around her glass. ‘Matt says David is going to be president in fifteen, twenty years’ time. Imagine that life, it’d be so glamorous! Not being able to eat, sleep, shop without some man with an earpiece and a gun in his pocket guarding you. Do you think they monitor the Pre
sident having sex?’ She dissolved into giggles.