‘I’m not stitching them up. I’m doing my job, Jemma,’ cried Tess angrily. ‘This story has been rumbling around for decades, but if I don’t try and find out what really happened to Olivia Martin, it’s a story that is never going to go away.’
‘I just don’t want you chasing after ghosts,’ said Jemma. ‘You’ve been doing it for the last ten years. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone. Not any more.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Tess, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I do have something to prove. I have something to prove to myself. And no matter how much you think we owe the Asgills, if that family were involved in Olivia’s disappearance somehow, then I’m not going to turn a blind eye to murder.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–SEVEN
Brooke bit her lip and looked at her wedding dress. It had just arrived at her apartment, having flown across the Atlantic in its own first–class seat. It was magnificent, there was no denying that. The silk was exquisite, the construction intricate; everything about it was sumptuous and grand. She should have been pleased, delighted, delirious with excitement even. But she wasn’t.
It’s not what I wanted, she thought miserably, sliding to the floor of her closet and holding her head in her hands. It’s just not what I wanted, she thought over and over again as fat tears began to plop onto her knees. At the final fitting in Guillaume Riche’s atelier, she’d felt exactly the same way, but she hadn’t dared breathe a word to Liz and her mother. She knew how much was resting on it, especially now the company looked to be in trouble. Brooke wiped her eyes and looked up at it again. It wasn’t that it was an ugly dress by any means. It was beautiful, a work of art even. The beading, the work of French embroidery house Lesage, was jaw–dropping, hundreds of thousands of tiny crystals and baroque pearls hand–sewn into the shape of feathers with fine silver thread, while the vast dress coat was made of ninety–five metres of silk tulle. But hanging on its own gold rail in her closet, it just looked like a museum piece. Rich and voluminous, it would have suited an ancient queen like Catherine the Great or Marie Antoinette. And Brooke knew she was no queen, however hard she tried.
Getting to her feet, Brooke went into the kitchen to get herself a glass of wine, and then walked through to the living room carrying the bottle and a corkscrew. The dining table was still piled high with gifts from her bridal shower three days earlier at a suite at the Plaza. Bags of beauty products in brown and white candy–striped Henri Bendel bags, duck–egg–blue Tiffany boxes, notelets branded with the name Brooke Billington, gold Louboutin sandals for her honeymoon, and scores of other bits of girlie paraphernalia. She was the luckiest girl in the world. So why did she feel so anxious, so empty? She picked up the phone and dialled David, who was on his bachelor party weekend in Vegas.
‘Honey it’s me.’
‘Sweetheart, we’re just heading out,’ he said. In the background, she could hear laughter and jeering. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.
‘I hate my wedding dress,’ said Brooke.
David chuckled. ‘Shouldn’t you be keeping those details from me?’ he asked. ‘Look, Robert’s shouting for me and we should have left the hotel an hour ago. I hate to think what he’s got planned for me. Speak later?’
‘You go,’ said Brooke, feeling selfish and silly. ‘Have a great time, I’m fine. Really.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure.’
She put down the phone and paced around the room.
Knowing she had to get it off her chest, she returned to the phone, meaning to call Debs Asquith; but as her finger hit the digits, she dialled another New York number.
‘Matt, is that you?’
In the three weeks since her office confrontation with Mimi, she had tried to keep her distance from Matthew, citing work or hectic wedding preparations, although she hardly needed the excuse, she had been flat out. There had been hairstyling sessions, facials, meeting with photographers, florists, and caterers, not to mention the endless summits with Alessandro Franchetti over the tiniest details. But suddenly, out of nowhere, Matthew Palmer was the one person she wanted to talk to.
‘Hey,’ he said warily. ‘What’s up?’
‘My wedding dress looks like a snow storm.’
‘I thought it cost two hundred thousand bucks.’
Now she felt really sick. ‘It did. And that buys a lot of fabric.’
‘Bummer.’
His voice was distant and strange.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he muttered.
‘You don’t sound fine. In fact, you sound as lousy as I feel.’
There was an awkward silence. Brooke listened to the faint static on the line, trying to sense something of his mood.
‘Matt, what’s up? You’re worrying me.’
He sighed. ‘It’s no big deal. Just Susie and I split up.’