Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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in society parties. She had been to a few swish press launches in her time, she had even been to 10 Downing Street for a briefing on women’s issues, but the only real party of this calibre she had attended was when she had browbeaten the Globe’s showbiz desk into getting her an invitation to Elton’s White Tie and Tiara ball.
Pull yourself together, Tess, she scolded herself. They’re only human. It really wasn’t like her to be so nervous in a social situation. Newspaper reporting didn’t allow for such delicate personalities. Doorstepping enraged politicians, interviewing bereaved families, witnessing murder scenes and accident sites; it all toughened you up. But this was something else. Inside this house, she had felt invisible.
‘Ossie Clark Nineteen Sixty-three,’ said an upper-class English voice behind her. ‘Which means you are British, making me wonder why we haven’t ever met before. I thought I knew all the interesting English people in New York.’
Tess turned to see a slim man of around seventy regarding her with amusement. His voice and appearance were in perfect harmony; he sounded like a Raj-era colonial viceroy and was dressed accordingly in a cream three-piece suit with a scarlet spotted cravat. He had two-tone spectator shoes on his feet and a gold pocket watch sticking out of his waistcoat. To complete the look, he carried an ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm.
‘Wow, yes. This is Ossie Clark,’ said Tess, smoothing down her dress. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘The designer of your dress or that you’re a Brit?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Both,’ smiled Tess.
‘The former because I knew Ossie and Celia intimately. The latter because New York girls generally don’t do vintage. Certainly not so tastefully if they do.’
‘Well, not all of us can afford couture,’ said Tess, blushing slightly.
‘No one with your legs needs couture, my dear.’
Tess knew she had only just met this man, but she liked him immediately. He was charming, open, and a little mischievous, a combination of qualities she felt was in short supply in New York society. More than that, with her journalist instincts, Tess immediately sized him up as being someone worth knowing.
‘Sorry, I’m Charles Devine.’ He extended a frail hand. ‘Interior designer. An old friend of the Billingtons, the Asgills, and well, everyone worth knowing.’
Tess shook his hand warmly. ‘Tess Garrett. Journalist. Friend of nobody in this room.’
‘Good Lord, a journalist?’ cried Charles with mock alarm. ‘Are you a gate-crasher? I thought the security was as tight as Fort Knox out there.’
Tess laughed and shook her head. ‘More of a last-minute invitee. I only arrived in New York this morning.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Charles appreciatively. ‘I can see we’re going to be friends. It takes some people a lifetime of social mountaineering to score an invite to Belcourt, and here you are, straight off the boat. Now, you simply must let me show you around.’ He offered Tess his arm and led her back into the main house where the party was in full swing.
‘It is a fantastic party, isn’t it?’ said Tess, still wide-eyed at the spectacle.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Charles. ‘One of the best I’ve ever been to – and let me tell you, my dear, I have been to a lot of parties. In fact this one might even make my memoirs. I’m only sketching them out at this stage, of course; the problem is not what to put in but what to leave out.’
Tess was intrigued. Charles Devine was clearly a character; perhaps he could give her more insight into the family. She had a hunch that if Charles didn’t know about it, it wasn’t worth knowing. They sat down on two Louis XV chairs facing each other.
‘Brooke and David are a lovely couple, aren’t they?’ said Tess, fishing for gossip.
‘Indeed,’ he smiled. ‘Everyone has very high hopes for them, although personally I’d prefer New York’s premier power couple to be a little more interesting.’
‘Oh dear. So what’s David like?’
Charles laughed playfully. ‘Too good-looking to be dull, too ambitious to be fun.’
‘And what about her?’
‘She’s sweet. So sweet I wonder if she can handle all this attention,’ said Charles. ‘Fair enough if she’s in it for the money, but one suspects Brooke is marrying America’s most eligible bachelor because she is in love with America’s most eligible bachelor. I’m always a little suspicious about those sorts of girls.’
‘I got the impression that Meredith is the ambitious one.’
Charles smiled coyly. ‘Darling, I’d love to give you more information, but first you must give me a little juice in return. Do tell: how did a journalist manage to get under the wire? I doubt it’s simply beginner’s luck.’
‘Actually, I’m being wooed for a job with the Asgills.’
He raised his eyebrows again. ‘As …?’
‘I’m not sure I can say any more,’ smiled Tess playfully, knowing it would be unbearable for him not to know.
‘Darling, just tell me. I’ll find out somehow.’
She shrugged. ‘They want me to be the family’s publicist.’
Charles laughed, a delighted, tinkling laugh. ‘Well, I suppose everyone in Manhattan has their own publicist now, don’t they – present company excluded, of course – I’ve really never felt the need given the reliability of the grapevine … I’m only surprised it’s taken the Asgills so long.’
‘I think it’s pragmatism in this case,’ smiled Tess. ‘They can’t have Brooke involved in any scandal that would stop them marrying into all this.’
‘Yes, I can see that …’ said Charles thoughtfully. ‘The hypocrisy of the rich at work once again, of course.’
Tess frowned, sensing a story. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, of course you’re right; David has a big political future and so Brooke won’t be able to put a foot wrong – that’s why they need someone like you. But it’s a little rich to say it’s all about Brooke’s behaviour. David dated someone five, six years ago, you see. Actress, beautiful girl. Photographed taking cocaine in some nightclub in LA. Terrible business. Six weeks later she moved to France to film some “art-house movie”.’ Charles framed the phrase in quotation marks. ‘She was never heard of in this country again. Then of course there’s Wendell,’ he said, pointing the handle of his cane in the direction of an older man with pewter hair, brushed white at the temples. Tess recognized him as Wendell Billington, David’s father, who had been pointed out to her earlier.
‘In my direct line of vision I see at least four women Wendell has had sex with, one a long-term mistress. Can’t keep his regal cock in his trousers, but of course that’s fine. Joe Kennedy was a terrible philanderer and it didn’t hurt his son’s presidential ambitions one jot. It’s a question of class, you see. The Billingtons are in a different class to the Asgills. They are more … how shall I put it? More bullet-proof.’
‘Class?’ said Tess. ‘I didn’t think that existed in America.’
Charles chuckled. He swept his hand across the room dramatically, only pausing to take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter in one fluid movement.
‘This city is full of money, but what everyone wants is class. Obviously you can acquire class much quicker over here; you only have to look at the Lauders to see that. Old Estée Lauder was a Hungarian immigrant, but she builds a cosmetics dynasty and now they are one of the grand families of New York. But no, the Asgills aren’t the Lauders: they’re not rich enough and their business is not as prestigious. In fact, people still refer to Howard, Meredith’s late husband, as