Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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nanny, the Australian girl? She was standing close by, tried to smother the flames and her nail extensions caught fire. She had to be rushed to Cedar Sinai.’
Gigi pushed a lonely lima bean around her plate. ‘It’s all very inconvenient,’ she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘The nanny’s out of action for six weeks with burnt fingers. Jenny and Oliver are thinking of suing the church, but it’s such a good social scene down there that Jenny didn’t want to make a fuss.’
All three women nodded in agreement.
‘So how was Belcourt?’ said Sam finally.
Paula smiled sweetly. How typical of them to wait so long to ask. She had been in such a good mood when she had arrived at lunch, but now she felt irritated at their feigned lack of interest in the party of the year. Of course they had both hoped Paula would be able to wangle them an invitation, but Paula had claimed the guest list was strictly restricted to close friends and family. The truth was that Paula simply hadn’t wanted them there diluting her moment of high social exclusivity.
‘Oh, it was good fun,’ said Paula casually, stirring a straw around in her mineral water. ‘Although I almost sliced my finger off on a window in the guest cottage. I couldn’t say anything, though. After all, the Billingtons are family now.’
Gigi’s smile was fixed like plaster. ‘Well, I wouldn’t speak too soon. Did you read that Oracle home-wrecker story the other day? That can’t have gone down too well with David’s family. Anyway, have you heard? Princess Katrina has just enrolled her daughter into Eton Manor.’
Paula bit her tongue, furious at not being given the opportunity to elaborate on the grandeur of Belcourt, yet secretly satisfied at the speed with which Gigi had steered the conversation back into her comfort zone. She knew she had scored a direct hit with the guest cottage detail.
‘Princess Katrina?’ said Sam. Paula could tell she had no idea who Princess Katrina was, but was afraid to say the words out loud for fear of committing a social faux pas.
‘She’s just fabulous, isn’t she?’ declared Gigi, flapping a hand. ‘She’s Italy’s Marie-Chantal. Her husband’s family would be Italian royalty if they hadn’t been deposed.’
‘Legendary wardrobe,’ nodded Sam. ‘She has a Birkin for every day of the year.’
‘And she’s enrolled her child at Eton?’ asked Paula.
‘Carlotta, a five year old, the same as our babies,’ said Gigi, using her fork to draw patterns with the drizzle of balsamic vinegar on her plate.
It was Paula’s turn to pretend a lack of interest. ‘Do we know which class she’s going in?’
All their girls were in Transition class, but there was another class of twenty-two pupils for children of their age, which made only a fifty/fifty chance that Carlotta would be in their class.
‘Not yet. A girl in Bruce’s office knows the sister of the admissions’ secretary. All we know is that she’s been accepted by Eton Manor, and starts after the Easter break.’
‘Well, those parents’ coffee mornings need some fresh blood.’
Gigi looked at Paula, each knowing what the other was thinking – what they were all thinking. The parents of Eton Manor pupils were some of Manhattan’s most wealthy, successful people, and consequently the school’s packed events calendar was one of the best networking opportunities in the city. Deals were quietly brokered on the father-son camp-out, lucrative friendship bonds nurtured at the Christmas fair. This, however, was on a different level. Princess Katrina would be new to the city and looking for social contacts. This was a solid-gold opportunity to make a new friend who moved in the very highest circles.
Paula dabbed her glossed lips with her napkin and felt a charge of determination surge through her. Attending Brooke and David’s engagement party had stirred conflicting emotions. The exhilaration she’d felt when she had first arrived at Belcourt had been quickly replaced with an unsettling sense of dissatisfaction with her own life. Okay, so she had been granted entry to an even more exclusive circle of Manhattan society, but it was one in which she felt uncomfortably small and insignificant. Belcourt’s ballroom had crackled with star quality that night; every single guest seemed to radiate some potent force that had made Paula seem to wither. But Paula was a fighter. Every setback was an opportunity. She knew she needed to improve her position. When she had first met William, Asgill’s was talked about in the same breath as Revlon, and everyone expected it to be snapped up in a billion-dollar take-over. But it hadn’t happened, and Paula knew from William’s moods after a day at the office that business wasn’t good. She couldn’t rely on him to improve their lot. But she had two things on her side. New social leverage thanks to Brooke’s engagement, and steely practicality that had brought her from Greenboro, North Carolina to Manhattan’s Upper East Side, a force which she knew could propel her to even greater heights.
Her eyes flickered over to table eight, where Nicole and Wendi giggled over their poached pears. It was a snapshot of everything she had ever wanted: wealth, celebrity and power. It will be envied and admired. To get the best table in the house, no matter who else was in the room. Then her gaze trailed back to Gigi and Sam. They were nice girls, of course. Fun and harmless. But Paula was beginning to feel as if she had outgrown them. It was time to move up a gear. And she already had a few ideas about how she was going to do it.
Patty Shackleton had worked her legal magic. The Oracle agreed to print a retraction on their website and an apology in the main paper the following day, but Tess wasn’t taking any chances. She knew that newspapers didn’t take too kindly to being pushed around by lawyers, and the last thing she wanted to do was spark a tabloid vendetta against the Asgills. A charm offensive was called for, so two days later she had arranged to meet Rebecca Sharp from the Oracle for lunch. Sitting under the yellow awning outside Da Silvano, watching the traffic thunder down Seventh Avenue, Tess smiled broadly as she watched her old friend climb from a taxi and glide over to her table.
‘You look fantastic,’ said Tess, quite taken aback at her glamour. Becky had been at the Colchester Observer with Tess over a decade earlier, and they had moved to London at around the same time, Tess on the women’s pages of the Daily Mirror, Becky on the Bizarre showbiz desk of the Sun. Back then she was known as Bonkers Becks, tall and chunky, a great laugh, obsessed with music, and for the first year in the Big Smoke they had cut quite a swathe around town, going to any premiere, party, or gig to which Becky could get a plus one.
Tess had not seen Becks since her transfer to the New York Oracle’s entertainment and celebrity news desk three years earlier, and her transformation was incredible. Her long hair, once the colour of marmalade, was now a honey blonde, falling in soft curls onto her tanned shoulders. She had lost at least three stone and her Amazonian physique had become slender and graceful in her thin cashmere vest and skinny jeans.
‘I cannot believe you’re finally here,’ squealed Becky, causing a couple on the next table to look at them with alarm. ‘And as a publicist of all things! How’s it going on the dark side?’
Becky’s accent had picked up a transatlantic burr and she had always been loud, but her time in the Big Apple seemed to have increased the volume another 10 per cent.
Tess laughed. ‘My first day at work I got into the office at seven a.m. and I was almost the last person to arrive. How do you fit sleep in here?’
Becky waved her hand casually in front of her. ‘Sleep’s for wimps, darling. The second everyone heard how Anna Wintour gets up at five for a game of tennis and a blow-dry, everyone wanted to be in the office before dawn. You’ll soon learn that in Manhattan: it’s all about competition.’
‘So where are you living?’
‘Brooklyn,’ said Becky, pulling a face. ‘Mind you, everyone is there right now,