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‘Of course I didn’t want you to be humiliated,’ said Sean as evenly as he could. ‘But when you told me earlier that Dom was in Dublin, it made me angry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I wanted you to see what he was like. If you hadn’t seen it for yourself, he could have denied it, lied to you for months.’
‘Right, so you have to be cruel to be kind,’ she said, her voice wavering.
‘He’s just not worth it, Tess.’
‘What do you know the value of worth, Sean?’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘You are a spoilt little rich boy. You use women how you please; you’re no different to Dom.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Sean. ‘But I tried, Tess–’
‘Stop the car,’ she said suddenly.
‘Tess, don’t be stupid.’
‘I said stop the fucking car.’
Reluctantly, Sean slowed the car to a stop. As she reached for the door handle, he leant over to stop her. ‘Tess, please … ’
‘Just leave me alone,’ she said, climbing out of the car. They were not even out of the grounds of Nina’s estate. Sean opened his door and made to follow her. ‘Tess, come on, you can’t just walk home!’ he shouted.
Just then the bright headlights of a black cab came up behind them. She held her hand out to stop it.
‘Please, can I get in? Please take me back to London,’ she said.
The driver nodded.
She slammed the door and avoided Sean’s gaze as they drove past.
Tess looked into her bag to check she still had her passport – carrying it everywhere was a habit she had got into in the States, where bartenders still asked for ID; and she was glad of it now. She glanced at her watch, then tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘Forget London,’ she said. ‘Take me straight to Heathrow.’
She didn’t even want to see the inside of her flat, not even to collect her bag. She wanted to get back to New York.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Newport is one of the most exclusive seaside towns in America, and Cliffpoint – the Billingtons’ summer residence – one of its most exclusive mansions. Located just off Bellevue Avenue, on a nine–acre site that sloped down to the Atlantic coast, it was a beautiful Beaux Arts building – not as big as the famous Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers, nearby, but certainly prettier, with its white pillars and arched windows and manicured grounds studded with exotic trees and flowers.
Brooke had travelled up the night before with David, taking the Billington private jet from Teterboro to Providence. The rest of David’s family – aunts, uncles, cousins, at least twenty in number – had been arriving throughout the day for a dinner in celebration of David’s brother Robert’s birthday. With all the activity in the great house, the appearance of guests, and influx of additional staff, Brooke had spent the afternoon on a long walk along Newport’s coastal path that ran directly in front of Cliffpoint. She had gone alone, while David had spent the day sailing around Narragansett Bay with his father and brother; although Brooke had been invited, she suffered terribly from seasickness and, anyway, disliked David’s metamorphosis into a more macho creature in the presence of Wendell and Robert.
Instead she’d had a fabulous time walking the three–mile trail, which was sometimes a straight path, at other times more difficult terrain, where she had to scramble over slippy rocks. She loved the taste of the warm, salty air on her tongue, the noise of waves crashing against the shore, the sight of the ocean – almost turquoise in colour in some places. She had done the walk several times before; not just when she had dated David, but when she had been at Brown University a short drive away in Providence. She had come up after exams with her girlfriends and they had peered over the hedges towards the grand mansion houses and other novelties on the trail, such as the Chinese Tea House pagoda, made especially for Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt so she could enjoy the sight of the sea. Although Brooke and her friends were all from wealthy families, used to driving sports cars at college, holidaying in the best resorts around the world, wearing the finest designer clothes that Madison Avenue had to offer, they had all been stunned by the elegant, almost royal show of wealth that Newport offered up. It had ignited much discussion on the way home among Brooke’s more socially ambitious friends, about how to gain permanent entry into these gilded–age palaces. How many of these mansions were now national museums? How many still belonged to great families, and in those families how many young, single sons were there? She smiled at the memory of David’s name being mentioned all those years ago by her friend Jenny, who had a particularly comprehensive database of America’s most eligible men. She wondered how Jenny, with whom she had now lost contact, would react to the news of Brooke’s engagement to him.
There was a gate along the back lawns that was an exit from the track back up to Cliffpoint. As Brooke neared the house after her walk, David’s mother Rose approached. Despite the usual heat of the day, she looked cool, elegant, and composed in off–white, light wool slacks and a cream chiffon shirt with large pussy bow at her neck.
Rose hooked her arm through Brooke’s as they walked back in the house. Brooke found her a domineering woman, in a quiet but forceful way that older patrician women seemed to have, but thought life would definitely be easier if she made a friend out of her. Not just because she was close to her son and could no doubt make life difficult for Brooke should she take a sudden dislike to her. Not just because she had offered to take Brooke to the Chanel Couture show the following month to order her trousseau, which she insisted was an early wedding gift. But also because Brooke wanted Rose to like her. Accept her, approve of her in a way she no doubt did of Alicia Wintrop or any other of David’s ex–girlfriends who came from old, established American families.
‘The boys are back from sailing,’ she smiled, accepting a gin and tonic from their English butler, Mr Steven.
‘And what time is dinner?’ asked Brooke. She was desperate for a lie–down after the long walk, but looking at the sun already sloping low in the sky knew there was little time.
‘Seven thirty. Drinks at seven in the library – although it appears I’ve already started,’ she said, raising her glass slightly. ‘How’s the house hunting coming along?’
‘We’ve hardly had time,’ Brooke told her. It was true; with all the wedding planning it just seemed another job that needed doing. David had suggested they didn’t start looking until after the wedding, and in many ways it made the best sense. David’s loft in TriBeCa was fabulous. Bright and spacious, with a fantastic roof terrace and close to all her favourite shops in SoHo and the bustle of Chinatown and Little Italy. But, despite Brooke’s busy–ness and the wedding, she wanted to start their married life together in a place that was theirs rather than his.
Rose shook her head ever so slightly. ‘I’ve never known the attraction of that loft, although I know it was a wise financial investment. I do know of a couple of excellent co–ops coming up in two very good buildings on Park. One is a triplex. Belongs to Janet Dupont who is on her last legs, God bless her. Her family will definitely want to get rid of her apartment, and my dear friend Aggy chairs the committee. And while they might be a little concerned about the press attention you two garner, I’m sure I can get Aggy to give you the nod.’
Brooke attempted a smile. She knew the building. Old and prestigious; a power building, full of the sort of people Brooke liked to avoid. And with Rose’s dear friend Aggy in the building, it would be like being watched. Brooke had to think carefully about how to get out of this one. With a bit of luck, Janet Dupont would hang on until Brooke and David found somewhere else to live.
She walked up the sweeping staircase to David’s room at the front of the house. The long windows were open and the balmy evening air breezed through the space that had clearly changed little from when David was much younger. Fifties posters advertising t
