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‘Honestly,’ repeated Brooke. ‘I haven’t seen or spoken to Matt since I left Brown. I’ve no idea why he’d say such a thing.’
Tess snorted. ‘I’ll give you two good reasons. Money and fame. Brooke, I worked at a national tabloid and, trust me, there’s always someone you think is on your side who is really selling stories. In London there was one star, part of a very fashionable North London clique, who sold stories about her famous friends to fuel a drug habit. But it could just as easily be a hairdresser, a stylist, a cleaner, even a relative. There’s always someone wanting to make a quick buck. Which is why I’d love to know who leaked this story. This is going to happen again if you don’t find out who it is.’
‘And how do we let people know I’m not a home–wrecker?’
‘Well, if Patty can swing an apology in tomorrow’s paper that will be a start, but it won’t be big or prominent so we need to set up an interview with you, somewhere like the New York Times ‘Style’ supplement … I’m also going to sort you out some media training.’
Brooke looked up. ‘Which is what exactly?’
‘The art of being vague and uncontroversial,’ smiled Tess.
‘And to think I told my mom I didn’t need you,’ said Brooke sheepishly.
Tess reached out and touched Brooke’s arm. ‘People are snakes Brooke,’ she said kindly. ‘The second you have something that everybody else wants, people will be out to get you. You are going to be the target for stings, whispering campaigns, and jealous and disgruntled people who just want to mouth off about you. You’re going to have to be on guard twenty–four/seven and you’re going to have to develop a thick skin. Added to which, you’ll have to think about everything you do and perhaps modify your behaviour.’
‘My behaviour?’
‘For example, you’ll have to be generous and kind to everyone. I’m sure you are that way naturally, but now being a stingy tipper or walking past a beggar is a news story. From now on you have to be a saint.’
‘A saint?’ said Brooke sceptically.
‘I think you’ll do fine,’ smiled Tess as Brooke stood up.
‘Thank you, Tess,’ said Brooke, offering a slim hand. ‘I’m glad you’re on my side.’
‘Think of it as a penance for past crimes,’ said Tess. ‘I’ve been a bit of a bitch to people like you in my past life, but at least you know you’ve got a bitch in your corner.’
As Brooke left the office and closed the door, Tess let out a long breath.
To do this job, I’m going to have to be the biggest bitch New York has ever seen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘So, how was everyone’s weekend?’
At table seven in La Revue restaurant, Paula Asgill unfolded her starched white napkin, stabbed her fork into her thirty–dollar Caesar salad and flashed her friends an uncommonly full smile. Twice a month, Paula, Gigi Miller, and Samantha Donahue gathered in whichever restaurant was currently white–hot for the Upper East Side’s ladies–who–lunch crowd. This month it was La Revue. The East Sixty–First street eaterie had mediocre food and appalling service, but it was irresistible to the fashionable lunch crowd due to its unpublished impossible–to–get–hold–of reservations hotline.
Eating here was just one of the reasons Paula was feeling particularly buoyant. In her myriad of acquaintances in the city, Gigi and Sam were the nearest thing she had to close friends, all having children in the same class at prestigious coed prep, the Eton Manor School. Sam was a nice middle–class girl from Oregon with an art major college degree who had married well and liked pretty dresses. Her husband, Gregor, was a fallen Lehman’s high–flyer who had downgraded to a smaller bank but still commanded a low seven–figure salary that allowed the Donahues a small household s
taff and a summer Hamptons rental in one of the less prestigious streets in Quogue. Gigi, a former modern ballet dancer who now populated the party pages of W magazine and Style.com, was married to Bruce, another investment banker. Bruce was often found at the Beatrice Inn, invariably the oldest man at the fashionable downtown night–spot, and had once suggested to Paula that they ‘fuck sometime’ while standing in line at the Lincoln Center coat check. Paula had been uncomfortable going to their house for supper ever since.
Gigi was currently distracted, watching as Wendi Murdoch and Nicole Kidman were seated at table number eight, the most coveted spot in the restaurant. Paula silently cursed. She had only ever scored table eight once, and that had been one Monday lunch last August when half of Manhattan were at the beach. She’d hoped, after news leaked out about Brooke’s engagement, that she would be promoted to table eight, but no. Perhaps Nicole had got in first, she thought.
Sideshow over, Gigi signalled to the wine waiter to bring more San Pellegrino and turned her attention back to Paula. ‘Oh, not much this weekend,’ she said tossing back her bouncy, blow–dried hair. ‘We went to Jenny Groves’s daughter’s christening.’
‘Was it nice?’ asked Sam, absently playing with the silk bow tie on her Chloe shirt. ‘Greg’s in Europe so we didn’t go.’
‘Oh honey, you missed all the drama.’
Paula listened with interest. Jenny Groves and her husband Oliver had kept a low profile on the social scene in the last year; the official word was that Oliver had temporarily relocated to Chicago on business and Jenny had gone out to be with him. But everyone knew the truth. Jenny had used a surrogate mother in Florida to have the baby and had kept out of sight to pretend she had carried the baby herself.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ continued Gigi with relish, ‘Sienna Spencer was godmother and got too near one of the candles at the pulpit. Her hair set on fire.’
‘Ohmigosh!’ said Paula and Sam in unison. Sienna was a well–known Upper East Side handbag designer, married to one of the wealthiest hedge–funders around.
‘I know!’ cackled Gigi. ‘Two thousand dollars’ worth of hair extensions ruined!’
‘Was she okay?’ asked Sam.
