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Employees of Yellow Door publishing company had become used to seeing paparazzi loitering outside their East Forty–Second Street offices. Many would mutter under their breath or complain about the inconvenience that it brought to their calm, genteel world, but just as many secretly enjoyed the reflected glamour, the excitement of imagining themselves on the red carpet for a few seconds every day. That evening, however, the sidewalk outside the office was clear. Brooke let out a sigh of relief as she pushed out of the revolving doors and on to the dark street. Ever since the ‘home–wrecker’ story had broken almost two weeks earlier, not a day had gone by when she hadn’t been snapped either on her way in or coming out of work. Perhaps the press had lost interest in her, she thought hopefully. More realistically, it was probably down to the late hour – it was now almost nine p.m. and the photographers and reporters plaguing her would expect a glamorous woman like her to be at some party or opening rather then still in the Yellow Door offices. At least a twelve–hour working day has some benefits, she thought, feeling a fog of tiredness roll over her.
She looked around for her driver – it was funny how fast you became used to luxuries. She’d always resisted having a car on call; somehow it had seemed far too ostentatious and arrogant for a junior editor at a publishing company, as if she was saying ‘I’m an important person’, when she was just the same as everyone else. But when the paps had started to trail her, Meredith and David had pressured her to take what they called ‘sensible measures’, to which Tess Garrett had added certain ‘rules’. Brooke now had to change her cell–phone number every fortnight. Friends and family were discouraged from leaving messages on her answer–phone; Tess had told her how easy it was for reporters to hack into her phone and access sensitive information. The idea of a bodyguard had also been mentioned with increasing regularity, but she shuddered at that idea. That was all a bit too diva–esque for her. It was for the same reason that Brooke had always asked her driver to park a little way from the building, which was why she now found herself standing in the cold street, looking around for the car. It was then that she noticed a man looking at her from the other side of the street. Damn, she thought, turning to walk towards the corner, putting her sunglasses on quickly, the paparazzi are here, after all. The man kept pace with her on the opposite sidewalk, one hand raised as if hailing her. The usual routine, trying to get a reaction, a more interesting shot. They were shameless.
‘Brooke! Hey Brooke!’ he shouted over the traffic. She glanced across again as he began to cross the street towards her, his jacket flapping behind him as he dodged speeding yellow taxis.
‘Brooke. Wait. It’s me!’
He was better looking than the usual hack, she noticed that much; and there was something vaguely familiar about him.
‘Brooke, it’s Matt!’
The name made her stop. At first, she wasn’t sure if it was him or if it was some well–informed pap trying to trick her, but as he leapt away from a blaring truck, she could see it was him.
‘Matthew Palmer,’ she said slowly, shaking her head before beginning to walk on. In many ways she would have preferred it to have been a tabloid photographer. At least they responded to threats.
‘Why haven’t you returned my calls?’
‘Because I don’t want to speak to you,’ she said crisply. Brooke always tried to be scrupulously polite, but when Matt had phoned her office, twice, in the past three days after Danny Krantz’s column, she had instructed Kim to field his calls. She was too angry; she felt too betrayed.
‘Please Brooke, just give me a minute.’
He followed her along the pavement and grabbed her elbow. She averted her eyes, wanting to be anywhere but here.
‘Listen Brooke, I read the piece in the Oracle. I know how it must look.’
She rounded on him angrily. ‘How it looks? Matt, do you know how muc
h trouble that story’s caused? How much did they pay you? I hope it was worth it.’
‘Pay me for what?’
‘Leaking the Jeff Daniels story to the Oracle. I assume that’s who told them.’
She looked at him. His college boy hair had been cropped closely around his head.
‘Why the hell would I do something like that? ‘
Brooke frowned in puzzlement and Matt nodded towards the Helmsley Hotel across the road. ‘I think we’d better sit down and talk about this. What about a drink?’
She shook her head. She suddenly wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, but she certainly wasn’t going to go into a public bar with him, not when the press had labelled him her ‘old flame’. Paparazzi aside, everyone in New York had a camera phone these days. She glared at him for a moment, then let out a long breath.
‘All right, two minutes. This way.’
There was a small Italian restaurant on the next block. Brooke was a regular here and could always count on their discretion. Luigi, the owner, greeted her warmly and led her to a quiet booth at the back, out of view of other diners. Luigi hovered and Matt ordered a beer. Brooke asked for still water, but pointedly did not unbutton her coat.
For a second, she imagined they were back in college, in dingy bars and student parties. It had been at one such party, at a big house on Prospect Street in Providence, that she and Matt had met for the first time. Brooke had drunk rather too much of a potent cocktail someone had branded ‘Love Punch’ and Matt had found her having a power–nap on a pile of coats, where someone had sprinkled her with rose petals.
‘Rise and shine Ophelia,’ he had said, dragging her into the kitchen to give her his ‘patent hangover cure’: force–feeding her a banana for potassium, adding a couple of Tylanol and making her drink a large glass of water. Then he’d walked her slowly home, promising her that, despite the cold, a long walk would make her feel ten times better. He’d been right, of course. He was a doctor, or was going to be; a third–year med student at the Brown Alpert Medical School. As he’d helped her weave back to campus, it had begun to snow, and she remembered her tiredness and drunkenness dissolving as they’d ambled along talking about everything and nothing, her feet slipping in the slush.
From that day on, they’d become unlikely friends, all the way through her time at Brown. He was completely different from her other friends at college – popular, wealthy New Yorkers and Bostonians, fresh from schools like Chapin, Nightingale–Bamford and Dana Hall – and that had been part of his curious appeal. Matt was from a small town in Illinois. He liked Guns ’n’ Roses, ice hockey and motorbikes, Black Russian cocktails, and John Fante novels. He worked shifts in a coffee shop to help pay his way through college and he always looked tired. He fixed her car. Took her drinking, introduced her to the excitement of live music in dingy bars, and always had a reassuring diagnosis for Brooke’s many imagined ailments (handbag elbow, stress headaches, broken heart). For a girl from the Upper East Side, it was all an unthreatening walk on the wild side for her carefree days at college. But now, back here in the cold New York winter, all those pleasant memories had melted away. This man had betrayed her – and for what? Some pathetic flash of fame in a tabloid?
She crossed her arms and stared at him. ‘So, are you going to explain yourself?’
He gave a slow half–smile. ‘Maybe if you take your sunglasses off. I’m not convinced anyone’s looking.’
She pulled them off and placed them on the table between them.
Matt took his beer from the waitress and took a long drink.
