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‘I don’t know what makes you think I tipped off the papers. I didn’t. I swear to you. For a start, I barely knew about you and Jeff Daniels. Didn’t all that happen after you left Brown?’
She nodded begrudgingly. ‘So you swear you didn’t tip off the papers?’
He looked angry at the suggestion. ‘I didn’t do it, Brooke. You were my friend. Besides, I wouldn’t stand on a cold street waiting for you for two hours if I was guilty.’
‘That means nothing, I can tell you.’
‘Cynic.’
‘Realist. So how did your name end up in Danny Krantz’s column?’
‘A journalist called me up a few weeks ago,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Said they were doing a profile piece on you. Actually, I think they described it as a celebration of you.’
Brooke raised her eyebrows.
‘I don’t know how they got my name but it all sounded kosher. I just said something really innocuous about you.’
‘Like what?’
‘They asked me how I’d describe you. I said kind, beautiful, and smart. Everyone loved you. And I never said I was your boyfriend, or ever was. I was mad as hell when I saw that “old flame” thing.’
She put her head down to hide a little flutter of embarrassment.
‘So you didn’t say: “She’s gorgeous. Men just love her. Any man would go crazy for her”, or whatever it was?’
Matthew put his beer down. ‘Have I ever been that sleazy?’
Brooke finally allowed him a smile.
‘I’m sorry Brooke. I’m so sorry.’
Brooke shrugged. She knew very well how the media would twist things, even fabricate them to make something salacious out of nothing. And, despite her anger and frustration over everything that had happened with the column, she did believe him. Out of all the people she knew, Matt was the least interested in fame and money. She just couldn’t see his motivation for doing it.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Matt.’
‘Dr Palmer to you, Asgill.’
She laughed. They’d always had that sort of relationship. He’d never seemed impressed by her rich, fashionable friends, never let her get away with any pomposity.
‘Sorry, Doc.’
She took a sip of her water, wishing now that she had ordered the beer.
‘So how is it?’ he asked.
‘How’s what?’
‘Life as a real–life American Princess?’
‘Hey, come on … ’ she said, flushing.
‘Okay, future First Lady.’
‘David is a news reporter, not a politician.’
‘Give him time,’ said Matthew. ‘How old is he? Thirty–two, thirty–three? I read the papers, Brooke. People are already talking about him as a senator or governor. We both know David Billington was born to be president.’
Brooke smiled. ‘He’ll probably run for Congress in the next few years, but president? Here’s an exclusive for your New York Oracle friends: he’s honestly never mentioned it.’
