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Unable to find a pen, she wrote it down with lipstick on the front of a magazine.
‘I’ll see you in thirty minutes.’
*
Liz lived in a two–bedroomed apartment in one of the most luxurious condominiums in the city. Fifteen Central Park West, a huge wedding–cake of a building overlooking the park, was home to some of the most powerful people in New York: celebrities, CEOs, and money–men; people who could afford to pay up to one hundred million dollars for the privilege of living there. At three a.m., the building’s lobby was silent and stately with its oak panelling and marble pillars, the only noise the occasional crackle of the huge log fire. Tess took the elevator to the twenty–fifth floor where she found the door to Liz’s apartment slightly ajar. After two tentative knocks, she walked in. Her first thought was that Liz’s home was not as stark or minimalist as she was expecting. Sophisticated and tasteful, yes, but Tess had expected an ice queen like Liz to go for chrome and exposed brick. In the dim light, however, the living room actually felt quite warm and comforting, although she supposed the spotlessness of the big white sofas and cream carpet, along with the complete absence of clutter, did reflect the perfectionism of its owner.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said a voice, and Tess jumped. Liz was standing by the windows overlooking the park, half hidden in the shadow. She was still wearing her slate–grey cocktail dress from the party, her arms wrapped tightly in front of her as she nursed a tumbler of amber liquid and gazed out at the city lights twinkling in the dark. What a view, thought Tess. New York looked so majestic and peaceful, she could see why people were prepared to spend so much to live here. Liz, however, looked anything but at peace. As she stepped into the light, her face was as pale and expressionless as a corpse’s.
‘This is uncomfortable for me,’ she began, ‘so I only want to say it once.’
Tess nodded. ‘I’m listening,’ she said quietly.
Liz took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I am being blackmailed.’
Tess simply stood and listened. Years spent interviewing a whole range of people, from aggrieved neighbours to political protestors to celebrities, had taught Tess not to interrupt her subjects; to let them simply talk until they had nothing left to say.
‘A few weeks ago, I had sex with someone, an actor called Russ Ford,’ continued Liz. ‘I didn’t use my real name and I didn’t see him again afterwards, but tonight he showed up at the party and now he is asking for money.’
Tess frowned. She had been expecting a much bigger revelation given Liz’s grey–faced demeanour. It wasn’t good, of course, but neither was it a disaster. Liz having a one–night stand was hardly going to derail the Asgills’ social standing.
‘Okay,’ she said, trying to sound both sympathetic and businesslike. ‘What’s Russ Ford threatening you with exactly? I don’t mean to be rude, but the newspapers aren’t going to be too interested in a single woman having a one–night stand.’
Liz paused again. ‘He saw me again a few nights later in another bar with another man.’
‘And he was jealous?’ asked Tess, still confused.
Liz remained silent.
‘Liz, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything,’ said Tess with a little irritation. ‘I really don’t see how a one–night stand–’
‘I like casual sex, okay?’ Liz interrupted. ‘Very casual sex. This guy Russ says he is going to the papers with details. “Sex Addict Liz Asgill screws men in bathrooms of seedy clubs”: do you think that’s the sort of headline the tabloids might be interested in?’
Tess nodded. She understood better than Liz knew – after all, covering up the story of her brother Sean’s overdose at an orgy was what had brought her to work for the Asgills in the first place. It’s a funny old family, she thought, almost smiling at the understatement. Ten years ago, Tess would hardly have believed that a successful, elegant woman like Liz Asgill would have such a sordid sex life, but years on Fleet Street had opened her eyes to what went on behind closed doors. And, of course, some of the most hair–raising stories – the breakfast TV presenter who let her Alsatian lick dog food off her naked body, the cosy soap actress who could only have sex after her boyfriend blew cocaine up her arse, the supermodel who was a thirty thousand pound–a–throw hooker – they never saw the light of day thanks to prompt behind–the–scenes intervention of lawyers and publicists, who made deals and threats to keep it all quiet.
‘Listen Liz, having a couple of one–night stands doesn’t make you a sex addict,’ said Tess soothingly.
Liz shook her head. ‘It’s more than just a couple,’ she said, a slight catch in her voice.
‘How many?’
She shrugged. ‘Once, twice a week.’
‘A week?’
Tess hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, b
ut it was crazy – and amazing that she hadn’t been caught before. What was Liz playing at? Russian roulette with men she hardly knew? Tess had a sudden sinking feeling.
‘Do you ever pay them?’ she asked.
‘No!’
Liz glared at Tess for a second, then closed her eyes, trying to gain control. She sat down on the corner of the white sofa and lit a cigarette, her long legs crossing in front of her.
‘I don’t want to get Patty Shackleton involved,’ she said, blowing the smoke out in a long stream. ‘And I certainly don’t want my mother to know. Can I trust you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
