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Kim coughed politely. ‘Sorry, Brooke, but should you even be here?’ she asked. ‘It’s in my diary that you’ve booked half a day’s holiday today.’
‘No, you’re right,’ said Brooke, putting down her Montblanc pen. ‘We’ve got another wedding venue to see and we should have left two hours ago. Although I think the novelty of venue–hunting has worn off for David already. He goes pale every time I mention another one. Just wait till it’s your turn.’ Brooke stopped, realizing that might sound patronizing, especially since Kim could only be three or four years younger than she was. It was funny how dating David and mixing with his highbrow politico friends had made her feel much older, think much older. She wasn’t even married herself yet.
‘Brooke? Can I ask you a favour?’ said Kim slowly, a look of embarrassment on her face.
‘Shoot.’
‘Don’t take it the wrong way, but could you please not talk to me about this stuff?’
‘Oh,’ said Brooke, surprised. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … ’ Brooke could feel her face flushing. She had always felt awkward even asking Kim to get her coffee; she certainly didn’t want to be one of those editors who treated her assistants like crap – she’d seen plenty of that. Even here in the children’s publishing division, generally considered a genteel working environment, they still had their fair share of bitches.
‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t like hearing about it,’ said Kim quickly. ‘It sounds lovely, all the wedding preparations and dates with David and such, but it’s just that some journalist called me up yesterday and offered me two thousand bucks if I would tell her where the wedding is. It’s sort of tempting when you’re on fifteen thousand dollars a year and most of that gets gobbled up by your rent.’
Brooke stared at the girl, open–mouthed. Of course, it made perfect sense, given the media furore over the wedding; she could almost admire the journalist’s initiative. She could also understand how tempting it would be for someone like Kim Yi–Noon. For her twenty–first birthday, Brooke had been given a fully furnished ‘classic six’ apartment on Sixty–Fifth Street. As a member of the Asgill family, she really had no idea what it was like to struggle to make rent. She had no idea what it was like to struggle for anything.
‘What did you say to him?’ asked Brooke finally.
‘I said I can’t tell them anything if I don’t know anything,’ shrugged Kim. ‘And if we can keep it that way, we won’t have a problem. Is that okay?’
‘Of course, of course. And I’m grateful, Kim. Thank you,’ said Brooke, making a mental note to try and get Kim a pay rise. Keen to change the subject, Brooke tapped the paper in front of her.
‘By the way, this is the covering letter from a slush–pile manuscript I’ve been reading. There’s only a few chapters of it, so can you phone the author for me and get her to send the rest if there is any more? If there is a completed manuscript, maybe we should suggest she gets an agent while she’s at it.’
Kim nodded in a brisk, efficient manner. ‘I’ll do it now.’
Glancing at her watch – David would definitely be getting cross now – Brooke stuffed the manuscript into her orange Goyard tote and pulled a compact out of her top drawer. Not bad, she thought, flipping open the mirror. The day had faded her make–up, but with her grape–green almond eyes and high cheekbones, Brooke Asgill was still one of the most beautiful girls in Manhattan. She swept some gloss over her lips, then suddenly felt guilty, recalling a snarky little news story in Star magazine about how ‘Brooke Asgill puts on a full face of make–up before she meets the paparazzi.’ It had annoyed Brooke more than it should, mainly because she knew the words one showbiz writer had tossed off in ten minutes would now pop into her head every time she looked in a mirror. The truth was that Brooke Asgill was not vain. A six–month spell as a model after college had put a stop to that, with the endless rejections of casting calls. But if she put a spot of blush on her cheeks, or some gloss on her lips when she stepped outside, it was because she just figured that if people were determined to plaster her face all over every newspaper and magazine in America, she might as well try and look half decent.
She rode down in the lift and rushed through the Yellow Door lobby, bracing herself as she pushed through the doors onto East Forty–Second Street and heard the familiar click–whirr, click–whirr of the camera shutters. Since her engagement, that had been the soundtrack to her life. You should be used to this by now, she thought, unconsciously pulling her bag closer for protection. Brooke had always been a private person and she found the attention difficult to get used to; she’d actually had a panic attack the first time she had been followed.
‘Brooke! Brooke! Over here!’ called the voices, but she did her
best to ignore them as her long legs carried her across the sidewalk to David’s waiting silver Lexus. Sitting on the back seat, tapping at his BlackBerry, was David Billington, the man formerly known as America’s Most Eligible Bachelor; until two weeks ago, when their engagement had been announced and thousands of hearts were broken. He looked so handsome, thought Brooke – some might say unfairly handsome for someone whose family was worth fifteen billion dollars. Even in just a pair of grey trousers, open–necked blue shirt and a Paul Smith pea coat, he still looked fantastic. His dark hair was slightly wavy, his eyes such a dark blue that they made his face look serious – until he unzipped his smile. He was confident, not aggressive, charming, not smarmy. People magazine regularly called him Mr Perfect. Sometimes Brooke thought they were right.
‘So, what have you been doing up there?’ asked David, finally pulling back from their embrace. ‘I thought we wanted to try and beat the traffic.’
‘I’ve just been reading a manuscript.’
‘Must have been good.’
‘You didn’t give me the chance to find out,’ she smiled, wanting to keep the excitement of her discovery under wraps at least until she had read more. ‘How was your day, anyway?’
‘Fifth consecutive day I’ve been studio–bound,’ sighed David, ‘I’m sure it must be some kind of record.’
David was a co–anchor for CTV’s World Today, a lunchtime news programme that broadcast from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. each day, often broadcasting live from the scene of the breaking news. In any given month he could be in Afghanistan or Somalia, Paris or Moscow.
‘Good news for the world, I suppose,’ she smiled. ‘No hurricanes, no coups d’états. And definitely good news for me.’ She squeezed his knee. Sometimes she enjoyed David’s busy schedule, but it was nice to have him home once in a while, especially now when there was so much to be done.
‘Not such good news for CTV, though,’ said David. The ratings have been down and one of our big interviews fell through, went to Anderson Cooper.’
‘Ah honey, that’s a bummer,’ she said, genuinely disappointed for him.
‘But … ’ he paused and looked at her. ‘ … It looks like I’ve got twenty minutes with the Palestinian PM on Sunday.’
‘You’re going to Palestine?’
‘Tomorrow. It’s gone crazy over there again.’
Brooke began to protest, then bit her tongue. She knew it was futile reminding David that they had three possible wedding venues to go look at in Connecticut and, anyway, she had to agree that the pressing details of their seating plan seemed slightly petty compared to discussing the finer points of the Middle East crisis with a world leader. Still, it was a blow. She had been looking forward to them spending a little time together for once, getting wrapped up in the romance and excitement of the wedding.
