‘Something was wrong with our baby,’ she had told him matter-of factly. ‘The miscarriage was a sign. A gift.’
William had hugged her and told her that she was in shock or post-traumatic stress and that she would feel better about it very soon. Paula knew that he was wrong. Two years later, under pressure from William, they had actively tried to get pregnant again, and to Paula’s relief it had been swift. The twins were born healthy and pretty and she felt she could now relax, having paid her dues.
‘Paula. The twins are nearly six,’ said William. ‘You’re thirty-two now, but you know how difficult things get after thirty-five.’
‘I know the biology,’ she said with a little more force than she’d intended.
‘Hey now, don’t be like that,’ he whispered, pulling her towards the bed. ‘You never know, it might be fun.’
As he kissed her bare shoulder beyond the strap of her dress, she smiled. If William thought the smile was in anticipation of the patter of tiny feet, he was dead wrong. Paula adored her children, and she had to admit that the idea of conceiving a child at Belcourt did appeal to her. But she was not going through the ordeal of pregnancy again under any circumstances. Her wolfish grin covered the thought that if they had sex tonight, she could forget about it for another month at least. As for the contraceptive injections that she had administered by a discreet gynaecologist on a regular basis, well, that would remain her little secret. In the meantime, it was back to her wifely duty. And, as he said, it might even be fun.
‘Are you ready yet?’
Tess tapped her nails impatiently on the doorframe of the bathroom. Brooke Asgill’s engagement party was beginning at seven-thirty p.m. It was now six forty-five and the venue was over an hour away. It was somewhere upstate – ‘Belcourt, Westchester’, it stated simply on the stiff white invitation, as if everybody was expected to know where it was – and Tess was anxious enough about going without her appearance-conscious boyfriend making them late too.
Dom was standing by the sink, rummaging through the complimentary toiletries.
‘They haven’t got shoeshine,’ he grumbled, flinging a shower cap back in the basket.
‘Since when do you ever use shoeshine?’ asked Tess with surprise.
‘They have shoeshine at the Plaza.’
Tess took a deep breath and counted to ten. They were staying in a luxurious suite at The Pierre, one of, if not the most fabulous and luxurious hotels in New York and therefore the world, and here he was bitching about the tiniest detail. It was especially annoying as this beautiful room had been booked and paid for by Meredith Asgill. Tess turned him round and began to fasten the black silk bow tie hanging around his neck.
‘Just chill out,’ she said as calmly as she could. Her nerves were frayed. She was excited about the party but edgy over what was expected of her, not to mention tired from the flight, even if they had flown on a Lear Jet into a convenient private airport in New Jersey.
‘Come on, honey, we are in New York at a fabulous hotel and about to go to an even more fabulous party. And, let’s face it, you look fabulous too.’
Dom looked at his reflection in the mirror and tugged at his shirt cuffs, adjusting the jacket of his smart one-button suit and smoothing out his bow tie. Finally he grunted with satisfaction.
‘Exactly how posh do you think it’s going to be tonight?’
‘Posh enough for a shoeshine,’ she smiled. Seeing his anxious face she squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘Hey, I’m joking. I really don’t know how posh it’s going to be, but I do know you’ll fit in fine.’
She glanced at her own reflection behind him and thought how great they looked together. So rarely did they have an opportunity to dress up like this, and she had made a special effort to look as sensational as possible. Her shoulder-length black hair was too short to do anything exotic with, but she had swept it up, framing her strong face. A dash of bronzer sharpened her cheekbones and her green eyes dazzled with the help of pearlized cream over her lids. In her favourite cocktail dress, a cream Ossie Clark shift that made her look and feel like a glamorous Twenties flapper girl, she had to admit she felt wonderful. Now if she could just resist the urge to chew her nails …
‘I also know that Belcourt is supposed to be one of the finest private residences in North America,’ she continued. ‘I mean, the Billingtons are worth fifteen billion dollars. They can afford to throw a good party.’
‘Which is why I’m a bit concerned,’ said Dom as she walked back into the bedroom to pick up her clutch bag. ‘Isn’t this job offer for the Asgill family and not the Billingtons?’
‘Yes. What? I don’t follow.’
Dom opened the minibar and took a swig from a miniature vodka bottle.
‘I mean that if this job was for the Billingtons, I’d say fine, fantastic. They’re rich, connected, politically influential, useful. But who are the Asgills? They’ve got some mid-market cosmetics company and they aren’t even on the Forbes List. That private jet we flew over on was all well and nice, although I bet it’s not theirs, and here we are in a junior suite. I thought they were trying to impress you.’
‘I think that’s a little ungrateful.’
‘I’m just not sure this is the best career move for us, Tess,’ said Dom, draining the rest of the vodka. ‘Granted, the money is fantastic, but whatever happened to “I want to be editor of the Sun”? Who wants to be some nouveau-riche nobody’s hired help?’
She looked at him, wondering if he had noticed how unhappy she had been at the Globe over the past two months, her ability constantly questioned by her new boss. Perhaps it didn’t matter to Dom, so long as her salary meant they could live life high on the hog.
‘This isn’t about how rich this family is,’ said Tess firmly. ‘And it’s certainly not about how big our suite is. The point is that Meredith Asgill might be right, and in a month’s time I might not even have a job at the Globe. We both know how tough it is on the papers at the moment. Who’s to say I’m going to get another job any time soon? And after the week I had last week, I’m not entirely sure I want to be an editor any more.’
He blinked at her, clearly taken aback by her response. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he said sulkily.
‘Think of the money with this Asgill offer, Dom. Think of that two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bonus,’ she said, her eyes glittering. ‘Plus it’s New York, rent-free. I’ve always wanted to work here.’
‘But what about me?’ he asked, his lips in a thin, unhappy line.
‘I know this transatlantic thing is going to be hard,’ she said, stroking his cheek. ‘But if you come out to New York once a month and I come to London once a month, we’ll see each other every two weeks. It’s probably more than we see each other at the moment.’
‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration …’
‘Okay, a little. But remember that it will be temporary – it’s a fixed-term contract until the wedding, then we’ll play it by ear.’
‘At which point they’d get me a visa?’
She looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. Only last week Dom had told her how his old friend Mungo had bagged some fancy editorial position on the Wall Street Journal. His handsome face had been etched with envy. At twenty-one Dom had been part of an elite band of graduates destined for the very top of the newspaper tree, starting his career on The Times training scheme. Although