‘Well, we didn’t get round to the small print,’ Tess said cautiously. ‘But Meredith did invite you to the party this weekend, so she obviously wants to seduce you with New York too.’
‘That’s not the same as getting me a visa,’ grumbled Dom.
‘Well, if you want a visa that badly –’ she began, running her fingers across his crotch and being gratified by an instant response – ‘then I guess you’re just going to have to marry me,’ she smiled mischievously.
He pulled her in close and grinned. ‘If I thought for one second that either of us was the marrying kind, I might just do that.’
Tess smiled back. It was one of their shared jokes, a pact almost. After nine years together they had no intention of taking the plunge. It wasn’t that they disagreed with marriage; they just wondered what was the point? Marriage was, after all, just a piece of paper, a shackle that made a break-up, should it ever happen, more difficult and expensive. Tess had seen her own parents’ marriage dissolve with such animosity and rancour that she had not spoken to her mother since she was nineteen. Besides, she had seen too many friends disappear into marriage, children, and that whole cloying suburban routine. She had no desire to follow them.
‘How do I look?’ asked Dom, taking one last glance in the mirror.
‘Like James Bond,’ she said, ushering him towards the door.
‘Now come on, the car is waiting. We’ve got the world’s greatest party to get to.’
When Brooke had first agreed to the idea of an engagement party, she had assumed that it would be a small affair for friends and family. Looking down into the crowded, buzzing entrance hall of Belcourt, she almost laughed at her naivety. From her vantage point on the mezzanine terrace, it was obvious that tonight’s party would be more lavish than a state dinner. There were huge arrangements of rare orchids on every surface, silk draped everywhere, and a medieval feast was being arranged in the Great Hall. Such excess was inevitable, really, since they had left the arrangements to David’s mother Rose, but it was incredible what she’d been able to pull together in two weeks. I mean, where did you get so many orchids at this time of year? Waiters in white tails milled around in almost choreographed movement, their trays piled high with canapés. Vintage champagne was served in Baccarat crystal and the flowers perfumed the air like bespoke scent. Couture-clad women danced with captains of industry to the sounds of a big band jazz orchestra led, she could have sworn, by Harry Connick Jr on the grand piano.
There were hundreds, no, maybe even a thousand people here at Belcourt tonight, and they were all here for her. How ironic she didn’t even know most of them! Brooke’s first hour of the party was spent in a whirl, being introduced to scores of people she had never even heard of, let alone met, in nine months of dating David Billington. There were David’s Yale friends, CTV newsroom friends, Andover friends, celebrity friends (yes, that was George Clooney at the bar!). Friends from the think-tanks he belonged to, friends from across the political divide. David, it seemed, had friends everywhere. By contrast, when David’s mother Rose had her assistant call her future daughter-in-law for her list of invitees, Brooke had provided her with sixty or so names.
‘What are you doing hiding away up there?’
David met Brooke at the bottom of the steps and took her hand. Dressed in a midnight-blue suit that complemented the darkness of his hair and the pale olive of his skin, he looked devastatingly handsome.
‘I’m not hiding,’ she said, tapping him playfully. ‘Just taking a little time-out. I’m still in a state of shock that George Clooney is at my engagement party. If he’s at the wedding, I might pass out at the altar.’
‘I’d better hope he’s filming then,’ grinned David, handing her a stemmed glass.
‘Try that. My mom’s butler has come out of retirement just for tonight to mix his special martinis. They’ll keep you awake until sunrise.’
Brooke gaped as Colin Powell walked past and clapped David on the arm in a familiar way.
‘Are all these people coming to the wedding?’ she asked.
David laughed. ‘My mother maintains this is a gathering of close friends.’
‘Meaning they’ll be more people on the wedding guest list?’ she said.
‘The venue can handle it,’ he said obliquely. ‘Besides, it’s good for the charities. We don’t need gifts, do we? So we’ll get the guests to give donations to charity. The more people, the more money we can raise.’
He took her hand and led her through the room. ‘Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Not another friend of the family?’ she said suspiciously.
He laughed. ‘Not this time. My cousin Lily, she lives in London so you haven’t met her before.’
‘Nice of her to come all this way.’
‘In her own words, she’s come to audition.’
Brooke looked at him. ‘Audition. What for?’
For a second, David’s confident demeanour deserted him. ‘To be a bridesmaid,’ he said, pulling an embarrassed face.
She laughed at the idea. ‘Really? You’re serious?’
‘It’s one of those family things, honey. Twenty-something years ago I was a pageboy at Lily’s eldest sister’s wedding. My mother wants to return the favour.’
‘Wasn’t it enough that you were an angelic ring-bearer?’
‘Let’s call it a family tradition. It would mean a lot to my parents.’
Brooke had tried to avoid thinking about the issue of her bridesmaids because frankly, none of her friends was suitable. Her good friends from Spence and Brown had split off into two increasingly distant groups: career girls and socialites. Predictably, she rarely saw the career girls as they were far too busy moving and shaking in finance, media, and PR, while the friends who had married into money or spent their lives on the party and charity circuit, well, she found them a little too … shallow? Competitive? She had never been able to put her finger on it, but these days she enjoyed their company less and less. A few years ago Brooke had embraced that whole Park Avenue Princess scene – being rich and beautiful it was almost expected – but she had found it exhausting. As legendary socialite Nan Kempner had once said, you had to ‘entertain constantly’, you were constantly locked in a battle of one-upmanship, jockeying for position on the most prestigious junior committees, making sure you were dressed head to toe in the hottest designs.
In some ways it had been fun, especially the big events such as the Costume Institute Gala and the summer parties in the Hamptons, but the constant pressure to get a manicure and blow-dry every time she set foot out of the house quickly became tedious. Slowly Brooke realized she preferred to socialize in a more low-key way: dinner at her favourite restaurants Sfoglia or Raoul’s with friends, for example, or old movies in little art-house theatres downtown. Such individuality was not something that was approved of in the socialite clique, and Brooke had found them drifting away. It had frankly been a relief, when she had started seeing David, that she could step away from all that endless competition, but it did rather leave her without a natural choice for a bridesmaid. The irony of course was that as soon as the engagement was announced, she was swamped with invitations to lunch and parties from the in-crowd; any one of them would have given their entire Manolo collection to be Brooke’s bridesmaid now. So this might actually be the ideal solution: a sweet little cousin might be a way to avoid snubbing her old circle.
‘I