David shrugged. ‘Come on, baby, you haven’t exactly asked anyone else, have you?’
She looked at him in shock. ‘That’s hardly the point, honey. I’m not going around suggesting a best man for you.’
‘It’s Robert, it was always going to be my brother, it’s tradition in our family,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, honey, it’s no big deal …’
‘It’s a very big deal,’ said Brooke, her face flushing. ‘For a family so fixed on observing all the correct traditions, you’re very quick to ignore them when it comes to me. I suppose you’re going to choose the dress for me next.’
David put his hands on her shoulders and gave her his best smile. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to say yes, just come and meet her.’
Brooke took a deep breath. This was all meant to be fun.
‘Why is she so desperate to be a bridesmaid anyway?’
‘Nice dress, great party, eligible best man …’
Brooke smiled a little. ‘There’s a very cynical side to you, David Billington.’
In the flesh, Lily Salter couldn’t have been further from Brooke’s idea of a ‘sweet little cousin’. She was tall and pretty, with long dark bouncy hair and beautiful posture, although her eyes looked a little glassy from too many late nights. Lily had gone to London to work in the Marc Jacobs London press office, and now had her own up-market PR agency. She was a mainstay on the Notting Hill American ex-pat party circuit, and it showed.
‘Brooke,’ said Lily as David introduced her. ‘You look amazing. Very Helen of Troy.’
Brooke smiled, grateful for the compliment. Brooke had always loved clothes; she enjoyed putting outfits together, playing with styles, but in the days since her relationship with David had gone public, she had lost a bit of confidence in her own dress sense. Every time she left the house she was scrutinized by the press; every dress and shoe examined, her outfits declared ‘Hit’ or ‘Miss’ in the weekly tabloid rags. Before David, a night like tonight would have been great fun, playfully imagining herself as Lauren Hutton at Studio 54, Mia Farrow’s Daisy in The Great Gatsby, or Veronica Lake in some Forties film noir. The endless public scrutiny crushed that pleasure and ate away at her faith in her own judgement. Tonight, however, had been different. Tonight Brooke felt beautiful in a putty grey Grecian gown that fell in gentle waves to the floor; comfortable because of the relaxed structure, yet sexy as the fine silk brushed against her skin. It had a sweeping neck that showed off a rose-gold choker – an engagement present from David – and a low back perfect for showing off her buttery blonde hair.
‘Thank you,’ said Brooke, flushing slightly. ‘David bought it for me for the party.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve been assured there are only two in existence. Apparently Kate Moss has the other one. I’m sure Brooke wears it even better than she does.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Lily appreciatively. ‘Who styles you?’
‘My fiancé,’ laughed Brooke.
David gave Brooke’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’ll leave you two girls to it,’ he smiled.
‘Do you ever wake up and pinch yourself?’ said Lily, as she watched David move through the crowd shaking hands and exchanging jokes.
‘Pinch myself? About the engagement?’
Lily nodded. ‘About David. Every girlfriend of mine has been in love with him since school. I know he’s my cousin and everything, but I do think he’s sexy – is that wrong?’ she giggled. ‘Anyway, I’m so happy for you. Tell me about the proposal, I bet it was romantic.’
‘We were standing on a terrace overlooking Paris and when we looked up we saw a shooting star sweep across the sky. How could I say no with an omen like that?’
Lily’s mouth formed an ‘O’.
‘And where’s the wedding going to be?’
Brooke pulled a face. ‘We’re keeping it under wraps for the moment.’
‘Well, let me know the second you want me to do something. I know it’s a bit trickier with me in London, but we can work all that out. It’s totally an honour to be invited to be your bridesmaid.’
Brooke looked at her, puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’
Lily just laughed. ‘Oh, I know it’s silly, but you know how everyone says David is going to be president one day? I have this little fantasy where sometime in the future everyone is going to be interested in every detail of this wedding; the dress, the venue, even the bridesmaids,’ she giggled. ‘There might even be a little guided tour where the guide says, “… and this is where Lily Salter caught the bouquet”.’
Brooke didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful that at least the bridesmaid issue was settled – even if she hadn’t actually made the decision herself. Had Lily somehow got the wrong end of the stick, she wondered, or had Rose, David’s mother, simply offered her the job? Worse still, had David gone ahead and recruited her without asking? He had looked rather shamefaced when he mentioned the ‘family tradition’. Whatever the source of this mix-up, Brooke began to feel a worrying loss of control. If she didn’t have a free choice of her bridesmaids, then what else could she rely on?
Oblivious to Brooke’s discomfort, Lily hooked her arm through Brooke’s and took another glass of champagne from a waiter.
‘Rose thought it would be a good idea if we fixed up a lunch before I went back to London, what do you think?’ she gushed. ‘There’s so much to talk about, isn’t there? I mean, is it going to be a church ceremony? If it is, I think bare shoulders might upset some of the older family, but if it’s not, I was thinking strapless, cut away low at the back. Backs are so important. After all, that’s what the congregation are going to be looking at …’
Tess and Dom had spent the first hour of the party wandering around Belcourt, their mouths open. Away from the Grand Ballroom, where hundreds of glamorous people laughed and danced, the house was even more impressive, corridor upon corridor lined with fine art and tapestries.
‘It’s like visiting the Louvre at night,’ whispered Dom.
‘It’s amazing. But a bit eerie. It really would be like living in a museum.’
‘So you’re telling me you wouldn’t like to live here.’
‘I never said that at all,’ she said with a little hiccup.
Tess was a little worried that she had drunk too much. Belcourt had been so intimidating she’d needed a couple of martinis just to loosen up. Dom’s negativity at the hotel hadn’t helped, although his mood had improved considerably since the town car had swung into the tree-fringed driveway and they’d got their first glimpse of the house. It was magnificent. The drive was lined with flickering torches, while Klieg lights turned the limestone façade of the house a blinding white. In the fading light, Tess could see that Belcourt’s grounds were as magnificent as Richmond Park, Tess’s favourite spot in London, but it was the interior that really dazzled. It was wall-to-wall marble, with huge gilt mirrors and polished oak panelling, but it wasn’t only the decor they were looking at. If Tess hadn’t known how influential the hosts were, she might have believed her eyes were playing tricks on her. After all, how many ‘intimate gatherings’ could get die-hard Democrat George Clooney and Republican ex-president George W. Bush in the same place at the same time? She had honestly never seen so many famous faces in one place before. For a second, Tess considered phoning through the story to the Globe offices, before remembering that her loyalties might soon lie elsewhere.
In an attempt to get a grip on herself, Tess found a quiet spot in the conservatory at the side of the house and sent Dom to the bar to see if they could rustle up some coffee.
Outside in the blackness, a