Читать книгу Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 13

7

‘So, how was everyone’s weekend?’

At table seven in La Revue restaurant, Paula Asgill unfolded her starched white napkin, stabbed her fork into her thirty-dollar Caesar salad and flashed her friends an uncommonly full smile. Twice a month, Paula, Gigi Miller, and Samantha Donahue gathered in whichever restaurant was currently white-hot for the Upper East Side’s ladies-who-lunch crowd. This month it was La Revue. The East Sixty-First street eaterie had mediocre food and appalling service, but it was irresistible to the fashionable lunch crowd due to its unpublished impossible-to-get-hold-of reservations hotline.

Eating here was just one of the reasons Paula was feeling particularly buoyant. In her myriad of acquaintances in the city, Gigi and Sam were the nearest thing she had to close friends, all having children in the same class at prestigious coed prep, the Eton Manor School. Sam was a nice middle-class girl from Oregon with an art major college degree who had married well and liked pretty dresses. Her husband, Gregor, was a fallen Lehman’s high-flyer who had downgraded to a smaller bank but still commanded a low seven-figure salary that allowed the Donahues a small household staff and a summer Hamptons rental in one of the less prestigious streets in Quogue. Gigi, a former modern-ballet dancer who now populated the party pages of W magazine and Style.com, was married to Bruce, another investment banker. Bruce was often found at the Beatrice Inn, invariably the oldest man at the fashionable downtown nightspot, and had once suggested to Paula that they ‘fuck sometime’ while standing in line at the Lincoln Center coat check. Paula had been uncomfortable going to their house for supper ever since.

Gigi was currently distracted, watching as Wendi Murdoch and Nicole Kidman were seated at table number eight, the most coveted spot in the restaurant. Paula silently cursed. She had only ever scored table eight once, and that had been one Monday lunch last August when half of Manhattan were at the beach. She’d hoped, after news leaked out about Brooke’s engagement, that she would be promoted to table eight, but no. Perhaps Nicole had got in first, she thought.

Sideshow over, Gigi signalled to the wine waiter to bring more San Pellegrino and turned her attention back to Paula. ‘Oh, not much this weekend,’ she said, tossing back her bouncy, blow-dried hair. ‘We went to Jenny Groves’s daughter’s christening.’

‘Was it nice?’ asked Sam, absently playing with the silk bow tie on her Chloe shirt. ‘Greg’s in Europe so we didn’t go.’

‘Oh honey, you missed all the drama.’

Paula listened with interest. Jenny Groves and her husband Oliver had kept a low profile on the social scene in the last year; the official word was that Oliver had temporarily relocated to Chicago on business and Jenny had gone out to be with him. But everyone knew the truth. Jenny had used a surrogate mother in Florida to have the baby and had kept out of sight to pretend she had carried the baby herself.

‘You’ll never believe this,’ continued Gigi with relish, ‘Sienna Spencer was godmother and got too near one of the candles at the pulpit. Her hair was set on fire.’

‘Ohmigosh!’ said Paula and Sam in unison. Sienna was a well-known Upper East Side handbag designer, married to one of the wealthiest hedge-funders around.

‘I know!’ cackled Gigi. ‘Two thousand dollars’ worth of John Barrett extensions ruined!’

‘Was she okay?’ asked Sam.

‘Sienna was. Jenny’s nanny, the Australian girl? She was standing close by, tried to smother the flames and her nail extensions caught fire. She had to be rushed to Cedar Sinai.’

Gigi pushed a lonely lima bean around her plate. ‘It’s all very inconvenient,’ she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘The nanny’s out of action for six weeks with burnt fingers. Jenny and Oliver are thinking of suing the church, but it’s such a good social scene down there that Jenny didn’t want to make a fuss.’

All three women nodded in agreement.

‘So how was Belcourt?’ said Sam finally.

Paula smiled sweetly. How typical of them to wait so long to ask. She had been in such a good mood when she had arrived at lunch, but now she felt irritated at their feigned lack of interest in the party of the year. Of course they had both hoped Paula would be able to wangle them an invitation, but Paula had claimed the guest list was strictly restricted to close friends and family. The truth was that Paula simply hadn’t wanted them there diluting her moment of high social exclusivity.

‘Oh, it was good fun,’ said Paula casually, stirring a straw around in her mineral water. ‘Although I almost sliced my finger off on a window in the guest cottage. I couldn’t say anything, though. After all, the Billingtons are family now.’

Gigi’s smile was fixed like plaster. ‘Well, I wouldn’t speak too soon. Did you read that Oracle home-wrecker story the other day? That can’t have gone down too well with David’s family. Anyway, have you heard? Princess Katrina has just enrolled her daughter into Eton Manor.’

Paula bit her tongue, furious at not being given the opportunity to elaborate on the grandeur of Belcourt, yet secretly satisfied at the speed with which Gigi had steered the conversation back into her comfort zone. She knew she had scored a direct hit with the guest cottage detail.

‘Princess Katrina?’ said Sam. Paula could tell she had no idea who Princess Katrina was, but was afraid to say the words out loud for fear of committing a social faux pas.

‘She’s just fabulous, isn’t she?’ declared Gigi, flapping a hand. ‘She’s Italy’s Marie-Chantal. Her husband’s family would be Italian royalty if they hadn’t been deposed.’

‘Legendary wardrobe,’ nodded Sam. ‘She has a Birkin for every day of the year.’

‘And she’s enrolled her child at Eton?’ asked Paula.

‘Carlotta, a five year old, the same as our babies,’ said Gigi, using her fork to draw patterns with the drizzle of balsamic vinegar on her plate.

It was Paula’s turn to pretend a lack of interest. ‘Do we know which class she’s going in?’

All their girls were in Transition class, but there was another class of twenty-two pupils for children of their age, which made only a fifty/fifty chance that Carlotta would be in their class.

‘Not yet. A girl in Bruce’s office knows the sister of the admissions’ secretary. All we know is that she’s been accepted by Eton Manor, and starts after the Easter break.’

‘Well, those parents’ coffee mornings need some fresh blood.’

Gigi looked at Paula, each knowing what the other was thinking – what they were all thinking. The parents of Eton Manor pupils were some of Manhattan’s most wealthy, successful people, and consequently the school’s packed events calendar was one of the best networking opportunities in the city. Deals were quietly brokered on the father-son camp-out, lucrative friendship bonds nurtured at the Christmas fair. This, however, was on a different level. Princess Katrina would be new to the city and looking for social contacts. This was a solid-gold opportunity to make a new friend who moved in the very highest circles.

Paula dabbed her glossed lips with her napkin and felt a charge of determination surge through her. Attending Brooke and David’s engagement party had stirred conflicting emotions. The exhilaration she’d felt when she had first arrived at Belcourt had been quickly replaced with an unsettling sense of dissatisfaction with her own life. Okay, so she had been granted entry to an even more exclusive circle of Manhattan society, but it was one in which she felt uncomfortably small and insignificant. Belcourt’s ballroom had crackled with star quality that night; every single guest seemed to radiate some potent force that had made Paula seem to wither. But Paula was a fighter. Every setback was an opportunity. She knew she needed to improve her position. When she had first met William, Asgill’s was talked about in the same breath as Revlon, and everyone expected it to be snapped up in a billion-dollar take-over. But it hadn’t happened, and Paula knew from William’s moods after a day at the office that business wasn’t good. She couldn’t rely on him to improve their lot. But she had two things on her side. New social leverage thanks to Brooke’s engagement, and steely practicality that had brought her from Greenboro, North Carolina to Manhattan’s Upper East Side, a force which she knew could propel her to even greater heights.

Her eyes flickered over to table eight, where Nicole and Wendi giggled over their poached pears. It was a snapshot of everything she had ever wanted: wealth, celebrity and power. It will be envied and admired. To get the best table in the house, no matter who else was in the room. Then her gaze trailed back to Gigi and Sam. They were nice girls, of course. Fun and harmless. But Paula was beginning to feel as if she had outgrown them. It was time to move up a gear. And she already had a few ideas about how she was going to do it.