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 fountain sprayed silver ribbons into the sky; as she stared at it, Tess reflected that she really hadn’t been prepared for this trip. She wasn’t at all sure what she had expected, but Belcourt was certainly more grand and imposing than she had imagined. She supposed the trouble was that she wasn’t particularly experienced in society parties. She had been to a few swish press launches in her time, she had even been to 10 Downing Street for a briefing on women’s issues, but the only real party of this calibre she had attended was when she had browbeaten the Globe’s showbiz desk into getting her an invitation to Elton’s White Tie and Tiara ball.
Pull yourself together, Tess, she scolded herself. They’re only human. It really wasn’t like her to be so nervous in a social situation. Newspaper reporting didn’t allow for such delicate personalities. Doorstepping enraged politicians, interviewing bereaved families, witnessing murder scenes and accident sites; it all toughened you up. But this was something else. Inside this house, she had felt invisible.
‘Ossie Clark Nineteen Sixty-three,’ said an upper-class English voice behind her. ‘Which means you are British, making me wonder why we haven’t ever met before. I thought I knew all the interesting English people in New York.’
Tess turned to see a slim man of around seventy regarding her with amusement. His voice and appearance were in perfect harmony; he sounded like a Raj-era colonial viceroy and was dressed accordingly in a cream three-piece suit with a scarlet spotted cravat. He had two-tone spectator shoes on his feet and a gold pocket watch sticking out of his waistcoat. To complete the look, he carried an ivory-handled cane hooked over his arm.
‘Wow, yes. This is Ossie Clark,’ said Tess, smoothing down her dress. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘The designer of your dress or that you’re a Brit?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Both,’ smiled Tess.
‘The former because I knew Ossie and Celia intimately. The latter because New York girls generally don’t do vintage. Certainly not so tastefully if they do.’
‘Well, not all of us can afford couture,’ said Tess, blushing slightly.
‘No one with your legs needs couture, my dear.’
Tess knew she had only just met this man, but she liked him immediately. He was charming, open, and a little mischievous, a combination of qualities she felt was in short supply in New York society. More than that, with her journalist instincts, Tess immediately sized him up as being someone worth knowing.
‘Sorry, I’m Charles Devine.’ He extended a frail hand. ‘Interior designer. An old friend of the Billingtons, the Asgills, and well, everyone worth knowing.’
Tess shook his hand warmly. ‘Tess Garrett. Journalist. Friend of nobody in this room.’
‘Good Lord, a journalist?’ cried Charles with mock alarm. ‘Are you a gate-crasher? I thought the security was as tight as Fort Knox out there.’
Tess laughed and shook her head. ‘More of a last-minute invitee. I only arrived in New York this morning.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Charles appreciatively. ‘I can see we’re going to be friends. It takes some people a lifetime of social mountaineering to score an invite to Belcourt, and here you are, straight off the boat. Now, you simply must let me show you around.’ He offered Tess his arm and led her back into the main house where the party was in full swing.
‘It is a fantastic party, isn’t it?’ said Tess, still wide-eyed at the spectacle.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Charles. ‘One of the best I’ve ever been to – and let me tell you, my dear, I have been to a lot of parties. In fact this one might even make my memoirs. I’m only sketching them out at this stage, of course; the problem is not what to put in but what to leave out.’
Tess was intrigued. Charles Devine was clearly a character; perhaps he could give her more insight into the family. She
