Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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The elevator doors slid open and the sounds of smooth jazz and lively conversation met them from the open door of Graydon and Estella Winston’s sixth-floor apartment. There were already about fifty people in the room as a waiter took their coats; most were in their thirties and forties, although their conservative clothes and stiff bearing made them seem about ten years older. Women were in trouser suits or little black dresses, sporting short, serious haircuts and few accessories except for the aura of self-confidence. Graydon was the editor of a glossy political magazine; his wife the daughter of one of New York’s biggest Republican donors. According to David, the rest of the guests were a mix of media players, academics, and politicos.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispered as she accepted a flute of champagne with a smile.
Before he had time to reply, a slim man in a black polo-neck jumper and grey sports coat came over to shake David’s hand. She recognized him as Niall Donald, a right-wing columnist, TV commentator and author of Power and Prestige: America’s political future on the world stage.
‘David, Brooke. How are you both? You look lovely, Brooke,’ he smiled, although Brooke noticed how he had directed all of his pleasantries to David, never even glancing at her.
‘We enjoyed your report on China the other week,’ said Niall, taking a thoughtful sip of Krug: Brooke had been dismissed. Niall Donald was the sort of society bigwig that Brooke loathed most of all. Pompous, smug, arrogant. She remembered another interminable dinner party when she had been forced to listen to Niall boast that he had not only attended Harvard, but had been a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, then later had heard him quip how David had only ‘scraped’ into Yale. Brooke wanted to hit him.
Instead she touched David on the arm and whispered, ‘Excuse me.’ She drifted off, looking for sanctuary. She’d been to dozens of parties with David, and while most of them were fun, she found these gatherings of New York’s intelligentsia self-important and boring.
But while she didn’t enjoy them, she at least learned how to survive them. Small talk with the host about bland, uncontroversial topics, letting other people ramble on about themselves (there was nothing a New Yorker liked better than talking about themselves), or spending long periods ‘touching up her make-up’ in the powder room, Brooke was an expert at making herself invisible.
But one thing she always loved was having a discreet snoop around other people’s homes, and Graydon and Estella’s duplex was a spectacular space. Lofty ceilings, virgin cream carpet, original art – including, she recognized, Dufy and Chagall – sleek, expensive, bespoke furniture. It was the sort of place that demanded you wear something beautiful to complement its sophistication, but Brooke was glad she had dressed down in a black sleeveless Alice Roi dress worn with a simple gold choker. She had even dispensed with her favourite black Louboutin heels, fearing them a little too racy; she knew how suspiciously she would be viewed tonight. New York society women were notoriously icy at the best of times, but encountering someone with a newly minted reputation as a home-wrecker might drive them to freeze her on sight.
‘What’s your view on the trade deficit?’ asked a smooth female voice behind her.
Brooke’s throat felt thick with anxiety. She felt as if she was about to go into an exam.
She turned to face an elegant brunette in a wasp-waisted dress that was the reddy-gold colour of a Japanese maple leaf. She had an outrageously pretty face, and she was not much older than Brooke.
‘Yes, er, the trade deficit …’ stuttered Brooke, before the woman’s wide mouth broke out into a smile. Brooke laughed.
‘Sorry,’ whispered the woman. ‘It can get a little tedious at these things, so I like to have a little joke.’
Brooke smiled, grateful that she had found at least one kindred spirit.
‘I thought the whole point of a party was to enjoy yourself,’ agreed Brooke. ‘Although no one exactly looks as if they’re having a good time tonight.’
‘Well, parties like this are all about alignment. David always used to say, “We can’t socialize with who we want to all of the time.” He’s right, of course. The people in that room will be advising government in five years’ time. Some already are.’
She took a sip of champagne and held out a pale hand. ‘Alicia Wintrop,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the engagement party. I hear it was fantastic.’
It took a second for Brooke to make the connection, then her heart lurched. David had once dated a girl called Ally Wintrop.
‘You’re Ally Wintrop?’
Alicia laughed. ‘Oh I know, old names die hard, don’t they? David and I dated when we were kids. Our families had cottages in Newport just by one another. Everyone knew me as Ally back then.’
‘Oh, I thought you dated more recently than that,’ said Brooke as casually as she could.
Alicia nodded. ‘I worked in Rome after college … I was at Brown two or three years ahead of you, I think.
‘You were at Brown?’ replied Brooke curiously.
She nodded. ‘Anyway, David and I started dating again when I came back to New York, but when David got the foreign news job at CTV I just couldn’t handle all that travel. It felt like I was dating a nomad. I think we were just both too busy to be together.’
‘Oh really. Too busy?’ said Brooke with as much politeness as she could muster.
‘Um-hmm,’ said Alicia. ‘I curate a gallery downtown. The Halcyon on Spring Street. Fabulous exhibition on at the moment of Masai warrior painters. They paint with spears; it’s so conceptual. You must come down. I do some art consulting too, in Europe. I spend an awful lot of Russian money.’
Brooke started planning her escape strategy. She knew, of course, that David had a past with plenty of ex-girlfriends, but she didn’t particularly want to stand there talking to one. She realized that she was squeezing her champagne flute a little too tightly.
‘I’m sorry about that business with the Oracle,’ said Alicia. She sounded sympathetic, but Brooke wasn’t convinced.
Brooke shrugged. ‘I guess it goes with the turf.’
‘Luckily I didn’t have it so much,’ said Alicia lightly. ‘Perhaps it would have been different if we had become engaged. Or perhaps we were too obvious a couple to be interesting.’
Brooke smiled thinly. Before she could feign a headache to get away, David came over and handed her a glass of champagne. He looked buoyed up and happy.
‘So you too have finally met?’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not telling her any of our secrets,’ said Alicia, nudging David playfully,