Page 120 of Original Sin

Liz smiled as her mother flapped and clucked like a hen. Party arrangements were the only time she saw Meredith lose her seamless elegance. Then again, she was probably still upset about the sale of Asgill Cosmetics falling through. Well, it was swings and roundabouts; the very reason for her mother’s disappointment was Liz’s cause to celebrate tonight.

‘Correction, Mother. We had a brunch the day before the ceremony as part of the festivities,’ said Liz, pointedly.

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Meredith, picking a crystal goblet off the table and examining it in the light, ‘You are objecting to getting to know the Billingtons better on the basis of wedding envy?’

‘I never said that,’ snapped Liz, annoyed at the insinuation that she might be jealous of Brooke and her fairy–tale wedding. She narrowed her eyes as Meredith fussed over the china. She was almost pitiful, thought Liz. Meredith was like a downtrodden girlfriend running after a badly behaved boyfriend, knowing you are never going to get treated with the respect you deserve but still desperate for whatever scraps of attention you can get. She had no intention of behaving like a fawning schoolgirl that evening. The only way to get respect from people like the Billingtons was to behave as if you were on level pegging with them. In fact, she was quite looking forward to that.

‘Is this getting serious?’ asked Brooke in a low conspiratorial voice as she followed Liz into the dining room. Liz followed her gaze to Rav, who she had to admit looked utterly handsome in a navy blue suit and pale pink shirt.

‘Not all of us are obsessed with wanting a lifetime commitment,’ she whispered back.

Brooke frowned. ‘I don’t know why you are so wedding–phobic. Not when you’ve been down that road yourself.’

‘Especially as I’ve been down that road myself,’ said Liz, looking around the table with interest to see who had been seated next to whom. Wendell Billington, she smiled, picking up the place card. Thank goodness it wasn’t David, she thought, taking a few moments to observe her future brother–in–law. He was so clean–cut, she wondered if he squeaked between the sheets. Liz did admire his success and potential, however, although he still had that slightly useless look about him that Liz despised. Good–looking and charming, he was the perfect puppet. Success was easy when you’d been spoon–fed from the cradle; with the right schools and contacts, anyone with a modicum of drive would do well.

Conversation flowed steadily and politely over dinner. Paula talked about the decline of couture with Rose Billington, with such authority that the older woman assumed she was a long–standing couture client. William, Leonard, Robert, and Rav kept to the safe confines of sport, while Sean, who had been forced to make the journey from London, discussed David’s chances of an Emmy and Peabody award for his report on human trafficking between Cuba and the Florida Keys.

Meredith monopolized Wendell, while Liz quietly enjoyed the selection of fine wines – the very best that Meredith’s wine cellar had to offer.

After a dessert of rose–infused pannacotta, Meredith suggested they adjourn to the library for port.

‘I hear you are a cigar man,’ said Liz leaning over to Wendell.

‘Say that quietly. Rose has me on a health kick.’

‘We have an excellent selection,’ she whispered.

Everyone filed out of the room except Wendell, who loitered in his seat while Liz made a phone call to Sunita in the basement staff quarters. A few minutes later, one of Meredith’s hired waiters came through holding a heavy walnut humidor.

‘After you,’ said Liz.

‘You surprise me,’ said Wendell, arching an eyebrow.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t meet many female cigar smokers.’

‘Well, I have made it a rule never to smoke more than one cigar at a time,’ said Liz, smiling flirtatiously.

‘Mark Twain.’

‘Very good.’ Liz shrugged and went on, ‘I just like it. The rituals. The smell. It relaxes me. It’s a little like creating a fragrance.’

She watched him as he browsed through the humidor. Meredith had stocked it especially, largely from a cigar auction in Zurich; there were even some pre–Castro Montecristos, which must have cost her upwards of thirty thousand dollars. He looked up and saw her smiling.

‘I was just trying to guess what cigar man you were.’

‘Then why don’t you guess?’

‘Mature, robust … ’

Actually, she knew a great deal about Wendell Billington. His official age was fifty–eight, although Liz had worked out he was nearer sixty.

‘Ah, you flatter me.’

‘A Cohiba number five?’

Wendell laughed. ‘Good choice,’ he said, taking one from the box.