Page 169 of Original Sin

‘Think?’ spat Liz. ‘I think we’ve put hundreds of man–hours into this deal. I think it’s the best investment you’re going to make all year. I think it’s far, far too good to pass up just because you’re getting cold feet about our relationship,’ said Liz, trying unsuccessfully to squash her panic.

Wendell’s voice was weary now. ‘I have enough good investments, Liz. What I don’t need is aggravation.’

‘Aggravation?’ She curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Is that what I am to you?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Wendell in a more placatory tone. ‘I just think it’s probably not a good idea if we’re connected in this way any more. It’s too much pressure, too much temptation.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ she hissed.

‘Liz, calm down. Don’t be so childish.’

Liz stared at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Oh. I can do childish, Wendell,’ she growled, lifting the gravy boat, walking over to him, and tipping the contents into the lap of his navy woollen Ralph Lauren trousers.

‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve scalded me!’

He stood up, thick brown liquid collecting around his crotch as he grabbed his mobile phone and started barking orders to his driver into it.

‘Rodney. Are you still outside? Get me some pants. I don’t care where from. Your own if necessary.’

Gravy had dripped all over her cream carpets, but she hadn’t even noticed.

‘Get out,’ she snarled, watching him grab his belongings and flee, the billionaire powerhouse reduced to a scampering tom cat.

‘I never want to see your face again!’

She waited until the front door had slammed, then she sank down to the floor. Hugging her knees, she rocked to and fro, sobbing and wailing, her tears flowing not just for the loss of her business but for the green shoots of love and joy that had just been ground into mud. Liz Asgill’s heart had finally been broken.

CHAPTER FIFTY–NINE

Tess almost gasped as her hire car swung off Louisiana’s Great River Road. She could see Riverview, Meredith’s childhood home, at the far end of the long, oak–lined drive, its full majesty becoming clearer as the car rolled closer. She had swotted up on Riverview’s history on the three–hour flight to Baton Rouge: how it had once been one of the biggest sugar plantations in the Deep South, how Meredith’s family had owned it from the mid–Fifties to the early Seventies, and how it had now been a luxury hotel for over thirty years. The main house, a restored 1808 colonial mansion, was white and imposing, with five long pillars at the entrance and tall windows. It was not dissimilar to Belcourt, if that house had been dipped in chalky paint. As she drove through the grounds, Tess caught a glimpse of a few of the twelve clapboard cottages dotted around the grounds, a grim reminder of the history of the house, although she doubted their present occupants had any clue as to their past. Today, the cottages were deluxe one–thousand–dollar–a–night bolt holes for well–heeled honeymooners and holiday–makers, but back in the nineteenth century, they were slave cabins.

She shuddered, wondering, not for the first time, whether she should be here. In fact, Tess had made the call to Dom before she had time to properly think about what she was doing. He was obviously excited to hear from her, and Tess had felt bad as the hope in his voice quickly died away when he realized Tess’s call was not to arrange a reconciliation.

‘I need you to do something for me,’ she’d told him bluntly.

‘I might have known you’d want something,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Well, what did you expect?’

There was a long pause.

‘I need a couple of nights at Riverview Plantation,’ said Tess. ‘It’s super–expensive, and I’m not sure I can write it off as expenses. Plus, I need an excuse to ask lots of questions.’

‘Why do you need to go snooping around Riverview?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Well, you’ll have to write the story up for me,’ he said.

Tess laughed. ‘Does that mean I can send you an invoice?’ she asked.

‘Does this mean we can be friends?’ he replied.

‘Maybe. One day.’

Tess put the thought out of her mind as she stepped out of the car and pulled her overnight case from the boot. The balmy honeysuckle–scented air was soothing and warm. Checking in at the desk of the beautiful mahogany reception, she was effusively greeted by the manager who introduced himself as Sidney Garner.

‘So you’re from the London Times?’ he said with a thick, deep Southern accent.