Page 69 of Original Sin

For a second she remembered the day she had finally separated from Walter. One night he simply did not come home. The memory of waking at dawn, light struggling through a crack in the blinds onto the empty space beside her in the bed, it was still raw. They had drifted so far apart it had been no surprise, but the pain she had felt … well, that had truly caught her by surprise. Even more so when he’d told her he was moving in with a junior executive from the bank. In fact, her hurt had swiftly turned to fury when Walter had followed their quickie divorce with the announcement that he was going to marry the slut. She was a Dartmouth–educated blonde who immediately gave up her career and dedicated herself entirely to making Walter’s life more comfortable and squeezing out babies. Liz’s fury had turned to shock and dismay. How could you respect a woman like that? She had no desire to devote her life to another person; she had no desire for children. You were brought into this world alone and you left it alone. Emotional needs? Where did they get you? She could see Dr Shapiro watching her closely.

‘Forgive me, Dana, but my major was economics not psychology. Am I to take it that you think I was rejected by my dead father, rejected by my mother, and then dropped by my husband, so I need to go out and find sex to fill the hole? Is that what you think? That I equate sex with love? Sex is my way of making up for a lack of emotional support in my life?’

Dr Shapiro cocked her head. ‘What do you think, Elizabeth?’

‘I think it’s a lot of horseshit, Dana.’

‘Well, I think we’ve achieved a great deal today,’ said Shapiro, standing up and smoothing her skirt. ‘Let’s both have a think about what we’ve discussed and meet back here in a week?’

Liz closed the door behind her. ‘We’ve achieved a great deal today,’ she mocked. What exactly had it achieved? It was a waste of her precious time and money. But at least she’d fulfilled her obligations to Tess Garrett. She was free – and that meant she wouldn’t be going back to see Dr Dana Shapiro again. She had other plans.

*

The line from Damascus was faint and crackly.

‘Hey, how are you?’

Brooke paused the Sex and the City DVD she was watching from bed, glad to hear David’s voice, even though it sounded so remote and tinny it was like talking to a stranger.

‘Hey. You’re there.’ David had flown out to Syria almost twenty–four hours earlier to do a report on its political importance in the Middle East.

‘Just about. It was the journey from hell.’

‘Get some sleep. You’ll feel better.’

‘Sleep, yeah right. It’s nearly six a.m. here. I’ve got meetings and filming all day. So how are you? How’s work? Didn’t you have a meeting with that agent?’

‘All cancelled. I didn’t even make it into work.’

‘Really? Why not?’

‘Just a bit of an accident.’

‘Accident? Brooke, what happened?’

‘I was out running. A pap was following me and I fell and sprained my ankle.’ She tried to say it as casually as she could, but David was obviously concerned.

‘Shit, baby. Are you okay?’

She looked down at her swollen, purple–tinged foot, which was balanced on a cushion. ‘Nothing some very effective painkillers didn’t sort out.’

She heard a low decisive snort down the phone. ‘We need to get you security.’

She squirmed at the thought of herself flanked by burly men, Paris Hilton–style, and groaned. ‘Oh come on David, that’s not necessary.’

‘Honey, I think it’s very necessary.’

The television was freeze–framed on a bare–breasted Samantha. She grabbed the remote control and switched it off. ‘I don’t want a bodyguard. It just looks ridiculous.’

‘Baby, you need one. Today it’s a pap guy and a swollen ankle, tomorrow it could be … well anything.’

Brooke heard the disapproval in his voice but she was determined to stand her ground. It wasn’t the actual bodyguard she objected to – in the last few months she’d met lots of bodyguards, and most of them were just like drivers just with extra kung–fu skills. What bothered Brooke was what getting a bodyguard represented.

‘David, the second I get a bodyguard,’ she said firmly, ‘is the second I admit I’m living in a prison. I don’t want to live my life like that.’

‘Robert told me recently about a really great guy who’s worked with a lot of female celebrities. Ex–Israeli army. He’s very good. Very discreet.’

Was he even listening to her?