Page 70 of Original Sin

‘David … ’

‘So, the ankle. Is it all strapped up properly?’

Despite Tess Garrett’s reaction, she wanted to tell him the truth. ‘Yes. Matt Palmer had a look at it. I didn’t want to go to Cedar Sinai.’

‘Matt Palmer strapped your ankle,’ he said. There was a long pause. Brooke felt sure it wasn’t the poor telephone connection. ‘What were you doing at Columbia–Presbyterian?’

She hesitated. ‘I wasn’t. I went to his apartment. It’s not too far from where I fell.’

‘Well, that was convenient.’

‘Oh David, don’t be like that. He’s just a friend. Barely even that.’

‘You can do without friends like him.’

Brooke felt her hackles rise. ‘Do you want to tell me who I can and can’t have as friends now?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he snapped.

‘Well what did you mean?’

There was a long, crackling pause.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve got a meeting at the Baath Party headquarters in an hour.’

‘Fine,’ she said quietly. ‘You go off and play.’ Then she hung up the phone, her hands shaking with anger.

For a few seconds she just stared at the television screen in front of her, eyes not focusing, j

ust seeing shapes and colour. Then she began to move, as if on autopilot, sliding off the bed and hobbling to the kitchen. The fridge contained nothing of interest – carrot juice, a bottle of Skin Plus prebiotics (‘Look after your skin from the inside out!’ screamed the bottle), an artichoke, and a carton of egg whites to make the breakfast omelettes her personal trainer had recommended but she had never cooked. Moving to the cupboard her heart gave a little flip of pleasure when she saw a large box of chocolates sent by a publicist a few weeks earlier, hidden behind her coffee grinder.

She ripped open the tasteful brown papers and orange ribbons, took a pink truffle from the box and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes as it melted on her tongue.

It felt good. Brooke didn’t consider herself a diet Nazi like half of the fashionistas and society girls in the city. But all the clothes she had sent to her were sample sizes, small and unforgiving, and paparazzi camera angles could be very unflattering, even with just a few surplus pounds on her tall, slim frame. Giving up chocolate had seemed a small price to pay.

She returned to her bed, lay back on the plump pillows and rifled through the box to find another pink truffle. She felt naughty and defiant, as if she were playing hookey from school, not that Brooke could remember ever playing hookey from school.

When her phone rang again she was tempted not to answer it. She hated leaving things awkward with David, but she felt so angry at his high–handed attitude, she really didn’t want to speak to him.

Reluctantly she picked it up.

‘How’s the patient?’ She recognized Matt’s voice immediately.

‘A box of truffles is dulling the pain,’ she said, suddenly thinking about her foot again. ‘I particularly recommend the pomegranate champagne truffle.’

‘The medicinal powers of chocolate. I thought you society girls didn’t touch the stuff.’

‘I’m rebelling,’ she said.

‘That’s not like you, Little Miss Perfect.’

She sat up, bristling again. ‘I’ll have you know I have a very rebellious streak.’

He chuckled down the phone. ‘Brooke. You’re hardly Che Guevara.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You. A rebel. You think double parking is a felony.’