Читать книгу Guilty Pleasures - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 14

The showroom of designer Guillaume Riche’s Parisian atelier was alive with colour. Stork-thin models strutted down the makeshift catwalk with smoky eyes and hair so straight it swung in time to the music. Each girl brought out a look which was more beautiful than the last: a cashmere wrap coat in cyclamen pink, a bone white chiffon blouse with a graphite wool pencil skirt, a voluminous evening dress in amethyst. This was ready-to-wear at its most bold and luxurious. Finally Alexia Dark, one of the industry’s hottest models, walked past in a gown sculpted in layers of primrose tulle so delicate it looked like the ripples of water on a tropical beach. Tomorrow, the unveiling of Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection would be the hottest show in town, but tonight it was a dress rehearsal and a private view for the luckiest, most talented fashion magazine editor in Paris: Cassandra Grand.

Standing at the end of the catwalk was a small man in tight charcoal jodhpurs. From the back he looked like a jockey except for the long grey hair that fell down between his shoulder blades. As the music died, he spun around dramatically to face the woman sitting in the front row and threw his hands into the air.

‘Cassandra!’ he cried. ‘You are not clapping! Tell me why you are not clapping? You hate it! You hate the show!’

Cassandra laughed. She stood up and pulled on the little mink shrug that had been sitting on her lap.

‘The beauty of the dress rehearsal, Guillaume,’ she said, linking her arm through his, ‘is that I don’t have to clap. I’ve spent the last four weeks of shows clapping. I can’t stop clapping because some devious design houses such as yourself have been known to film the audience to make sure they are clapping and withhold advertising if you do not show sufficient ardour. I’m sick of clapping. I practically have RSI.’

‘So you hate the show?’ Guillaume said nervously.

‘As we both know, clapping is really no indication of the quality of a collection.’ She paused dramatically and gave him a playful smile. ‘But in this case I think the show is absolutely sensational.’

Guillaume stopped in his tracks and collapsed to his knees, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the god of fashion.

‘Sensational. Do you mean that?’ he said, slinking into a Louis Ghost chair next to the catwalk. ‘I am not sure the hair is absolutely right. I think maybe the girls need white lips. Merde. I wish the venue would be ready so we could have a full dress rehearsal. But the sets aren’t ready. They are imbeciles. Useless.’

Cassandra sat down and put her hand on his knee to reassure him. Guillaume Riche, one of the world’s most beloved designers, really did not need overblown sets or white lipstick to show off the brilliance of his latest collection – it was amazing. Although he was nearly sixty, Guillaume was a designer at the peak of the game. In 24 hours’ time, celebrities, editors and buyers from all the top retail stores in the world would throw themselves at his feet and scratch each other’s eyes out to get hold of their favourite pieces. But tonight, Guillaume’s genius was for Cassandra’s eyes only – as his collection always was in the final hours before it was unveiled. Her position as editor-in-chief of Rive meant she could not be Guillaume’s official muse – other advertisers would not be happy – but she would always be called upon to make final suggestions, perhaps a change of shoes or accessories, or change the running order. Occasionally Cassandra actually recommended the axing of a look entirely and although Guillaume would naturally throw a hissy-fit to register on the Richter scale, he trusted her implicitly. And why wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it Cassandra who, almost single-handedly, had resurrected his career? The Nineties minimal aesthetic had very nearly killed off the flamboyant Guillaume Riche brand entirely, until Cassandra, then a junior stylist, had championed him on every shoot she styled. But much more significantly, when Cassandra had graduated to dressing up-and-coming starlets, she had used Guillaume’s designs to dress them for the red carpet – and Hollywood needed little encouragement to fall back in love with Guillaume; his luscious clothes were old-school, movie-star glamour that flattered the legends and made the younger generation look sophisticated and worldly. And where the A-listers led, the rest of the fashion industry followed. Today Guillaume was now one of the most important designers in the world, a flamboyant foil to Lagerfeld’s commercial brilliance and this show, Cassandra was sure, would be his biggest triumph yet.

‘But how can we improve it?’ said Guillaume, getting up and pacing around.

Cassandra flipped open her Moleskine notebook and reviewed her scribbled comments. Even in a mediocre collection she could pick out the one gem that could make a woman beautiful and elegant.

‘I adored the inverted pleating, the volume of the skirts. However … the penultimate exit…’

‘What is wrong?’ said Guillaume, his eyes blazing. ‘What?’

‘The obi-belt on the amethyst dress, perhaps you should try it in pumpkin rather than black? It’s just a little too predictable.’

For a moment, it looked as if Guillaume would explode. Then he reached out and pinched Cassandra’s cheek affectionately.

‘Ma cherie, you are always right.’

He clicked his fingers in the air and an assistant came running with two cups of espresso. Cassandra glanced at her watch. It was time to go back to her suite at the Plaza Athénée and prepare.

‘You are coming to the party?’ she said, downing the coffee in one.

‘Of course, but only for a short time, I’m afraid. Your timing before my show is very bad and then …’ he threw his hands in the air again, ‘… you request pumpkin obi-belts! But don’t worry, the rest of Paris will be there.’

‘Not all of them. Only those who are lucky enough to have been invited,’ she smiled.

‘Is Glenda coming?’ he asked. Glenda McMahon was the editor-in-chief of US Rive and therefore one of Cassandra’s most bitter rivals, despite the fact that she was Cassandra’s former boss and mentor.

‘Darling Glenda!’ she exclaimed, without a hint of irony. ‘I know she’s in Paris. I saw her at Lanvin yesterday. Whether that means she will turn up tonight is anyone’s guess.’

Her offhand comment switched Guillaume into a playful mood.

‘I see she was only one place above you in Time’s“Most Powerful Women in Fashion” …’

‘Will people stop mentioning that silly list?’ replied Cassandra, standing up and handing her coffee cup to a make-up artist.

‘One place,’ said Guillaume gleefully. ‘She is surely going to feel the breath on the back of her neck.’

‘Guillaume …’

‘My prediction is that in twelve months’ time that job will be yours.’

‘Guillaume, stop it! Glenda is a very gifted editor.’ But not as good as she was, added Cassandra silently. As close a friend to Guillaume as she was, she simply couldn’t admit that she wanted Glenda’s job – Guillaume was as indiscreet as he was gifted. US Rive was where Cassandra had started her magazine career and it only seemed right that she should finish it there because New York was undeniably the centre of the media world, where money men, models and insiders collided and formed alliances. That was where she would make her next move, she was sure of it. She’d been at UK Rive for three years and knew it was already too long. She often lay awake at night thinking ahead to the day when she would be given the US Rive job, planning how she would finally take it beyond US Vogue to become the greatest fashion magazine on earth – and how she would make herself a legend at the same time.

‘Well, if you are not interested in that job,’ said Guillaume slyly, ‘what about another one I hear of in New York?’

Cassandra looked at him curiously. She thought she knew every magazine move that was being made or plotted. She thrived on gossip, it was the lifeblood of the industry, running up and down the front row, crackling between the tiny tables of the fashionistas’ favourite Parisian restaurant Chez George, at art previews and society weddings. For Cassandra it was not just idle tittle-tattle, it was professional ammunition.

‘And what job would this be?’ she asked.

‘The launch of the AtlanticCorp’s US fashion weekly,’ said Guillaume, ‘they have an editor-in-chief already but…’

‘Carrie Barker – I know. She was drafted in from their newspaper division.’

‘Yes. But they are not happy at all with the dummy and frankly my darling, I’m not surprised. The publishers presented it to me last week and it was … How do you say, shit.’

Cassandra caught her breath. This was gossip of the highest quality.

‘So they are firing her?’

Guillaume nodded. ‘I told them they could do better.’

He clapped his hands as if he was already bored with the conversation and an assistant appeared carrying a long plastic bundle.

‘Now, ma cherie. What are you wearing to the party?’

‘What? Oh, I haven’t decided …’ said Cassandra, still lost in thought.

‘Well perhaps I can help,’ said Guillaume with relish, tearing the layer of plastic off the package. Cassandra gasped.

‘For you,’ smiled Guillaume. It was a beautiful sculpted tulle gown, the very same show-stopping gown Guillaume had used to end the catwalk show, except this version had been created in the most glorious pale biscuit colour, its neckline sprinkled with delicate seed pearl embroidery. She reached out a finger to touch the beading.

‘Lesage?’ she said recognizing the work of the great French artisan house.

He nodded and she beamed. The colour was the perfect complement to her skin.

But it was more than that: this was a dress that would be fêted by journalists in thousands of column inches and be worn by A-list stars on the red carpets of the Oscars or Cannes – except they wouldn’t be the first to wear it. Cassandra Grand would be, even before it had its official debut at Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘just so, so, beautiful!’ Carried away by the moment, Cassandra dropped her guard and embraced Guillaume, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘And it will fit perfectly.’

Cassandra smiled. She knew it would. It would fit her lithe body perfectly and it would fit her new plan perfectly, her new plan which started tonight.

‘Maintenant,’ screamed the sexy blonde, grabbing onto the bed-sheets.

‘Sure thing, baby …’

Tom Grand had dropped French as soon as he could at Shrewsbury school and he could barely remember how to say hello let alone decipher the ramblings of someone in the throes of orgasm, but he didn’t need a dictionary to know the girl currently astride him was having a good time. Her small tits, glistening with sweat, were jiggling up and down as she slid herself along his cock, twisting her pelvis to grind her springy bush into him. Frankly, she was a wild-cat. Her name was Sophie. She was French, an actress, and when he had met her that afternoon in a café in the Bastille, where she’d been drinking espresso and painting her fingernails black, he’d suspected she’d be a right goer. He hadn’t minded that she wasn’t the most groomed girl he had ever seen. She had stringy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and had been wearing a green parka coat and flip-flops despite the cold. But she had a delicious way of holding her cigarette, a filthy laugh and beautiful, dark, flinty eyes. Almost immediately he’d wanted to take her back to his swanky room at the super-chic Hôtel Costes. It was being paid for by Rive magazine and he wanted to make full use of the mini-bar and room service. But Sophie wasn’t impressed and besides, she wanted to feed her cat. So before Tom knew where he was, they were in bed in her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Montmartre improving Anglo-French relations.

Sophie lifted herself off him, stroking her clitoris with the tip of his throbbing cock. When Tom could stand it no more he grabbed her hips, pulling her back down so that they were rocking in tandem harder and faster until they both came together in a spine-jolting explosion that made Tom cry out so loudly, it made his throat hurt.

‘You’re fucking good,’ he said finally, exhaling deeply and collapsing onto the mattress.

‘Good at fucking?’ she replied in rather rickety English.

Tom laughed.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant,’ he said, propping his head up on the pillow and thinking that if it hadn’t been for his mother he’d be halfway to India by now. He’d been finally evicted from his Camden flat for non-payment of rent just before Christmas and while he’d managed to extend his time in London looking up old girlfriends, he’d finally accepted his fate and moved back in with his mother just before Saul’s funeral. When the chance of a trip to Goa came along-his friend Mungo said he could get him work at an ‘amazing’ full moon party – Julia had given him such a hard time about it all that when Cassandra had asked him to DJ at some do in Paris he’d quickly accepted. He knew his mother would have put her up to it, but he was slightly less angry when Cassandra had indicated that she could introduce him to fashion show producers and other people who might finally get his music career going. Plus, Rive were putting him up at the Costes, which was never a chore.

Although he and his sister weren’t particularly close – Cassandra was too wrapped up in her shallow little world to really care about anyone else – every now and then she would throw him a bone. His mother and his friends were forever reminding him how lucky he was to have someone that connected and that powerful as a sibling, but Tom didn’t see it that way. Yes, he had a wardrobe full of Dior Homme suits, Tom Ford shirts and Bill Amberg bags, none of which he had paid a penny for. His friends called him the best-dressed loser in town and that was exactly the point. Every opportunity Cassandra gave him, simply fuelled his sense of inadequacy and every job he fucked up just showed him up in sharp contrast to his sister’s brilliant career. He used to think that he was just as creative as Cassandra and that he just hadn’t found the right outlet yet, but at 26, finding himself jobless and back at his mother’s, well, maybe he wasn’t really good at anything. Still, at least he was successful with the ladies.

Suddenly he remembered the party and sat up.

‘Shit! What time is it?’ Predictably, he didn’t have a watch.

Sophie shrugged. ‘Perhaps 9 o’clock.’

He was due at the Rive party at 10 p.m.

‘Bugger. How far is the Marais? I have to be at this party for ten.’

Sophie’s apartment was up eight flights of stairs in a run-down block overlooking Sacre Coeur. She shrugged again. ‘Ten minutes. Maybe.’

He pursed his lips. He wasn’t exactly sure where Montmartre was but he had a clue it was in the north of the city. The Marais was also on the right bank but closer to the Seine. Fuck it, he had to trust the local when she said it was close by, didn’t he?

‘Are you sure about that?’

Sophie didn’t even bother to shrug this time, simply rolled towards him and took his nipple between her lips.

‘Ooh,’ he smiled to himself, ‘no reply necessary.’

He put his arm behind his head and watched her slide off the futon.

Light poured in from the illuminated Sacre Coeur behind them. She had a beautiful long body, a slim, sinuous back and smooth round buttocks that looked like marble in the half-light.

‘Do you want some … ’ow do you say in English – GHB?’ she said, fiddling with a glass vial on her cluttered dresser.

Tom guffawed. ‘Shit, you get better all the time.’

Then he froze. There was a head poking round the bedroom door.

‘Allo.’

Tom sat up and grabbed the duvet to cover his exposed body.

Christ! Who’s this? He thought in a panic, imagining all sorts of knife-wielding boyfriend scenarios. Then he got a better look at the intruder. Hey, she’s a corker.

‘This is Sabine,’ said Sophie distractedly.

Sabine was even more startling than Sophie, her black hair looked as if it had been cut with a pair of shears into an uneven bob, but her face was exquisite enough to take it. She walked into the room holding a ginger cat which Tom could see had three legs.

Sabine saw Tom looking and smiled. ‘She fell from the window there onto the street. She survived so we call her Lucky.’

He liked this one too.

‘Er. Who is she?’ he asked, turning to Sophie. ‘Your flatmate?’ It was, however, a one-bedroom apartment.

‘My girlfriend,’ she said casually putting the GHB into a small tumbler of water and handing it to him before lying naked across the bed.

Blimey, thought Tom, I can’t remember getting a hard on again so quickly.

Sabine put the cat on the floor and kicked off her shoes before joining them on the bed, reaching over to kiss Sophie gently on the lips.

‘What time did you say it was again?’ said Tom, in no rush to leave.

Sabine looked at her watch. ‘9.15.’

The Marais was only ten minutes away Tom thought to himself as he moved forward to lie beside Sophie. She reached towards him and curled her black-tipped fingers around his hand and Tom knew that, for a short while at least, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Giles Banks, Rive magazine’s editor-at-large, stepped from the limousine outside the gorgeous Parisian hôtel particulier and offered a hand to the woman still in the car. As one pale caramel Manolo heel hit the pavement, even Giles, who had no interest in the opposite sex, recognized that she was a magnetic beauty. Dozens of flashbulbs went off like firecrackers. He stepped back out of the line of the cameras, knowing that nobody wanted a picture of him. This was Cassandra’s night. The final part of a quartet of big nights held during the international collections that had seen her host parties in New York, London, Milan and Paris to celebrate Rive’s tenth anniversary. Sure, Giles himself had been the one she had entrusted to organize the parties and it had been a mammoth operation pulling in every contact to make sure every A-list star in town was going to be there, but tonight it would still be Cassandra at the centre of everyone’s attention. So far the parties had all been enormous successes. The supper in New York, in a yet-to-be-opened restaurant in the Meatpacking District. In Milan, Cassandra’s good friends, the Count and Contessa of Benari, had lent her their pocket-sized palazzo on the shores of Lake Como, while in London she had taken over Spitalfields Market for the night, draping the vast Victorian warehouse with white silk. They had all been very, very exclusive with invitations strictly specifying ‘No plus ones’ and they had all been a triumph. His efforts had been worth it.

Giles was aware that his boss had a difficult reputation; she was the most demanding and particular woman he had ever met, but she was also brilliant and had been good to him: very good. He had learnt so much from her, been given so many opportunities and in helping transform UK Rive he now had an international reputation as one of the most talented fashion journalists in the world.

He watched Cassandra’s face break into a small composed and elegant smile as they walked through the doors of the beautiful hôtel. Its grand atrium was twinkling in the glow of a thousand tea-lights. Huge glass vases were filled with scarlet and gold pomegranate halves and the perfumed air smelt like spiced nectar, sweet, rich and heady.

Giles could see Cassandra’s eyes scan the crowd, looking for names. There were plenty to choose from. Françoise Henri Pinault and Salma Hayek. Sonia Rykiel, perched on a hot-pink sofa laughing with a friend. Bernard Arnault, CEO of LVMH and his beautiful daughter Delphine were talking to John Galliano whose elaborate plumed hat set him apart from the crowd – as usual.

Everyone knew the importance of tonight’s party. Paris was fashion. All its main players were here. Nothing could go wrong.

‘Oh, darling. Everybody’s here.’

Cassandra kissed him on the cheek.

‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ she purred, swinging her dark hair over her shoulders. ‘Although didn’t Muffy Dayton have pomegranate vases at her divorce shower?’

Giles flushed a little. ‘Did she?’

Still looking nervous, Giles’s eyes darted behind her.

‘Look out. Toxic is coming this way,’ he said quickly.

Cassandra had just accepted a flute of pink champagne from a waiter when her publishing director Jason Tostvig, also known as ‘Toxic’ due to his unpopularity with the editorial team, appeared at her side.

He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and shook Giles’s hand awkwardly. Despite – or perhaps because of – his job, Jason was not a man completely comfortable in the world of fashion. He’d been drafted over from newspapers, was resolutely heterosexual, bullishly macho and seemed to think that even talking to somebody openly homosexual would somehow impact on his own masculinity.

‘Quite impressive,’ he smiled thinly looking around the room before raking his eyes over her dress. ‘How much is this shindig costing me?’

‘Whatever the invoice says, it’s worth it,’ smiled Cassandra, still glancing around the room. ‘Throwing parties is a branding exercise.’

‘Yes, but did we need four of them in as many weeks?’

‘Perhaps you don’t want to send the message that Rive is rich, exclusive and international. Perhaps I’ll bring that up with Isaac Grey next time I see him,’ she said, namechecking the CEO of their company.

Jason narrowed his dark eyes. Traditionally publishers and editors were mortal enemies, regarding each other as tight-fisted Neanderthals and irresponsible decadents, respectively. But Cassandra had a particular loathing for Jason. Not only did she think he was mediocre at his job, he had no handle on the fashion world beyond his cack-handed attempts at picking up models.

‘Is that a threat?’ he hissed.

‘Merely an observation that you and I might have different agendas,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘Personally I don’t think you can put a price on goodwill.’

Jason puffed out his chest and popped a canapé into his mouth.

‘Well, I hope some of that ‘goodwill’ is directed at Oscar Braun,’ he said, nodding his head over at the CEO of the Austrian fashion house Forden. ‘They’re threatening to pull £250,000 worth of advertising over the next two quarters. Perhaps you’d like to tell Isaac Grey that the next time you see him.’

Cassandra chuckled.

‘Oscar is always saying that,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’d help his own cause if he started showing decent collections. I have to put the fashion team in a headlock to get Forden’s revolting things in the magazine.’

‘I think we managed to get the mint bouclé jacket into the March issue,’ said Giles helpfully.

‘This time I think he’s serious,’ said Jason with a hint of relish. ‘You’d better do some serious schmoozing because if his ad revenue gets pulled we’re going to have to start looking at cutting editorial budget.’

Finally Cassandra turned to look at him.

‘Leave the editorial out of this,’ she snapped.

‘Speaking of which,’ said Jason looking up at the giant Phoebe Fenton cover. ‘Has anybody actually read that interview yet?’

‘It’s embargoed till Monday,’ said Cassandra quickly.

‘Funny, I thought the plan was to give the issue out to guests after the party.’

‘We never agreed that.’

‘Well, I read the issue on the Eurostar and you gave poor Phoebe a right old kicking, didn’t you? I was just thinking that perhaps you might be nervous about all these actors and models and socialites reading about their friend and what a coke-snorting whore she is, when you’re right there to take the flak? I mean, Phoebe might be down, but she’s not out. There’s still a lot of “goodwill” around for her.’

Cassandra flashed him a furious look, then took a breath to compose herself. What did Toxic care about ‘poor’ Phoebe Fenton? More likely he wanted there to be an uproar. He wanted trouble from the Fenton camp and wanted Cassandra to be held accountable. She was convinced he didn’t like the fact that she was the star of the Rive operation while not one celebrity or CEO in this room would even know his name. He was a snake. She knew she was going to have to get rid of him at some point but Cassandra always thought tactically. While Tostvig was ambitious and spiteful, he wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake and she’d rather be up against someone toxic and foolish than someone ruthless and clever.

‘Cassandra, could I have a word?’

‘What’s wrong?’ she said impatiently, turning see Sadie her junior assistant holding out a mobile phone. Jason looked over, his lips curling gleefully as he smelled trouble. Satisfied that Cassandra’s perfectly-groomed feathers had been ruffled, he took a flute from a waiter and headed off to try and chat up Naomi Campbell.

‘It’s your brother,’ whispered Sadie when he had gone.

‘What on earth is the problem? Why is he on the mobile? Shouldn’t he be here?’

She glanced at the DJ booth where a man with long dreadlocks appeared to be packing up his records.

‘That DJ finishes in ten minutes,’ explained Sadie. ‘Your brother is on until twelve and Jeremy Healy has only just got off the Eurostar and won’t be here for at least another forty-five minutes.’

‘Well, get that man to stay,’ she snapped, pointing up to the DJ booth.

Sadie had a look of sheer panic on her face.

‘I’ve tried that! He’s playing at Les Bains Douche in half an hour. His car is already outside waiting to take him there.’

Sadie thrust the phone towards Cassandra again. ‘Do you want to speak to Tom? He says he’s stuck in traffic near Galeries Lafayette.’

Cassandra shut her eyes momentarily, willing herself to be calm but feeling such a sense of fury and betrayal that she felt her cheeks begin to sting hot. He was her brother. How could he let her down so badly yet again?

‘Tell him that if he’s not here in five minutes not only will Rive refuse to pay his expenses at the Hôtel Costes but that I, personally, will make sure that everyone even remotely connected to the music industry knows what a irresponsible moron he is. He won’t be able to get a job sweeping the floor of a rat’s cage by the time I’ve finished with him.’

‘You want me to say all that to your brother?’

‘If you don’t, you can join him in the cage.’

Giles was already making calls on his mobile.

‘I’ve just called Queen,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘They’re sending one of their DJ’s over immediately. He only lives on the Rue des Rosiers, so we should be OK.’

Cassandra grabbed Giles’s hand and mouthed ‘Thank you’. Then, in the blink of an eye, her legendary poise was back and she was gliding away smiling and waving at people in the crowd, as if nothing had taken place.

‘Marvellous party, Cassandra. I don’t think there is anybody more beautiful at the party.’

Cassandra turned to see Jean-Paul Benoit, chief executive of the Pellemont luxury goods house. Major advertiser. Major sleazeball.

‘Jean-Paul!’ she cooed, ‘I was just telling Giles how we need to get fashion’s most glamorous tycoon inside the pages of Rive magazine.’ She took his arm and steered him away from Sadie. ‘How would you feel about doing an “At Home”? You do still have your adorable house in Ile de Re? It’s one of my favourite places in the world. I’ve found this new photographer. I think he could be the new Testino. Someone like that could really do it justice.’

‘Will you be coming along in person?’ asked Jean-Paul, a wolfish grin on his face.

Cassandra smiled sweetly.

‘I’m sure something could be arranged …’

Am I mad? thought Emma as she stepped out of the taxi. Paris; the city of lovers. It had magic. She and Mark had talked about coming together at New Year. That seemed so long ago now and here she was outside a glittering party alone. She looked at the paparazzi crowding around the entrance, their flashbulbs lighting up the red carpet leading into the Rive party and thought that the gates of hell themselves might not be quite so intimidating. In front of her, a long queue snaked down the street while two girls with stern expressions and clipboards either waved people through or condemned them to ridicule. She shivered. What had made her come without a ticket? Desperation, she thought, moving towards the entrance, holding her clutch bag in front of her like a shield. Emma was in trouble with Milford already. After a long and heated meeting with Roger she had agreed to create the new position of Director of Bespoke Services for him. If she’d truly had it her way, she’d have dispensed with him entirely but as she’d definitely rocked the boat enough since her arrival, she’d decided that a sideways move for Roger was the best solution in the short term. That left the glaring vacancy of head designer to re-vamp the collection and if she’d thought it would be an easy appointment she was very much mistaken. In the last week, she’d make clumsy attempts at poaching big design names from other fashion houses, but despite hitting the phones for hours on end, she’d rarely made it past the company switchboards. At the factory, staff morale was low and the atmosphere around the village wasn’t just icy, it was glacial. Only yesterday she had driven up to the Milford factory gates to see that someone had spray-painted ‘Bailey out’ on the wall outside. Emma knew she needed to make changes fast if she was to head off a meltdown within the company, but she seemed to be banging her head against a brick wall: Milford’s image as a luxury brand was far worse than she had ever imagined. But there was one person she knew who could penetrate fashion’s inner circle: Cassandra. But even she had proved elusive. Every phone call to her cousin’s office was politely but firmly rebuffed. Cassandra was unavailable. Thinking laterally, Emma had contacted her aunt, Julia, but she had merely sent a message that Cassandra was in Paris for the week and would contact her on her return. Emma didn’t have a week. Production of samples for the Autumn/Winter line had been halted and could not begin until a new designer was in place. With a press show scheduled for six weeks’ time, they’d have to show Roger’s designs if she didn’t take action immediately – and she didn’t think the company would survive that. So when Ruan heard through the grapevine there was a Rive party in Paris she had booked her Eurostar ticket at once, telling herself she would sort out the details when she got there.

Well, now I’m here, she thought. Emma took a deep breath and walked as confidently as she could up to the clipboard desk.

‘Emma Bailey,’ she said, smiling.

‘Sorry. No,’ said the girl, dismissing Emma instantly and looking down the line to the next poor sap.

‘But I’m Cassandra …’ began Emma, then stopped herself, immediately realizing that ‘I’m Cassandra Grand’s cousin’ sounded like the whine of a gate-crasher – they’d probably already had a dozen people claiming to be relatives tonight.

‘Can you look again?’ said Emma politely, reaching into her clutch bag and placing her freshly-printed Chief Executive business card on the clipboard.

‘Perhaps it’s under Milford Luxury Goods,’ said Emma with an air of authority. ‘I might be on the advertisers’ guest list.’

The girl looked at Emma for the first time and she saw a cloud of doubt cross her face.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Bailey,’ she said, lifting the velvet rope. ‘Enjoy the party.’

Emma felt a little thrill of triumph. Maybe I can pull this off after all, she thought.

She walked into the impressive atrium mentally running through the questions she needed to ask Cassandra. Emma had even mulled over the idea of Cassandra joining the board as a non-executive director, although she had a nagging reservation. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to invite a fox into her henhouse.

Emma had never been to a fashion party before. She was surprised to see food. Waiters drifted by with trays laden with delicate bites: savoury tartlets, crab claws and mini Fauchon éclairs, although for the most part the guests waved them away, as if taking a single one would show weakness. Emma felt as if she had crossed into another world.

It’s only a party. They’re only human, she said to herself, but it was hard to believe. Everywhere she looked there were impenetrable cliques of beautiful and powerful-looking people, talking, laughing and drinking champagne. Had Emma a better grasp of pop culture, she would have recognized that she was surrounded by actresses, models and big-name designers. Up close, many of them weren’t actually beautiful, she thought with detached interest. But they had something, a worldliness and polish, a superiority. These people had ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. And Emma most certainly did not. She felt a sudden sense of inadequacy she hadn’t felt since boarding school when she was known as Cassandra Grand’s geeky little cousin, a bookworm with mousy hair and clumpy shoes. That bookworm, of course, went on to get an MBA and work alongside the CEOs of multinational blue-chip companies. In Boston Emma had felt on a level pegging with even the most impressive businessmen because she knew her intellect and business skills matched theirs. But here! For a second, Emma felt so far out of her depth, she should just turn round and go back to America. ‘Bailey Out’ – that said it all. But she was not a quitter. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter and took a longer gulp than was polite. From a distance she could see Cassandra receiving guests like the Sun King granting an audience with the peasants.

‘You look a little lost, can I help you?’

Emma turned to see a tall man in a lavender woollen suit. He extended a hand with a genuine smile.

‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Emma, taking his hand gratefully.

‘Giles Banks. How nice to meet you.’

She smiled at his eccentric formality and relaxed. ‘Emma Bailey – very nice to meet you too. I was beginning to feel invisible.’

‘Oh, don’t worry!’ laughed Giles, leaning in as if to impart a secret, ‘I felt like that for years at fashion parties, then I realized that almost everyone feels the same way. They spend their whole time looking around for someone more important or famous than them, worried that everyone else is looking more fabulous or having a brilliant conversation with someone amazing on the other side of the room. No one ever is, they’re all talking about who else is here and who they’re talking to.’

‘So why does anyone come?’ asked Emma, fascinated.

‘Because you have to darling! This is the hottest party in town, if not the whole planet! Who wouldn’t want to be here?’

‘So it gets better?’

‘When you have the right friends. I’m a colleague of Cassandra Grand’s and she’s introduced me to everyone. Now I know who’s going to be fun and who’s going to be a crashing bore. Anyway, I always seem to find the most interesting person in the room.’

‘Cassandra’s my cousin.’

Giles raised his eyebrows.

‘How extraordinary. Are you that cousin?’

‘Which cousin?’ asked Emma suspiciously.

‘Oh, come now, Emma Bailey, don’t be coy. The new CEO of Milford?’

‘Did Cassandra tell you?’

Giles clapped his hands in delight. ‘You are that cousin, how wonderful!’ he cried. ‘No, Cassandra’s been very tight-lipped on the whole business, but fashion is a very small world, word gets around,’ he said with a small smile. ‘See? I’ve done it again.’

‘Done what?’ asked Emma.

‘Found the most interesting person in the room.’

What is she doing here? thought Cassandra, seeing Emma’s pale face move through the crowd towards her. And what’s she doing with Giles? She instantly felt furious with Giles, then checked herself when she remembered she hadn’t actually told him about Milford, Saul and Emma. Giles was a close friend and trusted confidant, but there were limits. To Cassandra, self-publicity was everything. She had to maintain an air of superconfidence and invulnerability at all times, even when she was cut up inside, even in front of friends. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d been passed over in favour of the geek who knew nothing about fashion. That would have been the ultimate humiliation.

Cassandra took a breath to compose herself. Ever since her mother had told her about the events of the Milford board meeting held earlier that week, how Emma had installed herself as CEO and deposed Roger in the process, Cassandra had been calculating her next step. She knew Emma had to be disposed of – and quickly-but she hadn’t imagined a confrontation with her cousin would come so soon. Nor did she welcome the distraction on such an important night.

‘Look who I found!’ smiled Giles, pushing Emma forward, then darting to the right and embracing Sonia Rykiel who treated him like a long-lost friend.

‘Emma. What a surprise.’

‘I’m a gate-crasher I’m afraid, before you ask, I’m sorry, but I needed to speak to you,’ garbled Emma, almost tripping over her words. There was something about Cassandra that had always unnerved Emma, though she had never been able to put her finger on it. The effect was magnified tonight: Cassandra was looking so otherworldly and glamorous in her amazing gown and everyone in the room was craning their necks just to look at her.

‘Listen, Cassandra, I won’t stay long,’ she continued quickly, ‘but there was something urgent I needed to ask you.’

‘Nothing serious I hope?’

‘It’s the company.’

‘Ah. Well, congratulations, if that’s appropriate. I was surprised to hear you’d given up that job in Boston. It’s one thing to be given a majority shareholding in a company; it’s quite another to give up your life to become its CEO.’

Cassandra began walking out towards the hotel’s courtyard. She didn’t know why Emma was here, but she had no intention of any of the industry overhearing it.

‘Yes, I surprised even myself. I never really saw myself being the sort to be in the fashion business,’ said Emma, trying to smile. ‘I’ve never really been bothered about clothes.’

Cassandra gave a hard, brittle laugh as they stopped in front of an ornate fountain.

‘Clothes?’ she said loftily. ‘This business isn’t about clothes, Emma. Clothes are just something to keep you warm. This business is about fashion, and fashion is a language, a lifestyle, a huge, billion-pound global phenomenon.’

She turned and pointed at a woman on the far side of the courtyard who was wearing a pair of high-waisted trousers. ‘Fashion is the genius of that Balenciaga tailoring. Fashion is the feeling it gives her when she dresses and the sense of taste and sophistication other people see in her when they watch her float by.’ Cassandra reached down and pulled up a piece of her gown. ‘Fashion is this dress, a dress that will be first seen commercially on a catwalk tomorrow and whose photograph will be seen on front pages around the world. This dress won’t even be in the stores until September and the copies of it won’t filter down into the high street until weeks, maybe months later. But this one dress will generate thousands, perhaps millions of pounds in revenue and in its watered-down version, it will change the lives of thousands of women. It will get them laid, make men propose, it will make them miss lunch for a month just so they can afford it. This dress will transform them, make them feel wonderful, take them to a different place. Fashion has that power – it is magic’

Cassandra took a breath, surprised by the passion of her speech, knowing that it would serve no purpose to vent the force of her anger on Emma. Not yet anyway.

‘Although, strictly speaking, Milford isn’t about fashion. It’s about luxury leather goods,’ stuttered Emma feeling completely out of her depth. ‘It only really makes handbags.’

Cassandra nearly laughed out loud. What did Emma Bailey know about any of this? Look at her in those navy trousers and sensible shoes! This was the most glamorous party being held in Paris over Fashion Week and she looked like an estate agent.

Cassandra gave a little superior laugh.

‘Oh, Emma, darling, handbags are the bedrock of the fashion industry. It’s where the most profit is made. They can account for 70, 80 per cent of a fashion company’s revenue. Do you think Louis Vuitton makes most of its money from ready-to-wear? They make it from Japanese girls spending half their salaries buying three handbags at a time. They make it from average Joe saving up for six months to afford a purse. Handbags are fashion’s golden goose.’

Cassandra looked at Emma’s clutch bag with barely concealed distain. ‘At least, sometimes.’

Emma bristled. She hated being bullied by Cassandra and her style knowledge; she’d always felt like a scarecrow in comparison.

‘We’re getting off the point.’

‘Which is?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I need a new designer.’

‘Yes. Poor Roger.’

Emma bit her tongue and refused to rise to the bait.

‘I wondered if you might be able to suggest someone?’

‘Why don’t you pencil in an appointment with my PA?’ Cassandra replied, looking a little bored.

‘Cassandra, I tried, but the soonest she could give me was in five weeks’ time!’

‘Well, I’m very busy as you can see. I’m off to Careyes next weekend. Have you ever been? You must. In the meantime, this is my party and I must go and attend to the guests. It’s been lovely to see you and maybe we can put in that lunch?’

Cassandra began to move away.

‘Please,’ said Emma more forcefully. ‘Even if you haven’t got time to help me, remember this is also your mother’s company.’

Clever bitch thought Cassandra. She exhaled heavily.

‘All right. Good accessories designers are hard to find,’ she said finally. ‘The best ones get poached to head up the womenswear of big houses like Frida Giannini at Gucci. The alternative is to recruit a big name stylist and team them with a technically competent designer.’

‘I want the biggest name we can get. Where do I begin?’

‘Unless you have personal contacts, which I suspect you do not, the big appointments are made through fashion and luxury head-hunters like Claude Lasner. He fixes up the right talent with the right company. Now I don’t wish to be impolite, Emma, but this is a working event. A very important night for me. I’m going to have to go.’ She looked down pointedly at the narrow gold watch on her wrist.

‘Can I tell Claude you told me to get in touch?’ asked Emma.

‘Of course. He’s a very dear friend. Now I really must go.’

As she turned, Cassandra walked straight into a body.

‘Do you mind if I join in?’ said a deep voice.

Jean-Paul Benoit handed Cassandra a glass of champagne and curled his fingers around her waist as he kissed her cheek. Cassandra pulled back from the strong scent of cologne.

‘Don’t worry, I was just leaving,’ said Emma.

‘And who was that?’ leered Jean-Paul, as he watched Emma’s behind disappear into the crowd. At the creative end, the world of fashion was largely homosexual. But the money men and the business brains were not. Jean-Paul had made it clear that he wanted sex with her. While sex, or the promise of sex, was a tool in Cassandra’s repertoire it was one that needed to be used with care.

‘That was my cousin needing advice on her little company,’ she said boastfully. ‘She fancies herself as the next Rose Marie Bravo.’

‘Really,’ replied Jean-Paul, looking after Emma with interest. ‘And what company would that be?’

‘Milford,’ she said quickly.

‘I didn’t realize that was in your family. A good heritage.’

She saw the interest on his face and felt a stab of panic.

‘A company in its death throes, I’m afraid.’

What was happening? This was supposed to be her perfect night, the pinnacle of her achievements so far and a springboard to the next stage, yet here she was, being ambushed by a mousy upstart, while the CEO of a major luxury goods conglomerate appeared to be interested in both Emma and the company. She felt like all her careful plans were coming unravelled.

Giles appeared and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm.

‘What?’ snapped Cassandra, not trying to hide her annoyance.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, flashing a look of disapproval in Jean-Paul’s direction, ‘you’re wanted at the door.’

‘Excuse me, Jean-Paul. Duty calls,’ she said, with a winning smile. ‘Perhaps we can take this up again later on?’

She walked towards the entrance and through the sea of faces she could make out her brother Tom, arguing with a security guard. Their eyes locked through the crowd. She saw him mouth something to her but she turned her head away from him. All people wanted to do was take, take, take, she thought bitterly. What had anybody ever given to her? Without a backward glance, she turned to Giles.

‘Make sure security throw him out onto the street. Publicly.’

Giles opened his mouth to object before he saw the fury in her eyes. He turned towards the door.

As Cassandra moved back in to the party, she saw Emma leaving the cloakroom with her coat. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Jean-Paul passed her without any sign of recognition. The last thing she needed was a major luxury goods conglomerate interested in Milford. Now Cassandra knew what needed to be done. She could not allow Milford to get off the starting blocks. It had to fail so she could rescue it and gain control of it herself. But how to begin?

Then she smiled; the answer was right in front of her. This room was packed with fashion’s power players: executives, agents, photographers, art directors, stylists, PRs, journalists. All people Emma needed, people who needed to know that Milford was in the hands of an amateur who wore ballet pumps to the hottest party in Paris. People who needed to know that Milford was on the edge of bankruptcy. Fashion was a fickle world; it couldn’t stand to be associated with failure. And she knew exactly where to start: in the distance she could see Claude Lasner. It was only fair to warn him, she reasoned. She thought of her mother’s small shareholding in the company and shrugged the idea away. She had things to do. She had to make the night count.