Читать книгу Guilty Pleasures - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 17

Sitting in the meeting room of the book publisher Leighton Best, Cassandra Grand was having trouble keeping her temper. She did her best to ignore the plate of cheap biscuits and ugly mug of milky tea that had been pushed in front of her, she could even overlook the IKEA furniture and magnolia walls. But what was driving her to distraction was listening to the company’s art director Paula Mayle run through her so-called vision for the design of her new book Cassandra Grand: On Style.

‘I hope you like it,’ said Paula, putting down her mock-up board. ‘We think the pillar-box red jacket is very strong.’

Cassandra just stared at her. Who are these people? she thought. What do they do with their lives?

‘You’re obviously not aware that red was something of a signature colour for Diana Vreeland.’

‘Erm, Diana Vreeland?’ asked Jenny Barber, the book’s commissioning editor.

Cassandra rolled her eyes heavenward.

‘US Vogue editor 1963 to 71. One of the most influential magazine editors of the twentieth century. She was at least twenty years ahead of her time, completely understood the concept of brand – just as we must grasp it now. This book is a brand statement. My brand statement. Consequently, red is unacceptable. I would suggest lucite.’ She turned a wintery smile towards Paula. ‘It’s a platinum, Pantone number 1032.’

‘Paula, maybe you can look into that,’ said Jenny to her assistant, quavering under Cassandra’s gaze.

‘I’ve also been making a few notes as we go along,’ continued Cassandra taking a sip of water. She winced. It was semi-flat, sparkling mineral water.

‘Fonts. Helvetica is an absolute no. My readers are going to be extremely design-conscious and I think they would appreciate something more unusual. I will send you the number of David Sellers, one of the country’s best typographers, to create something new. We can use Tahoma or Trebuchet as a template.’

‘So are you happy otherwi…’

Cassandra cut Jenny Barber off mid-sentence.

‘My name Cassandra Grand should be bigger than the title,’ she continued as if the interruption had never occurred. ‘Lift it several point sizes. Also when I said coffee-table book, that’s what I meant. Something of size. This has to be a book in people’s libraries, a gift for people to treasure.’ She held her hands apart to indicate the size of the book she had in mind. ‘Roughly the size of a large picnic basket.’

‘Well, I’m glad we’ve made progress here,’ said Jenny when she was completely sure Cassandra had finished. ‘One final thing though, Cassandra? When do you think we’ll be seeing any copy? For a September publication date we’re getting a little tight.’

Cassandra dismissed it with a wave.

‘Don’t worry about that. You’ll have it within the fortnight.’

She glanced at her mobile which was suddenly glowing an elegant emerald green. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said politely, stepping outside the meeting room to collective sighs of relief from the Leighton Best editorial team. It was Lianne.

‘Can you come back to the office immediately?’

‘What is it? I’m at Linda Meredith for my facial in forty minutes.’

‘I think it’s important: Jason Tostvig and Greg Barbera.’

Cassandra caught her breath. Greg Barbera? What did the Managing Director of the company want? He was on the international board.

‘Did they give any clues?’

‘I’m just guessing, but there was a letter from a London solicitor acting for Phoebe Fenton in today’s post. It’s quite angry.’

Cassandra gave a long hard sigh.

‘Fine. Tell Toxic and Greg I will meet them at twelve. But first, I need you to do something for me …’

Cassandra stood in front of the mirror, touching up her make-up. She had made a detour from the lift to the bathroom before she went into the Rive office. A sweep of mascara and a slick of gloss was all she needed to look like a model who had just stepped off the catwalk. There was a light smell of vomit coming from the cubicle behind her. It was a familiar smell at noon; there were at least half a dozen bulimics in the office. She took a little vial of her bespoke scent out of her purse and dabbed it on her pulse points. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

‘Cassandra. Busy day?’ said Jason obsequiously as she joined the two men in Greg’s corner office. It was a wonderful space – B&B Italia furniture, walls painted a delicate shade of cornflower and fabulous views over the Thames, views Greg rarely got to enjoy as he spent 90 per cent of his time in New York.

‘How are you, Cassandra?’ said Greg, neglecting to rise. Greg was a tall man and even sitting down he looked powerful and capable, a grey three-piece suit matching his swept-back hair and implacable eyes. He seemed very serious.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Cassandra, giving him the full wattage of her smile. ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?’

‘Don’t screw around, Cassandra,’ said Greg, an edge to his voice. ‘You know what I’m here for. Jason has been good enough to bring me up to speed on the Phoebe Fenton situation …’

The snake, thought Cassandra, noting his smug smile.

‘It’s a wonderful issue, isn’t it,’ she replied evenly. ‘Looks very strong on the news-stand and every major newspaper has carried at least part of the interview on their front page. It’s too soon for EPOS figures,’ she continued, referring to the weekly electronic sales figures the magazine received from newsagents using barcode-readers, ‘but with this sort of publicity, I feel we have a chance of breaking Rive’s previous sales record.’

Greg laid one hand carefully on the table.

‘That may be so, Cassandra,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘The problem is that we have Phoebe lawyers crawling all over us.’

‘But, why …’

He lifted the hand briefly to silence her objections.

‘Phoebe is claiming that we’ve “sexed up” the interview. They say that the journalist was creative with the facts and that any reference to Ms Fenton’s depression was made to you in passing conversation and has been taken completely out of context.’

‘I would dispute that,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘If Phoebe’s people …’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of phoning Phoebe’s people already,’ interrupted Jason leaning forward in his chair, ‘and they have made a proposal, a rather generous proposal in the circumstances, I would say. They say they won’t pursue us for damages if we pulp the issue.’

‘I don’t need to remind you of the financial implication of pulping the issue,’ said Greg. ‘Not to mention the impact on the next circulation figures.’

Cassandra let them speak, determined not to lose her cool and intrigued to see how far Toxic was prepared to push it. I can’t believe he’s actually using the magazine as a sacrificial lamb, undermining his own sales figures, just to twist the knife in me! Cassandra knew she had underestimated the extent of his ambition. She looked across at him; despite his stern face she could tell he was enjoying it, enjoying having blind-sided her, enjoying being teacher’s pet.

‘Pulp the issue?’ said Cassandra calmly. ‘How can you call that a generous proposal? It is simply not an option.’

Greg brought his hand down on the desk, making both Jason and Cassandra jump. ‘I will decide what is and is not an option for this company, Cassandra,’ he said in a low voice. If nothing else, Greg Barbera was clearly pissed off at having been dragged to London to sort this mess out. ‘Our legal department thinks it might be the best way forward and Jason seems inclined to agree. I, however, am keen to hear what you have to say on the matter.’

Cassandra paused, nodding slightly, before picking up the yellow Tanner Krolle handbag she had left next to her chair.

‘I’m sure you are both aware of the libel laws in this country?’ she asked, reaching into the bag. ‘It’s rather like the conundrum of the tree falling over in the woods: if no one is there to see her take cocaine, did it really happen? The burden of proof, therefore, is on the publisher, i.e. Phoebe Fenton may well have a mental illness, but if we can’t prove it, we are libelling her. If we can, however …’

Cassandra placed a small silver Dictaphone on the table and turned it on.

The voice was tinny but unmistakably the New York drawl of Phoebe Fenton.

‘… I have bipolar disorder. It’s been making me a little crazy.’

Greg’s face softened with the smallest of smiles as she let the tape run.

‘You make sure your back is covered,’ he said approvingly.

Cassandra merely smiled. She had found the tiny buttonhole micro phone she’d used to tape her conversation with Phoebe useful on numerous occasions. Greg Barbera’s smile might not have been quite so wide if he’d been aware that Cassandra also had numerous tapes of her conversations with him: his promises of pay-rises and career advancement, his bitter attacks on his own company and indiscretions about his colleagues. It was all just ammunition – for now.

‘But that’s not all,’ blustered Jason, trying to dig himself out of his hole. ‘I called the head of media planning at the Emerald agency, just to see what they thought of the issue. She’s not very happy either.’

‘You called her?’ asked Cassandra incredulously, unable to keep herself in check any longer. ‘Whose side are you on?’

Greg looked at Jason, his expression suggesting that he too might like an answer.

‘I was just gauging opinion,’ said Jason weakly.

‘Greg,’ said Cassandra, turning her back on Jason, ‘running the interview in exactly the way in which it was told to us was a calculated decision. I knew some of the more conservative advertisers wouldn’t be happy but I suspect that when they see the circulation figure for that issue, they will applaud our bravery. Now is not the time to be “gauging opinion”, it’s a time to press our advantage, to go to the advertisers and guarantee them that Rive’s year-on-year circulation will rise by at least 5 per cent.’

‘Guarantee?’ spluttered Jason, ‘But we don’t even know how the issue is doing yet! April is never the strongest selling issue of the year.’

Cassandra turned and stared at him levelly.

‘I predict by this time next week we’ll be reprinting.’

‘But our legal team says …’

‘Fuck our legal department,’ said Cassandra mildly.

Greg held up a hand to bring the sparring match to an end.

‘OK. So how do you suggest we proceed?’ He was pointedly asking Cassandra. Jason had already been dispensed with.

‘Let me with deal with it,’ she said confidently. ‘I have already phoned my friend at Schillings to fire off a letter to “Phoebe’s people”,’ she mocked Jason’s words. ‘And I will personally call all the major advertisers once we have the EPOS figures for the first week of sales.’

Greg seemed to be satisfied.

‘Cassandra,’ said Greg, his eyes unreadable. ‘Just be careful.’

Cassandra smiled politely, knowing she was back in control, then looked at Jason who had the look of a wounded animal.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have a magazine to edit.’

She closed the glass door behind her and walked down the corridor, imagining with relish the pain Jason Tostvig was about to be put through. That bastard! She had been wrong to think he was harmless; it had almost been a costly slip. She had been right about one thing though; he was stupid – stupid enough to cross her. Cassandra stalked back into the same bathroom she had left only twenty minutes before and leant on the sink, taking in deep breaths. She reached up to curl her eyelashes and saw that her hands were shaking. Pulp the issue indeed! For all her reputation, Cassandra knew something like that wouldn’t just be a black mark; it could be the loose thread which might start the whole thing unravelling. Even Diana Vreeland for all her brilliance and international reputation was ultimately dispensed with. That’s what fashion was all about – dispensability.

For a second she felt a wave of profound doubt: the person on top of the mountain was on the thinnest ridge and had the longest way to fall. She suddenly turned and ran into the nearest stall and threw up. When the spasms had passed, she wiped her mouth carefully and, checking no one had been in the bathroom to see her shame, walked back towards her office, her head held high.

There was no turning back. She had so many balls up in the air, so much at stake; she couldn’t afford to let up for a moment. Fashion was a game of poker: all about bluff and re-bluff, not who had the strongest hand. Cassandra had all her chips in the middle of the table, she couldn’t back out now. As she turned the corner to her office, she saw Jason Tostvig coming out of Greg Barbera’s office, his head bowed, his tie undone. Cassandra smiled. She would deal with him later.