Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 33

It was simply not possible to squeeze another computer, pot plant or Post-it note into the Sand offices, thought Cate, looking round her new workplace with a grimace. Every inch of floor and shelf space was crammed with boxes, piles of magazines and press releases. She pushed her chair away from her desk, only moving two feet backwards before it collided with a filing cabinet. She rubbed her eyes, needing a moment or two away from the blank stare of the computer.

It was only noon but she was already exhausted. The late nights and fifteen-hour working days were catching up with her. Still, it was worth it, she thought, looking up at the magazine layouts they had pinned to every inch of wall-space. It was better than she could have dreamed, a feat made all the more remarkable by the fact that it had been put together by the nine people crammed behind the jumble of desks in front of her. To think she’d had a staff of forty at Class magazine – and she had thought that was difficult.

‘Here’s everybody’s itinerary for the cover shoot,’ announced Sadie Wilcox, moving around the office, putting sheets of A4 paper on desks. How strange it was being back working with her old PA, who had been fired within a month of Nicole Valentine becoming editor. Of course, Sadie wasn’t her PA this time round: there were no luxuries like that at Sand Publishing. Here Sadie was junior writer/office manager and general lifesaver rolled into one rather poorly paid package. Not that Sadie seemed to mind; in fact she seemed to be thriving in the tiny office. The same seemed to be true of the entire Sand team, and Cate was touched on a daily basis by the hard work and commitment the whole staff was channelling into the magazine. She made a mental note to buy some pink champagne for their Friday night drinks.

The phone rang. It was Nick, calling from the luxury of his office. ‘Cate, can you just pop through for a minute?’ he said.

Cate smiled. Nick’s workspace was only on the other side of a thin plasterboard partition, and he could just as easily banged on the wall to get her attention. Cate walked through to the office, a space no bigger than the gun room at Huntsford, where Nick sat behind a desk looking at a copy of Sadie’s cover-shoot budget.

‘W’sup?’

Nick pulled a face that Cate instantly recognized was about money.

‘This cover shoot is costing a bloody fortune,’ he said, punching a bunch of numbers into his calculator.

‘Yes, well cover shoots cost money,’ said Cate, ‘especially when we want it to be as good as a Vogue cover. Agius is shooting for free; we’ve got the rooms at a fifty per cent discount in return for some coverage – and the rest? Well, the rest costs money, Nick. Sybil Down is one of the world’s top models at the moment, and when you do something with her it has to be a big production.’

‘Yes,’ said Nick impatiently, ‘but does she really have to go business class? I mean, the flight to Nice is only about an hour and a half. All you get in business class on those short hops is a curtain and your lunch served on a porcelain plate. I’m not paying an extra three hundred quid for that!’

Cate smiled indulgently. ‘What do you expect? Do you expect Sybil to travel down on EasyJet?’

Nick waved a hand and then pressed its heel against his temple. ‘OK, I get the picture. Just don’t forget that our entire editorial budget for one issue is about the same as a Class fashion shoot, OK? Just be careful, you know?’

Cate looked at him and raised one eyebrow warily. ‘It’s my money, my business too, you know, Nick.’

His face softened and he smiled. ‘I know, I’m just being a budget Nazi. It took so long to get this bloody money – I hate to see a penny wasted.’ He took a deep breath and pushed the paper away from him. ‘Anyway, fancy going for lunch in about half an hour? We could take a walk to Borough Market. They do the world’s best falafel.’

She hesitated. Cate was still trying to avoid situations where the two of them would be alone, but the sun was pouring through the small window and the first issue was nearly finished. ‘Just let me go and get my bag,’ she said.

‘Before you go, boss!’ shouted Sand’s fashion editor Vicky Morgan, clutching a huge white floppy-brimmed hat. ‘D’you wanna look at the rail of clothes for the cover shoot?’

Cate walked over and pulled a handful of skimpy fluorescent tropical-print bikinis from the pile. ‘I love these Missoni and Pucci prints. Honestly, Vicky, thank you so much for sorting out this shoot with Sybil. She is such a perfect cover girl for us.’

Cate had been very lucky to get her old friend to work at Sand. Vicky’s fashion eye was the best in the business, and her contact book of model agencies, photographic studios and top photographers was bulging. From Vicky’s point of view, the flexible working week suited her; she could still freelance as a stylist to a long list of actors and pop singers, and she knew a stunning magazine idea when she saw one.

‘Yeah, well, I did that Victoria’s Secret campaign with Sybil six months ago,’ shrugged Vicky modestly, ‘and she said she really wanted to work with me again. I gave her a ring, and here we are. It’s going to be fabulous!’ she laughed, holding a leopardskin bikini top up to her chest and posing.

‘This just came for you,’ said Sadie, bustling in and passing Cate a large white bag tied up with a black ribbon.

Cate put down an espadrille and grinned at Vicky. ‘We may not be Class magazine, but looks like you’re still getting the perks of the job,’ said Vicky. Cate pulled off the ribbon and peeked inside. There was a message on a compliment slip: ‘For all your hard work. Good luck. Rebecca.’

‘What the hell is this?’ whispered Cate, pulling crumpled handfuls of white tissue paper out of the bag.

‘Rebecca? Not Rebecca Willard from Mode PR?’ said Vicky, reading the card.

‘The very same,’ said Cate, raising an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And also Nick Douglas’s girlfriend,’ she whispered.

‘You’re kidding,’ said Vicky, her hand over her mouth. ‘I would never have put those two together in a month of Sundays. Anyway, what have you got? She’s just got the account for Alexander Dupont, maybe it’s something from him! Ooh, let’s see!’

At first Cate could just see a flash of yellow. She pulled out the garment bit by bit, catching a flash of a huge gaudy gold button.

‘Eek!’ giggled Vicky, pulling a face. ‘Not one of his classic pieces then.’

Cate held the jacket up. It was one of the most revolting items of clothing she had ever seen. It was vast and vulgar, with vivid gold stitching and hideous outsized buttons. And there were horribly dated patch-pockets on the front. ‘I think this is the sort of stuff he aims at his Saudi customers,’ said Vicky diplomatically. ‘Not really you, is it?’ she smiled, ‘although I suppose it was nice of her to send it over.’

Like hell! thought Cate, putting the jacket over the back of Vicky’s chair.

Just then Nick strode into the room, pulling a suit jacket on over his shirt and jeans. ‘What you got there, Cate? A pressie?’ he asked.

‘Rebecca sent it over for me, actually,’ said Cate, holding it up for him to see.

Nick tried to suppress a look of horror. ‘Oh that’s umm, the colour is really, err, bright,’ he said. ‘Perfect for, well, summer I suppose.’

Vicky started giggling as Cate carefully folded the garment and put it back in the bag. ‘Perfect for the bonfire …’ she began to mutter before stopping herself. Her reaction could so easily get back to Rebecca through Nick, and she wasn’t going to let her rival win this round. She knew that woman’s game.

‘Yes, it’s really kind of her,’ said Cate to Nick. ‘Every woman wants an Alexander Dupont piece after all. I must phone her and thank her this afternoon.’

She caught an expression in his face that she couldn’t quite work out. Was it relief or embarrassment? Or something else? She picked up her jacket and left Vicky to pack the clothes into big wheelie suitcases, ready to take to the south of France on Monday. ‘So anyway, falafel?’

Nick nodded. ‘Falafel.’

Borough Market on a Friday lunchtime never failed to make Cate smile. Hungry crowds filled the warehouse-like covered market, slick City workers jostling with East End housewives at the organic fruit and vegetable stalls, while a hundred different exotic smells mingled in the air. Chorizo with cheese, flowers with fish, pies with pickles. It was a wonderful assault on the senses, and Cate always came back with her stomach full and her arms laden with bags of scallops, pastries and long French loaves.

‘I’m really excited about the advertising,’ said Cate as they queued at the Turkish food stall. As usual, she wanted to keep the conversation with Nick strictly about work. Sand’s tiny advertising team had managed to secure twenty-five pages of excellent, high-end advertising: vital if they were going to have a successful launch.

‘Yes, considering the time we had to land them all, it’s an amazing line up,’ nodded Nick, as they collected their falafels. ‘Pity some of the biggies like Chanel are still waiting to actually see the first few issues, but I’d say the signs are pretty good. So I think I can safely come to Monaco without the fear of bankruptcy looming over us just yet.’

Cate pulled off a piece of pitta bread and looked at him cynically. ‘Good point, Mr Douglas. If you’re so bothered about the cover-shoot budget, why are you coming down to the south of France with us?’

She noticed his cheeks go a little pink, but it could have been the sun. ‘You may have noticed, Miss Balcon, that I’m paying for it myself. EasyJet to Nice.’

‘Honestly,’ laughed Cate, digging him gently in the ribs, ‘the mere whiff of a supermodel and you’re on the first budget flight there.’

‘I’m a class act, I know,’ he laughed. He took his thumb and wiped a dollop of hummus from Cate’s chin. The simple intimacy of it startled her and she stepped back, stumbling on a barrel of apples. Collecting herself, she realized that she really didn’t want him coming down to Monaco for the shoot. She had by now blocked out what had happened in Milan, and seeing Nick and Rebecca at Tom’s the previous weekend had made her realize that any thoughts of a romance between them were both ill-advised and futile. The charge between them had disappeared and the chumminess they had felt before was returning, although Cate still felt as though she could not talk as freely with Nick as she could have done before Milan. While she had successfully squashed any feelings for him into the tiniest darkest recess of herself, she really didn’t want to put herself into another vulnerable situation. Self-preservation, that’s the name of the game, she thought to herself.

By the time they got back to the office, it was almost empty. Only Ruth Grey, the picture editor, had been left sweltering in front of her screen. It was a boiling-hot afternoon, a real scorcher considering it was still May.

Cate pulled open a window to let in some fresh air and sat down behind her desk, squirting a spray of Evian mist over her face. She looked at the magazine plan in front of her. One more week before everything was due at the printers’ and it all looked in pretty good shape. The only thing really missing was the cover shoot. She hated leaving such an important thing so late, but it had been worth it to get Sybil, the glamorous New Yorker who was the biggest noise in the modelling world since Kate Moss. Cate switched her computer back on and began sorting through her backlog of emails, noticing that one from ILF model agency was flagged up as urgent. She clicked on the envelope icon with a frown. She was sure that Sadie had sent over all of the flight and hotel details to Sybil’s booker earlier that week. As she read the email, Cate’s blood ran cold.

Hi Cate,

Sorry to give you this news at such short notice, but Sybil Down will be unable to attend the Sand magazine shoot from Monday. As you know, she was only able to accommodate this shoot because she was going to be down at the film festival, but is now unable to attend due to illness. Please give me a ring to discuss.

Best regards,

Caroline Davis, head booker.

‘Shit!’ shouted Cate, almost spilling the bottle of water sitting on her desk. She never swore. But this time she couldn’t help it.

Ruth, the picture editor, looked up from her light-box where she had been looking at some photos from paparazzi agencies. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Bloody Sybil Downs has pulled out from the shoot!’ said Cate, screwing up her itinerary and throwing it towards the wastepaper basket.

‘You’re kidding!’ said Ruth. ‘How come?’

‘Apparently she’s too ill to get to Cannes,’ said Cate, already up and beginning to pace around the room. ‘But she was fine yesterday when they confirmed.’

Ruth began to sort through a huge pile of photographs on her desk. ‘That’s weird …’ she murmured, moving from the prints to her computer, where she scrolled through yet more celebrity shots on her screen. ‘… I’m sure I saw … yes! Here it is! Come and have a look at this, Cate.’

Cate strode over to Ruth’s desk and looked at the digital photographs from the previous evening’s parties in Cannes. And there – walking up the steps of the Cannes Palais des Festivals in a strapless white gown – was Sybil Down, looking stunning, happy and perfectly healthy.

‘Not in Cannes! That bitch!’ shouted Cate, rushing back to her desk and snatching up her phone. She punched in ILF’s number in New York. ‘Bloody hell, she’s on voicemail!’ said Cate after a moment. ‘No wonder!’ she added, slamming the phone down.

She had to think quickly. The magazine was due down at the printers’ in ten days and they had no cover to print. ‘Right, Ruth!’ barked Cate across the room, ‘Call up all the picture libraries and see what they have got in terms of celebrities or the really big models. On a beach, on a yacht, wandering through St Tropez, I don’t care what they’re doing, it just has to look really “holiday”.’

Cate pulled her hair back into a tight bun as she always did when she was nervous.

Nick poked his head around the door. ‘Swearing like a navvy, Cate?’ he teased. ‘What’s up?’

‘Let’s go back into your office,’ said Cate, pulling at his shirtsleeve

Cate quickly filled him in on what had happened.

‘Bugger,’ said Nick, sinking down into his chair. ‘That’s the cost of all those flights and hotels up the Swanee.’

‘Forget the money for a minute,’ said Cate irritably, ‘we have no cover. Ruth is looking for an image we can buy in, but that’s a last resort. If our first cover isn’t an exclusive, then the industry is going to think we’re amateurs, just another run-of-the-mill magazine with no pull in the world of fashion.’ She paced around Nick’s office, her brow furrowed.

‘As soon as Vicky gets back, she can ring around all the other model agencies and see if there are any other big girls around next week. I’ll call some publicist friends, although offhand I can’t think of any Brits who’d be right for the cover. We need it to be glamorous. It’s only really the Hollywood stars or the big, big models that really sell.’

‘What about Serena?’ asked Nick, looking up at Cate. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be in London and Cannes over the next week or so?’

Cate started nodding absent-mindedly, gazing out of the office’s tiny window overlooking a car park. Of course she had thought about asking Serena, who was arriving in London the following day en route to Cannes, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. Everyone was expecting her to put her sister on the front cover, and Cate didn’t want to be predictable. She wanted to show that – while she might be a Balcon sister – she could do things her way; edit this magazine on her own terms without resorting to family connections.

‘So …’ said Nick, ‘give her a ring.’

Cate turned to face him and placed her hands on the desk. ‘Look, I’d rather not,’ she said. ‘You can understand why I don’t want my sister on the first issue.’

‘Christ, Cate,’ said Nick anxiously, ‘we’re in a fix. We don’t want to put me on the cover, do we? We’ve got less than ten days! You know that.’

‘Look, just give me a couple of hours,’ Cate said evenly. ‘First thing I need to do is get back in touch with Sybil’s booker. I’m going to tell her that we’re going to invoice her for all the flights and hotels and that I’ve seen pap shots of Sybil in Cannes. Maybe we can change their minds.’

‘Here’s hoping,’ said Nick.

Damn the Cannes film festival, thought Cate, slamming the telephone receiver down for the dozenth time. Hardly anybody seemed to be in the office that Friday afternoon. She’d left countless messages at the film publicist’s offices in Cannes, but nobody seemed to be getting back to her. Well, no wonder, she thought, calming herself a little: it was a frantic time for everyone in the business. Vicky, meanwhile, had drawn a blank with the model agencies. All the top three agencies had said in the nicest way possible that they wanted to wait to see the first issue before they would commit to sending their top girls. It was still too early to ring the LA publicists, thought Cate, checking her watch – only seven in the morning over there. Anyway, she doubted she would pull off any miracles in that direction. LA shoots usually took three or four weeks to organize, and they had hours, not days. Her phone rang again and she picked it up expectantly.

‘Cate, it’s only Nick. D’you wanna pop through a minute? Rebecca’s here.’

Cate groaned and stalked through to Nick’s office. Rebecca was perched on the edge of Nick’s desk in a barely-there sundress, brown leather boots and a big pair of aviator sunglasses, her glossed-up lips glistening.

‘Hi darling!’ she gushed, reaching over to kiss Cate on both cheeks. Cate flinched both times. ‘I just called Nick,’ she explained, waving her hands around in the air for dramatic effect. ‘And he mentioned you were in a bit of a fix. I was only in Covent Garden, so I got a cab straight over, because I think I might be able to help you out. Either way, did you love the jacket or did you love the jacket I sent over?’

Cate looked at her, trying to plaster a smile onto her face. ‘Yes, I really loved the jacket, thank you so much.’

‘Anyway,’ said Rebecca, lifting her sunglasses off and fixing them on top of her head, ‘I’ve just heard what a witch Sybil Down’s been, but I think I’ve got the solution. We’ve only just confirmed it, but we’re taking on someone terribly exciting for the face of one of my clients – Flaubert jewellery – and she just so happens to be in Cannes next week, hosting the party for the client. I’m not totally sure yet, but I think I could get you two or three hours for a shoot as long as she will be wearing some Flaubert jewellery.’

Rebecca grinned triumphantly.

Cate cleared her throat. ‘Sounds great, but who is it?’

‘It’s only Rachel Barnaby!’ gushed Rebecca, turning to fix a dazzling smile on Nick. ‘She’d be perfect! You know she was Vogue’s biggest-selling cover girl of last year, don’t you?’

Cate groaned inwardly. Even though she knew this was the perfect solution to their problems, she felt her heart sink as Nick smiled up gratefully towards Rebecca. In the small confined space of Nick’s office, she felt trapped by Rebecca’s gloating. Cate dug a thumbnail into her palm and tried to stop feeling so uncharitable. After all, Rebecca was helping them out of a hole, wasn’t she? But why did it have to be Rebecca?

Nick stood up and walked over to where Cate was standing. ‘You OK, Cate?’ he asked, putting a concerned hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? Rachel Barnaby. She’s good, even I know that!’

Cate smiled weakly. ‘Yes great. She’s perfect. And it doesn’t look like we’re getting very far with Sybil’s people. No, she’ll be perfect. Thanks, Rebecca, thank you.’

As Nick turned to sit back at his desk, Rebecca flashed a look at Cate, one eyebrow raised and the edge of her lip curled up into a slightly malevolent smile. It was the face of a child who had successfully shifted blame for their mischievousness onto a hated sibling, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Cate was instantly filled with suspicion.

Could Rebecca have planned all this? Surely she couldn’t have sabotaged and then saved her cover shoot? But that would just be too … well, insane. She looked up at Rebecca smiling sweetly and pulling her bag over a shoulder ready to leave. No, she was just paranoid, how could that be?

‘Well, I’ll leave you two worker bees to it,’ purred Rebecca as she reached the door. ‘I’d better rush back and get all this sorted for you. Of course my client will be picking up Rachel’s expenses so you’ve no worries there, but I’d better book a flight for myself. The client will definitely want me there to supervise it all. And Nick, sweetie, I can slip into your hotel room, can’t I?’

Cate stared after her, mouth agape, suddenly feeling that she’d had the whole operation snatched from beneath her. And something told her that her conspiracy theory was right.