Guilty Pleasures (31 page)

Rob was having a bad day. He’d foolishly agreed to be interviewed by a music journalist who only seemed interested in discussing rumours that more bands at Rob’s company were about to defect to other labels. It was a headache Rob really didn’t need; only that morning his father had grandly delivered a memo demanding that millions be shaved off their budget for next year. That meant redundancies, cutting advances to artists and reducing marketing spend
right across his roster of three thousand musicians. Not only would that mean more defections, it was a PR nightmare waiting to happen. This had been the worst year of his professional life. When he’d joined Hollander Music he’d surrounded himself with talented executives who had years of music industry experience and as much enthusiasm as he had. Profits had risen. Their label scored a bumper crop of Grammies. He’d been made Vice President of the US company before being appointed CEO of UK and Europe eighteen months ago. But his arrival had coincided with one of the most uncertain times in the record industry’s history. CD sales were down and the new technology of online downloads was not sufficiently geared up to recoup the difference. It was a daily fight just to keep the company above water. His father didn’t understand the industry, just the bottom line and he seemed to believe the change in fortunes was down to his feckless son. Rob felt isolated. If he were to talk mammoth budget cuts with his management team of old school musos he would be branded a corporate sell-out. But if he didn’t make difficult decisions the company would face possible disaster. He felt sure that Emma Bailey would have an opinion on this.
Of course she would have an opinion on it.
He didn’t want to think about her either. He hadn’t invited Emma to the festival because he hadn’t wanted her to be there – it was as simple as that. He knew she’d see him with Jessica and she’d say something, or give him one of those looks that would make him feel that what he was doing was completely wrong. And don’t even mention the fact that Jessica had become annoyingly possessive and clingy when she had seen Emma. He sighed:
Broads, man.
Suddenly Rob had a moment of clarity; it was like the sun bursting through the clouds. For the first time in a long while, all he wanted to do was go and get completely smashed.

Emma looked at her phone and frowned. She had just received a message from Ruan saying that
everyone
was in Kowalski’s tour bus, whoever
everyone
might be.
We’re in Area B,
Ruan had said. Area B? Where was that exactly? Festivals were perfect places for losing people. It was like the Labyrinth at Knossos thought Emma, wondering in which direction to go. She wandered away from the VIP area into the backstage parking area, a higgledy-piggledy assortment of coaches, lorries and sleek Winnebagos, all so high it was impossible to see into the next row, let alone spot your own vehicle.
This is hopeless, she thought crossly. It was dark, she was lost and as their driver wasn’t picking them up until 1 a.m., she had another hour and a half to kill. She was about to call Ruan asking him for better directions to Area B when she heard a familiar voice and a high-pitched giggle. She stopped behind a long silver Winnebago and peeked around the corner. Illuminated by a shard of moonlight, she could see a couple laughing; Johnny Brinton and the girl in pixie boots whom she’d seen with him earlier. They weren’t kissing or even touching, but there was an intimacy about the way they were standing that reminded her of when she first saw Rob and Jessica at the wedding. Suddenly Johnny turned and looked into the dark in Emma’s direction. She jumped back, not knowing if he had seen her and quickly moved off back the way she had come. A burly man stepped out of a trailer and almost knocked her down.

‘Are you lost, love?’

Emma tried to keep her voice low.

‘I’m looking for Area B.’

‘It’s over there,’ he said, pointing a torch away from Johnny and the Pixie.

‘Thanks!’ she hissed and set off at a run. It had suddenly turned very cold and the thin sweater she had brought wasn’t keeping her warm. Finally she found a white tour bus with a card in the window that read ‘Kowalski’.

‘There you are,’ said Ruan. ‘I went to meet you in the comedy tent but you’d gone.’

‘It wasn’t very funny,’ smiled Emma.

To Emma’s surprise it was not particularly glamorous or luxurious inside a rock band’s tour bus. There were a couple of bench-type sofas, cramped bunk beds and a long kitchen area with a chipped Formica table that jutted out at right angles. There was a faint smell of alcohol, sweat and marijuana, but no rock stars. The band had only finished their storming set on stage twenty minutes ago and had yet to appear. Stella was lying back like Ophelia on one of the bunk beds, her eyes closed, and after what she had just seen, Emma was glad she was asleep. Ruan was slumped on one sofa while Rob, sitting with his back to the window next to Jessica, was drinking champagne out of a large plastic cup.

‘Well, better late than never,’ smiled Jessica handing Emma the bottle of Moët.

‘How was the mosh-pit?’ asked Rob, his eyes looking a little glassy.

‘I gave it a wide berth,’ she smiled. ‘I managed to see one of Hollander’s new bands though – The Constants. They were fantastic. Their last song reminded me of something on that Beatles album you gave me.’

A slow grin spread across Rob’s face.

‘You’re learning, kiddo.’

Emma caught Jessica carefully watching them both and then give a sour smile. For Emma, who had spent her undergraduate years studying psychology because she wanted to understand human behaviour, it was telling. At that moment she knew she didn’t like or trust Jessica.

‘I don’t know about anyone else but I need a pick-me-up before the driver comes,’ said Jessica, reaching into her handbag. She took out a little paper envelope, unfolded it and then tipped some of the white powder onto the table. She took a credit card out of her purse and expertly chopped it into four fat lines, inhaling one through a rolled-up twenty pound note.

Emma felt deeply uncomfortable. She had never been a drug user, not out of any great moral fortitude but simply because the idea had never appealed, but she knew enough to know that doing drugs was a short cut to being ‘cool’, to being part of this world. Once again Emma felt like she was the geek in the playground, the square, the bore. As if sensing her discomfort, Jessica nodded in her direction.

‘Want some?’

‘No thanks, I was actually just going back outside,’ she answered, flushing slightly.

‘So soon?’ replied Jessica. ‘Is it another
emergency?’

‘No, there’s still something on in the comedy tent we wanted to see,’ said Ruan quickly, following Emma out of the trailer.

‘Have fun,’ trilled Jessica.

Rob frowned as he watched them go, unable to put his finger on why he suddenly felt uncomfortable. The amount of booze he’d consumed might have had something to do with it. After he’d decided to get rightly sozzled, he had entered the champagne tent at a run and poured half a bottle of Moët into a plastic pint glass, knocking it back like lemonade. He was now comfortably numb, but not so numb that he couldn’t feel Jessica’s hand stroking his
crotch under the table. That certainly wasn’t the thing that was wrong – he was most definitely enjoying what she was doing. Jessica was a world-class fuck, she was also funny and smart, albeit street-smart. She was definitely a cut above the girls he usually met on the party circuit. But still, he couldn’t concentrate, something was nagging at him. He brushed Jessica’s hand away from him and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Jessica, surprised.

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘You’re not going after Emma, are you?’ she said, standing up and holding onto his arm.

‘No,’
he snorted, as if she had said something ridiculous. ‘There’s a band manager I need to speak to. I’ll just be a few minutes.’

‘Come back soon,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I’m horny and I want to fuck you into tomorrow.’

Rob walked into the dark. The music from the stage had stopped and instead there was just the distant sound of cheering. Without thinking, he found his feet leading him towards the comedy tent. She was standing in the dark at the back, small and slim next to the tall, brooding figure of Ruan. They were both laughing and she was tapping her foot in time to the music until the final act came on. She didn’t look awkward now. She looked softer, happier. Not the bristling angry wound-up little thing from the wedding, not the stressed-out workaholic he would see jogging around Chilcot.
Happier than when she was with him.
Rob realized that he’d come to find her because he had hated the situation in the trailer, the look on her face when Jessica had offered her drugs. It wasn’t disapproval, just awkwardness and a little panic, an emotion Rob would never have associated with Emma; she always seemed so capable, so in control. But he shouldn’t have worried; she was OK.
Too
OK. He shook his head and turned around, slowly heading back to the bus. He wasn’t even looking forward to the world-class fuck that was waiting for him there.

The San Pellegrino bottles lined up on the tables glinted in the sunlight. It was a blazingly hot day and Cassandra stood up to close the blinds as the
Rive
staff settled themselves around the boardroom table. When she took her seat, she was surrounded by almost the entire staff of the magazine, all looking at her expectantly.

‘Any idea what next month’s ABC figures are going to look like?’ asked a voice from the back.

Cassandra nearly smiled; she knew what was on their minds. The ABC figures – the official industry circulation figures released twice a year – were about to be announced and they were the only real way magazines could tell how their sales compared against their rivals. With the exception of the most senior staff, the team were only privy to the figures when they were published in February and August and they were powerful numbers. Poor ABC figures could lose a magazine a vital advertising campaign and they would certainly destroy a staff’s morale; even a tiny downturn could send them into a depression. And that was Cassandra’s problem. She already knew that
Rive’s
figures would be static: no rise, no fall. The Phoebe Fenton cover and the resulting controversy had given the circulation a big push, but a poor selling March issue and the dreaded Ludvana cover had had an impact on sales. It was bad news in any event but following her conversation with Pierre Desseau, it was a disaster. Cassandra needed to show him that she was one of the top editors in the world and mediocre sales figures just weren’t going to do that. It was extra pressure she just didn’t need. Pierre had called her back six days
after their meeting to say he was interested, but he told her he needed more before he would consider agreeing to his side of the bargain. He wanted hard proof she could access Alliance’s figures and plans. Cassandra told him she could play hardball too:
No
Grand
magazine,
she said,
no insider information.
It had been like the hard slog of a grass-court tennis match. Eventually the Frenchman had conceded, but had insisted that Cassandra prove she was worthy of the job. He had set her a list of targets, the biggest of which was that she had to out-perform US
Rive.
Not at the newsstand – that was impossible – but in industry standing. And while they could massage the figures slightly, there was no hiding the fact that Cassandra’s performance this year was beginning to look a little lacklustre.

‘We are expecting a very tiny uplift in figures,’ said Cassandra, taking a sip of water. ‘As you know we have had some incredible sales in this period, but it’s a very competitive market out there right now. That said, our market share is excellent: we remain the number one choice for premium fashion advertisers and our covers are some of the most talked about in the business. Which,’ she paused and placed her manicured hands flat on the table, ‘is why we’re here.’

At the back of the room, Lianne flipped a switch and the covers from
Rive
over the last six months flashed up. Next came
Vogue’s
covers, then those of
Class
magazine.

What was noticeable was the regularity with which the magazines’ cover stars were repeated. If Angelina was on one cover one month, she’d be on somebody else’s the next – in many instances, the same actress or singer was on two or three magazines the same month. Deborah Kane,
Rive’s
entertainment editor, leant forward. Deborah was in charge of liaising with celebrity publicists and securing the celebrities for the magazine.

‘It’s getting more and more difficult, Cassandra,’ said Deborah. ‘Increasingly we can only get a star to agree to be in
Rive
when they are promoting something. And I can name five top LA and New York publicists who won’t agree to exclusivity, so you get Jennifer turning up on three covers in one month. It’s the same problem for everybody.’

‘We
aren’t
everybody,’ snapped Cassandra. ‘We have to provide our readers with exclusivity. We have to get them the un-get-able.’

‘Well, what about using more models?’ suggested Deborah.

‘With the exception of Clover Connor and Summer Sinclair, models just don’t work as well for us as celebrities,’ said Giles, folding his arms.

‘Besides, as some of you here may know,’ said Cassandra, ‘I want to refresh the magazine for our March issue.’ The March and September issues were the two most important issues of the year because they launched the new fashion season and would be full of advertising for the new lines from every fashion house.

‘You mean redesign?’ asked Jeremy, her features editor.

She glared at Jeremy, fully understanding his implication. The dreaded ‘R’ word – a redesign – was the industry’s tool for propping up an ailing or stagnant magazine.

‘Not a redesign, Jeremy,’ she said, icily, ‘a
refresh.
I don’t expect you to be aware of the subtler nuances of magazine publishing, but we need to mix things up for the reader. So what do we have so far?’

Giles cleared his throat. ‘We have an entertaining slot pencilled in: Cavalli has agreed to throw a lunch on his yacht. He’ll get lots of celebrities there although, obviously, they’ll have to be wearing Cavalli. We also have an art special…’ he said, pushing across a 1930s cover of French
Vogue
which featured a beautiful water-colour of a model. ‘Lagerfeld is doing some exclusive illustrations for us along these lines. I think they’ll be fabulous.’

Cassandra nodded her approval. ‘Art and fashion. Very
Rive,’
she said.

Francesca, her fashion director, looked efficiently through her notes. ‘We obviously won’t know our stories until after the shows but I think Mert & Marcus are on board to shoot twenty pages of trends, which will be a studio shoot. For our location shoot, I’m thinking somewhere edgy and
difficult.
Maybe a knitwear shoot in Sierre Leone or perhaps guns and couture in Darfur.’

David Stern grimaced as Cassandra glanced over at Lianne to make sure she was taking full notes.

‘I like it. Features?’

‘I thought of the cover-line ‘Fashion Muses Compare Notes,’ where we do a big photo-shoot with everyone from Amanda Harlech to Stella Tennant and Sophia Coppola,’ said Jeremy, feeling less bold after his dressing down.

‘Salman Rushdie wants to do an essay for us. He’s thinking of appropriate subject matter.’

‘Nothing too contentious,’ replied Cassandra raising an eyebrow.

‘“Botox Beneath the Burka” is a report we wanted to do on plastic surgery in the Middle East. And of course we have the “At Home” special.’

‘Continue,’ Cassandra nodded. At Home’s were the holy grail of features. Voyeuristic and usually sumptuous, they offered an insight into the celebrity’s world you just couldn’t get from a straightforward interview.’

‘Who have we got so far?’

‘George Clooney’s Lake Como villa …’

‘Gorgeous but done already by
Vanity Fair,’
Cassandra snapped. ‘Come on, work harder, I want exclusives here.’

‘Well, Catherine Zeta Jones at her Bermuda house fell through.’

‘Why?’

Deborah Kane had the pinched look of someone who was sucking a lemon.

‘A clash with filming,’ she shrugged, ‘plus I think she really wanted to be shot in a studio.’

‘I don’t want excuses,’ said Cassandra, struggling to control her temper, ‘I want results. What
Rive
needs for its March cover is something special, something
extra
special, something that has never been seen before in the pages of a magazine. We need to be the ones to deliver the unbelievable.’

She thought of the Princess Diana pictures shot by Mario Testino, images that were still being talked about over a decade later, or Demi Moore naked and pregnant, a pose that had been copied by dozens of magazines around the world. She needed something to make the readers sit up and notice.
That would make Pierre Desseau sit up and notice,
she thought. She looked round the room and was met by a sea of blank faces.

‘Meredith. Give me a name,’ said Cassandra pointing at her beauty director.

‘Julia and Cameron don’t do much. It’d be good to get them.’

‘Are you people not listening to me?’ she said, her voice raised. ‘We want somebody we have never seen on the front cover of a magazine. Somebody new, somebody exciting.’

Deborah Kane shuffled uncomfortably in her chair.

‘When you think about it Cassandra, there are only so many celebrities in the world and everyone has taken a bite out of
them. We could look at doing an ensemble cover, maybe? Five of the hottest new actresses breaking through. Do it as a gate-fold?’

‘And copy
Vanity Fair’s
annual Hollywood issue?’ said Cassandra. ‘Come on, we are
Rive,
we lead, we do not follow. Who else?’

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, while all the staff avoided her gaze.

‘Where did we ever get with Georgia Kennedy?’ Giles said finally.
Now that was a name,
thought Cassandra. Georgia Kennedy was the twenty-first century’s Grace Kelly. An Oscar-winning actress, her acting talent was only matched by her beauty and her sense of style. She’d burned brightly in Hollywood in the early Nineties, scoring half a dozen near-legendary leading lady roles in some of the biggest hits of the decade. She had been a true superstar. But five years ago, at the peak of her fame and desirability, she had met and married Sayed Jalid, the ruling prince of oil-rich country Sulka, and had effectively disappeared from view. There were occasional photographs of her doing charity work, visiting land-mine victims in Angola or orphanages in southern Africa, or a rare appearance at a gala dinner or royal wedding but, in celebrity terms, that made Georgia Kennedy a recluse.

‘Now we’re talking,’ said Cassandra, the hint of a smile on her lips. ‘I want her on our March cover. And not just the cover. I want Georgia Kennedy – At Home.’

Deborah stifled a surprised little laugh and Cassandra immediately rounded on her.

‘You find this funny, Deborah?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but you’re asking for the impossible. I’ve tried at least a dozen times to get her and it’s always a polite no. There’s a reason she hasn’t been on a single magazine cover in the last five years – she doesn’t want to be. She doesn’t do photo-shoots and she doesn’t do interviews, not even about her charity work.’

‘I don’t want to hear this!’ spat Cassandra. ‘All I’m hearing is “can’t” and “won’t” and all I’m getting is excuses and easy options. Doesn’t anyone in this room have any ambition? Any passion? Doesn’t anyone want
Rive
to be the best fashion magazine in the world? Well, I do. In fact, forget fashion, I want
Rive
to be the best magazine in the world! Now get out there and get me Georgia Kennedy.’

The other members of staff looked nervously at each other as Cassandra closed her notebook to signify the meeting was over.

‘Perhaps we should have a backup plan as well?’ said Giles politely.

‘And perhaps we need to rethink various members of staff if they can’t deliver,’ said Cassandra, already walking to the door.