Guilty Pleasures (33 page)

‘I’m just saying be careful,’ she said softly.

‘Careful of what?’ shouted Stella, too upset to hold it in. ‘Careful of getting a life? Careful of not devoting every waking minute of my time to the bloody company?’

‘Of course you’re entitled to time off. As your boss and your friend I’m just concerned about how long and who with. You know Johnny has a bad reputation. I don’t want you to waste your time or energy on someone who might not be worthy of you.’

‘How dare you?’ snapped Stella, enraged. ‘You hardly know him. And you know
nothing
about our relationship!’

‘Do you trust him?’ said Emma.

Her words stung. In some corner of her mind, Stella registered the implication of the question and noted the solemn expression
which suggested Emma knew more, but she was too wound up to pay heed.

‘What’s
really
wrong, Emma?’ said Stella, her voice cracking. ‘Are you jealous? Jealous that I manage to get the job done
and
have a life? Or are you jealous that all the press is about me?’

Emma was shaking her head. ‘Stella, don’t be ridiculous.’

Stella snorted. ‘Am I? Am I really?’

Emma slowly gathered her things and stood up.

‘Take a week off,’ she said.

‘Forget it,’ said Stella coolly. ‘Let’s just get back to work. Because that’s all there is, isn’t there?’

‘Stella …’ said Emma softly.

‘Let me have those deadlines,’ she said, brisk and businesslike. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it done.’

She walked back out onto the roof. Suddenly, despite the heat, she felt stone cold.

August is the fashion industry’s playtime, a small window of opportunity for pleasure between couture and the final preparations for the Spring/Summer collections held in September. Most years Cassandra spent two weeks of August holidaying in the same destinations as the rest of the fashion crowd: the hillside villas of Ibiza, the hip hotels along the French Riviera or on one of the magical islands that pepper the Italian coast – Stromboli perhaps, where Dolce and Gabbana had their own luxurious villa, or Pantelleria, a favourite with Giorgio Armani. But for the last two years Cassandra had spent her time on Guillaume Riche’s 175-foot motor yacht
Le Soleil
which, from the second the designer had launched it, had become one of the most sought-after August invitations for Europe’s rich, famous and fashionable. Its luxury had already taken on mythical proportions for those not lucky enough to have sailed in her. People whispered about the hand-painted silk paper and Hepplewhite furniture in the staterooms, about the former Michelin-starred chef in the galley and of service so particular and exacting that each guest would have their bedsheets washed and ironed twice daily, once in the morning and once after their siesta.

As
Le Soleil
slid through the blue Aegean waters, mooring just off Mykonos Town, Cassandra sat on the walnut deck knowing the great yacht was all this and more. She was one of the few people who could be guaranteed their annual invitation; Guillaume was known for his eclectic mix of guests so that no one, except his very closest friends, could be absolutely sure they’d be asked on board until their handwritten invitation arrived by courier. Not even Ruby had secured an invitation this year, although that had
been at Cassandra’s request. Although she felt pangs of guilt at having spent the last two weekends in Provence with Max, she still didn’t want her daughter on board
Le Soleil
when there was so much work to be done. And just because that work was going to be done in the super-chic clubs and bars of Mykonos Town surrounded by Guillaume’s beautiful people it didn’t mean she was any less busy.

‘What an absolutely glorious night for a party,’ said Serena Balcon, holding the hand of her fiancé actor Tom Archer as she daintily stepped out of the tender that had brought them into the harbour. It was no surprise that Serena was on board
Le Soleil.
Every designer was currently courting the aristocratic actress, each one desperate to design her wedding dress, despite knowing it would be tough to wrestle the honours from Serena’s old friend the French/Tunisian couturier Roman Le Fey.

All safely ashore, the group from
Le Soleil
stepped into the golf carts that were waiting to transport them through the whitewashed streets of Mykonos up to a villa situated at the top of town. Dusk was falling, the pink sky spilling a peachy glow over the sugar-cube houses clinging to the hill.

‘Whose party is it again?’ asked Tania Squires excitedly as they approached an enormous white villa.

‘Leopold Mancini, one of the industry’s top manufacturers,’ replied Cassandra. ‘Italian, I believe. He has a big party in Mykonos every year. It’s a must for anyone in the Cyclades.’

Cassandra eyed the New York model, not for the first time on the trip. Tania had an innocence that was quite charming and unexpected in the fashion world so it had not surprised Cassandra to hear, when they were sunbathing together on the top deck of the yacht earlier that day, that she had only moved from West Virginia to New York six months earlier. Tania was the sort of girl who advertised breakfast cereal; an extremely pretty girl, with long, champagne-blonde hair and a face of remarkable symmetry, although her features lacked anything memorable that would mark her out for the very top flight of modelling. Cassandra had already considered and rejected Tania for editorial in
Rive,
as she felt sure most of the other top fashion editors had done before her. It was why she still behaved like an 18-year-old, having not yet acquired the knowing, world-weariness that typified successful model teens. Still, there was something refreshing about Tania’s wide-eyed wonder
that not even Ruby with her routine exposure to the best things in life could match. Cassandra saw Tania take a deep breath of warm Greek air, shut her eyes and smile to herself.

‘It’s so wonderful to be here. I couldn’t believe it when my agent got the invitation from Guillaume.’ She opened his eyes. ‘It’s just crazy, isn’t it?
Me
and Clover Connor are the only models on board!’

‘He’s probably just after my mother’s couture business,’ came a voice from the seat behind her. Cassandra turned to see the very handsome face of Alex Jalid, Tania’s boyfriend and Georgia Kennedy’s stepson.

‘Guillaume doesn’t work like that,’ said Cassandra. ‘It doesn’t matter how rich you are, how famous you are. Guillaume simply wants a mix of interesting people he can have a wonderful time with.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Alex sullenly, turning to watch
Le Soleil
which had anchored outside the bay. ‘This had better be a good party, then.’

‘Oh, it will be,’ said Cassandra with a smirk. ‘I can guarantee that.’

Leopold Mancini held his annual party during the same week of August every year, at his enormous villa, one of the chicest in the whole group of Greek islands known as the Cyclades. It had a reputation of being one of the most flamboyant and decadent parties of the year; Mykonos was a favourite destination for both the fashion set and the glamorous gay community, both of whom had a reputation for partying hard. Leopold also had the money to do it justice. He was one of the invisible men of fashion; not a designer or a high-profile CEO of a luxury goods company, but still one of the most important men in the industry. His company Leopold was one of the industry’s most respected manufacturers and with his vast profits came the luxury of being able to stage the most spectacular and lavish events.

This year, as it quietly coincided with his fiftieth birthday, Leopold had decided to pull out all the stops. In the sumptuous courtyard was a life-size ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s David and a twelve-foot champagne fountain spilling over with Krug. Semi-naked waiters circulated with trays piled high with delicacies known for their aphrodisiac qualities: rock lobster, Galway Bay oysters and
tiny truffle tartlets. There was even a rumour that George Michael was going to do a thirty-minute set.

Clover Connor drained her fifth flute of champagne and lay back on the day bed to watch her boyfriend Ste Donahue lean against the wall strumming his guitar. They had found a quiet corner at the back of the villa facing away from the sea and into the interior of Mykonos which, in the shimmering darkness, Clover thought looked like the surface of the moon. The party was picking up around them but she had no desire to venture out of Ste’s air-space and into the accusing stares and curious glances. Clover read the tabloids, she knew people criticized their relationship but what did she care? Every date she’d ever had since she was seventeen had been in the papers, it was the normal state of things for her. Besides, most of her previous boyfriends had been musicians because it was a combination that worked; their itinerant lifestyle, the adoration, the money and temptations that they both encountered meant the rock star and the model both understood and needed one another. It was mutually supportive. But Ste was the most fascinating and sexiest musician she had ever encountered. His lean sinewy body, unruly dark hair and handsome, haunting features were the sort she used to dream about when she was growing up in Newcastle. He wrote her songs and sang her to sleep. He was clever, fun and knowledgeable and was hailed in the rock press as a genius. OK, so he enjoyed drugs – they both did. But the drugs helped him create those poetic lyrics that had set the album chart on fire. Anyway, what if he was dangerous? His kisses made her weak. Ste Donahue wasn’t just the love of her life, he was an obsession.

Clover stood up and wandered over to the wall where she could see the party in full swing. She remembered the days when it frightened her to come to parties like this. Ten years ago when she had first arrived in Paris to model she had been taken to some grand town house near the Bois. Coke was being snorted off every surface and the sounds and smells of sex – gay sex, straight sex, group sex – was all around her. Somebody had given her an ecstasy tablet and, too afraid to do anything else, she had taken it. Clover laughed to herself. How funny and naïve she was back then. Ste produced a crack pipe and lit it, the familiar sickly smell mushrooming around him. He inhaled the fumes, closing his eyes in pleasure and then passed it to Clover. A nagging voice in her head told her she shouldn’t. She’d done some coke on the yacht as well as at the
party and had drunk almost a bottle of Krug. But then as Ste smiled over lazily, she just wanted to climb into his skin. She loved him, loved him, loved him. The very least she could do was to take his hand and join him in that sweet heaven.

Cassandra and Giles stood on a balcony in the west wing of the villa enjoying the fresh air and peace away from the party. It was a wonderful night out there. Although it was now dark, it was still almost 80 degrees. Cassandra loved coming to Mykonos, she loved its stark aesthetics: the sugar-cube buildings, the blue and white churches with their cerulean domes, the startling blue of the Aegean against the dark, dusty volcanic soils further inland.

Giles was staring out at the black curtain of the sea. Only the flashes of silver light caught by breaking waves showed that there was anything out there but emptiness. ‘You know that the island straight out there, Delos, is at the exact centre of the earth?’ said Giles. ‘Legend has it that Delos was an invisible floating island until the god Poseidon anchored it at the centre of the four points of the compass using chains made from diamonds.’

‘Why on earth would he do that?’ asked Cassandra.

‘Because his brother Zeus had got a young lady in the family way and the gods forbade her to give birth anywhere on the earth. Delos wasn’t considered earthly – still isn’t. The Greeks still believe it is a sacred place. You can’t stay there overnight and it’s illegal to give birth or die there.’

Cassandra giggled.

‘Darling, how do you
know
these things?’

‘Benefits of a classical education,’ smiled Giles. ‘The only thing worth going to a public school for. Well, that and the divine boys.’

A waiter approached them. He was naked except for a white thong and after he had handed them some champagne and turned away, they could see a tattoo on his right buttock that said ‘This way, please.’ They both burst out laughing.

‘So. Has it been a useful trip?’

‘What
do
you mean?’ said Cassandra coyly.

‘You never let a little thing like being on holiday get in the way of work. Have you persuaded Serena Balcon and Tom Archer to do a cover?’

‘Giles, you do insult me,’ she chided.

He raised a groomed eyebrow. ‘Am I not correct?’

Cassandra laughed.

‘Not both of them together – couples just don’t sell. But yes, Serena has indicated that she might like to do something special for us. Of course I will leave it up to you to think of what that something special should be.’

She glanced at her Cartier watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. At some point she wanted to slip away and call Max but right now there was a more important phone call to make.

‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ she smiled, handing Giles her glass of champagne.

She moved through the villa admiring Leopold’s fabulous art collection; a Bacon, some Keith Harings, a couple of Hockney poolscapes. Whilst they were a joy to behold, they only served to remind Cassandra that she was not yet operating at the most lucrative end of the fashion industry. She went to the bathroom; she always felt more powerful with a slick of red on her lips.

Finding the room empty, she was refreshing her make-up when the door burst open. Clover Connor staggered in and, grabbing the hem of her skin-tight white Alaia dress, wriggled it over her head and dropped it on the floor, leaving her completely naked.

‘Clover! Are you OK?’ asked Cassandra. The model was swaying like a willow in the breeze, her eyes completely glassy.

‘I need a pee, I need a pee,’ she repeated, before slumping to the ground.

‘Clover! Clover! Are you all right?’ asked Cassandra leaning over her. ‘What have you taken?’ Clover’s drug use, which was an open secret in the fashion industry seemed to be sliding from recreational to something much worse. Cassandra wasn’t so much concerned for the girl’s physical or moral wellbeing. No, she was more worried because an addicted model was an unreliable one and Clover was one of the few models whose presence on a cover always guaranteed a sales uplift. Concerned that she might get vomit on her ivory Le Smoking, Cassandra ran out of the bathroom to look for Giles. She found him coming down the corridor towards her.

‘Quickly, come with me,’ she ordered.

‘I was just looking for you,’ replied Giles quickly. ‘Leopold says Ste Donahue is totally strung out on the balcony in his bedroom. He’s been looking for Guillaume to remove him but I think he has already left for the yacht. There are wagging tongues everywhere, we need to do something quick.’

Tania bounded towards them holding a flute of champagne aloft. She had stripped down to just a white string bikini.

‘What’s wrong?’ she trilled.

‘Ste isn’t feeling too well,’ said Giles diplomatically.

‘I was going to say the same about Clover,’ said Cassandra through her teeth.

Giles grasped the situation immediately.

‘Where is she?’

‘In a bathroom, on the next floor.’

‘What’s the problem? We’re not going already are we?’ said Alex, strolling up to the group.

‘Possibly,’ murmured Giles. ‘Alex, can you go and get Security? Failing that, someone big and muscly. You shouldn’t have a problem around here.’

‘But I was just on my way back to the pool,’ he replied, a note of whine in his voice.

‘Just
go!’
snapped Giles, his usually gentle voice now clipped and firm.