Guilty Pleasures (34 page)

‘Now, Tania, get someone with one of those golf carts round to the front.’

‘Mmm, Giles. You can be so butch when you want to be,’ smiled Cassandra approvingly.

He took off his white jacket and turned towards the bathroom. ‘Let’s just go and find her, shall we?’

Clover was lying spreadeagled on the bathroom floor when they found her, vomit trailing from the side of her mouth. Tania followed them in, and gasped when she saw her idol in such a state.

‘Is she dead?’ she gulped, both hands flying to her mouth.

Giles turned on her. ‘Didn’t I tell you to go and get a golf cart?’ he barked. ‘And has Alex gone to get Security?’

‘I think he’s gone to the bar.’

Giles was too distracted to get angry.

‘All right, stay here and help me,’ he said in a low voice that left no room for argument. Giles pulled a towelling robe from a cupboard and folded it around Clover’s naked body.

‘Help me lift her,’ he said to Tania.

Meanwhile, Cassandra had left to find Leopold to help locate Ste and get him out of the party. Ten minutes later, two security guards dressed in white loaded Ste’s limp body into a golf cart before helping to put Clover in beside him too.

‘I’ll go back with them to the yacht,’ said Giles.

‘Tania. Why don’t you go too?’ said Cassandra. ‘I’m sure Clover will be really grateful for your help.’

Tania looked at Alex who had just come from inside the villa.

‘Are you going to come?’

‘There’s no point us all going,’ said Cassandra, touching Alex’s shoulder.

‘I agree,’ he replied, after viewing the events with the superiority of a Roman emperor watching lions and Christians.

By the time they reached
Le Soleil,
Guillaume had already been woken and he had alerted the deck hands to help Tania and Giles bring Clover and Ste on board. Guillaume was out on deck in his long, navy, silk dressing gown. His mouth distorted into an expression of distaste and then disbelief as Clover crouched down on her hands and knees and puked onto the deck.

‘Get her off this boat as soon as possible,’ he whispered to the captain.

‘We’ll throw them in the hold to cool off,’ said the captain.

‘And get one of the crew to hose them down,’ added Guillaume, picking an imaginary fleck of dust from his robe. ‘And remind me next year to be more careful with the guest list.’

Back at the party Cassandra took her mobile out of her white clutch bag and propped it under her neck. Everything was turning out more beautifully than she’d hoped. She’d had one agenda for this evening but this was like a bonus prize.

‘Can I have the entertainment desk, please?’

‘Jacqui speaking. How can I help you?’

‘I have a story that I think might be of interest,’ she said, looking at her watch. It would only be 8 p.m. in London; perhaps not too late to make the late edition of the Sunday papers.

‘Who about?’ asked the journalist.

‘Clover Connor and Ste Donahue.’

‘Keep talking.’

‘They are on Guillaume Riche’s yacht in Greece taking enough cocaine to build a snowdrift. Tonight the pair of them collapsed at a fashion party after overdosing and have been forcibly removed. Clover was completely naked when they dragged her out.’

‘Without decent pictures I’m afraid we can’t offer you much.’

‘Money is not necessary,’ said Cassandra shortly. ‘Just make sure
you mention in the copy that Clover Connor is the new face of Milford.’

She flipped down the phone and tossed it into her bag. Spotting a silver atomizer inside, she spritzed her body with Fracas. Then she shrugged and fished the mobile out again.
While she was at it she might as well call Page Six.
Just a quick call, she couldn’t be long. She had other things to attend to tonight.

On the other side of the villa, Alex Jalid knew that the party was just getting started. Most of the people from the
Le Soleil
delegation had already gone back to the yacht, so now it was really time to have some fun. He had been eyed up all evening by an outrageously good-looking brunette who was now naked except for a slim-fitting pair of white trousers. When their eyes locked again, Alex realized it was a call to action. His senses blurred by alcohol, he knew there was no turning back as the stranger began to walk towards him smiling. It was now dark, and the mood of the party had changed; it was now prickling with sex and promise. The handsome stranger took hold of Alex’s hand and whispered into his ear. There was a discreet little club in a backstreet not too far away where they could really enjoy themselves. They took separate golf carts into town; you couldn’t be too careful and he was right. When they stumbled out of the club two hours later, his arms draped around his companion, he was too drunk to be cautious, too high to hear the gentle whir of a camera shutter. He was too driven by lust to notice anything else as he spent a sexually-charged ten minutes in a doorway saying a passionate goodnight to his new friend.

‘Good morning, Alex,’ said Cassandra, taking a small sip of freshly-pressed raspberry juice. ‘And where is the lovely Tania today?’

Alex slid into the booth opposite her and took a croissant off a bone-china plate. It was indeed a beautiful morning and the sun was already beating down on the deck canopy under which they were being served breakfast.

‘Still in bed, where I’ll be in about five minutes, but I’m starving so I had to surface for some food. I waited five minutes for room service and nothing happened. I wouldn’t get that back home.’

‘Well, it’s fortuitous that you’re here because I want to talk to you.’

‘Really?’ said Alex in a bored voice, pushing a pair of sunglasses down over his bleary eyes.

Cassandra took a moment to look at him. Alex was such a good-looking boy. Dark brown hair, strong elegant features and liquid chocolate eyes. His bare chest was tanned and toned, his six-pack rippling over the top of his surfer shorts.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ said Cassandra, briskly dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ he said petulantly, tearing his croissant in half.

‘Alex, I think you’ll find this is important,’ she replied, meeting his gaze.

Sighing, he pulled himself up and followed Cassandra down to her stateroom and flopped into a leather club chair in the corner.

‘So what is it?’ he asked impatiently.

‘As you might guess, as an editor-in-chief of a major magazine, I never switch off. My mobile is on 24/7. I check my emails every day even on holiday.’

Alex looked at her as if she were a halfwit.

‘And?’

What a pompous little prick,
thought Cassandra.

‘And this morning a set of images was sent to me by my friend Gary. He owns a photographic agency which deals largely in red-carpet events, but occasionally freelance snappers approach Gary with more scurrilous stuff.’

‘If there’s a point, I hope we’re coming to it soon,’ said Alex, rolling his eyes.

‘It seems this trip has been targeted by various paparazzi,’ said Cassandra boldly. She took a brown A4 envelope from the dressing table and handed it to Alex. ‘There’s a few long-lens bits and pieces of Clover sunbathing on deck. Some of Serena and Tom when we went to Santorini and of me getting off
Le Soleil
last night. It’s all pretty harmless stuff except the pictures in that envelope.’

Alex opened the envelope, tipping the contents on his lap. There were a dozen 10 × 12 inch snaps that had been printed off in
Le Soleil’s
communications room, and as Alex shuffled through them, his face crumpled in shock and horror.

‘At first I wasn’t sure it was you,’ said Cassandra. ‘The quality could be better after all, but I think when you look at them from a certain angle it’s quite clear, don’t you? Not to mention the fact
that that jacket you’re wearing – that you
were
wearing – is quite distinctive. Gary wanted me to tell him who the person in the photographs is. I suspect he already knows and simply wants me to confirm.’

Cassandra had the curious sensation of being able to read someone else’s thoughts simply from watching his face. First Alex had that look of someone being caught out, swiftly followed by a glistening sweat trickling down his brow. She could see every emotion, shame, fear and panic written across every inch of his handsome face.

She took the prints from him and looked at them as if she was considering them for the first time. In the first shot she could see Michaelis, the Greek rent boy she had hired to do the job, threading his arms around Alex’s waist as they came out of a discreet Mykonos Town gay bar. The next two pictures showed them kissing. In the fourth photograph Michaelis was on his knees in front of Alex. The grainy image was poor quality but the photograph could not disguise Alex’s face twisted with delight.

‘I don’t know who this is,’ said Alex finally putting the pictures calmly back in the envelope.
Ah, now the denial phase,
thought Cassandra and had to stop herself from grinning with glee. The photographer had produced better pictures than she could have hoped considering they were taken from a distance and as for Michaelis, he had worked wonders getting Alex so out of it that he’d made an intimate moment in a semi-public place possible. It had helped immeasurably that Tania had been taken out of the picture by the sheer fluke of Clover and Ste’s timely collapse.

‘Come now,’ said Cassandra firmly, ‘to anybody who knows you, who knew what you were wearing that night, it’s obvious it’s you.’

Alex sat silently on the chair, his face white.

Cassandra knew Michaelis wasn’t Alex’s first gay lover. Nick Bowen had uncovered a more long-standing relationship with a New York model-bartender called Bradley Mathis. Bradley and Alex had been together for six months before Alex had called it off at the beginning of summer, fearing his tony college friends might have got wind of it. Nick had shown him a photograph of Bradley; tall, dark and handsome. At least Cassandra had known his type.

‘What do you want me to tell Gary? You can see what sort of position this puts me in.’

‘It’s not me!’ said Alex, his voice raised.

‘Alex, if I say I don’t know who these pictures are of, who knows who else Gary might ask? Someone who doesn’t know you, someone who doesn’t understand how your family might react.’

‘Do you think he’s asked anyone else?’

Cassandra shrugged. ‘I’m guessing he’s sent them to me to confirm because he thinks he knows who it is, he knows I’m on
Le Soleil
with you and he knows the shit he’ll be in if he gets it wrong. But if I don’t respond to him quickly he’ll certainly snoop around. Believe me they’ll find your friend in the photograph and give him a big cheque to talk.’

‘My father can buy your friend’s company,’ snorted Alex, his face in an angry scowl. ‘My father can make anything go away.’

Cassandra went up to him and touched his shoulder.

‘The question is, do you want your father to know?’

Alex ran his hand through his hair and exhaled, his eyebrows knotted together in concentration. It was several seconds before he spoke.

‘O K. Yes, it is me in the photograph,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I’m gay. Yes, I have silly, star-struck girlfriends who don’t ask too many questions to cover up the fact that I am gay.’

He stood up and faced Cassandra. ‘Being gay might not be such a big deal in your world of fashion but to my family it would be a very big deal indeed. Do you know that there are still laws against homosexuality in over a third of countries around the world today? My country is one of them. Do you think I want to be gay? Do you think I want to wear it like a badge?’

‘So your family don’t know,’ said Cassandra, making her voice sound as sympathetic as possible.

‘My stepmother suspects I’m sure but my father doesn’t know. As a matter of honour my father will cut me off without a penny.’

He walked to the bar, twisted open a bottle of mineral water and gulped heavily, tears falling down his cheeks.

For a second Cassandra felt guilty. He was a playboy, he was careless and arrogant, but he couldn’t help his sexuality. Then she remembered what a little prick he had been earlier and pushed away any feelings of sympathy.

‘I can get back to Gary and tell him he’s mistaken and that it’s just a couple of male models, nobody of interest. It might generate
a bit of gossip but nobody will be surprised this goes on in Mykonos in party season. It’s a nothing story.’

Alex looked up, his face full of hope.

‘So you’ll help me?’

She nodded and smiled. ‘I’ll help you Alex. Who knows? One day you might be able to help me.’

No one could believe it. The guests at the Milford relaunch party were genuinely taken aback at how fantastic the company’s revamped Bond Street store looked. It was a reasonable reaction, especially from the few who had ever ventured inside the dusty original. It had been so faded and unremarkable, even the most regular visitors to Mayfair’s famous shopping street would be hard pressed to remember it even being there. Now the Milford store was the talk of London Fashion Week; journalists whispered it was the work of uber-architect Peter Marino, the king of the luxury goods store who had redesigned everything from Barneys to the Dior store on Avenue Montaigne, while fashionistas wondered if, in the Milford bag, they had finally found an alternative to their beloved Hermès Birkins.

Up on the mezzanine floor, Emma looked down on the packed shop floor below her, sipping a flute of champagne to take the edge off the adrenaline buzz coursing round her body. It really did look like a different place compared to the shop she had first encountered six months ago. Now it was sleek, chic and luxurious, the perfect embodiment of the new Milford brand. In actual fact it hadn’t been overhauled by Peter Marino – the cost of a superstar architect would have broken the bank. Instead, Emma had drafted in a small but creative firm of architects who had followed her brief to the letter; keeping the elegance you’d expect from a brand with Milford’s British heritage, but giving it a much more edgy, contemporary feel. Now the store felt like a colonial country club with its walnut panelling, brass ceiling fans and wooden floorboards. A sweep of staircase, lavishly carpeted in white, led to the
mezzanine floor where they had created a private salon for bespoke clients with velvet tiger-print chaises longues and a bar dispensing drinks. Even empty, the shop looked glamorous but with the hundreds of wide-eyed fashion players crammed inside, not to mention the string quartet who were playing in a corner and the white-tailed waiters dispensing raspberry martinis, it looked like a scene from
White Mischief.

‘I hope you’re feeling pleased with yourself,’ said Ruan, climbing the stairs to join Emma at her lookout post.

‘You do realize that this is the first party I’ve ever thrown in my life?’

‘Well, what a way to start,’ he laughed. ‘According to Zoe, simply
everyone
is here.’ To give credit where it was due, Zoe had done an amazing job with the guest list; the right mix of money, celebrity and press. Apparently she had secured the attendance of several key society people by promising them a Milford bag and once they were on board, the rest of London Fashion Week had followed as word trickled out that it was the week’s hot party.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Ruan,’ whispered Emma. ‘I haven’t a clue who anyone is.’

‘Well, you know Clover Connor,’ said Ruan, nodding over at the model who was looking stunning in a white Grecian mini-dress.

‘I’d rather Clover had kept away,’ said Emma, wincing. The face of Milford was apparently on her first night out after a short spell in rehab. Emma had nearly died when she’d read a story in the tabloids a few weeks earlier about a supermodel caught naked and completely out of her head at a party in Mykonos. The piece had been a blind item, but although the model was unnamed it was clear it was referring to Clover.

‘Don’t be daft,’ laughed Ruan. ‘Clover is like Teflon. No scandal ever sticks. In fact whatever she does seems to make her more famous, more sought-after.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ laughed Emma nervously.

‘How’s the family?’

‘If you mean have Roger and Rebecca fired any barbed remarks my way, then no, they seem to be on their best behaviour tonight.’

‘I see Cassandra won’t be coming.’

‘I assume not, but how do you know for sure?’

‘She’s throwing a party tonight as well. Apparently it’s to launch her book.’

‘God, she is absolutely impossible!’

Ruan put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Em, it doesn’t matter any more. Look down there: we’ve made it. And if you needed any reassurance, I think you’ll find the last 100 Bag has just been sold.’

He pointed to an expensively-dressed woman leaving the party carrying a chocolate-brown cardboard bag, festooned with a turquoise ribbon. They had spent a long time redesigning the packaging, making the Milford brown more rich and chocolaty and the blue more vivid and crisp. The carrier bags were almost as desirable as what was inside.

Emma watched the woman go and turned to Ruan, her mouth open.

‘Really? You’re kidding, right?’

Ruan shook his head.

‘We’ve sold out in every colour. That’s six hundred bags each, selling at over two thousand pounds each.’

‘No!’ she gasped, quickly doing the maths in her head, ‘Even with the ones we gave away, that’s … Ruan, this is brilliant!’

‘Plus, Eugenie Vlodsky – she’s the wife of that Russian oligarch – has just made enquiries about a “comprehensive” bespoke luggage set in antelope skin: I bet her definition of comprehensive is pretty ample. And Em, that’s just the start, we’ve had thirty-five appointments for our bespoke services put in the book just tonight.’

Emma felt like doing a cartwheel, but restrained herself and instead leaned over and gave Ruan a kiss on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, squeezing his hand. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better right-hand man.’

Emma finished her champagne and walked back down into the main throng of the party. Eyes looked up approvingly as she descended. She felt embarrassed under scrutiny although she knew she looked fantastic. Her bottle-green Lanvin silk dress was simple yet stunning, cut just below the knee with bracelet sleeves and a generously scooped neckline. Her hair had been blow-dried so it fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She wore no jewellery except for her watch and a pair of pearl earrings; she didn’t need any. She was the CEO of a luxury goods company and the patina of power and glamour finished off her look without her even knowing it. Emma no longer needed guidance to look good. She would never be an intuitively stylish woman like Stella who seemed
to be able to throw a quirky necklace onto an otherwise unremarkable dress to create something memorable and unique, but she had acquired a low-key, elegant style all of her own.

Over the other side of the room she could see Rob Holland and Jessica arrive.
Still going strong, I see,
thought Emma, before realizing that she’d actually forgotten to invite him. It had been almost two months since they had seen each other at the festival; they’d spoken a few times on the phone about Winterfold, about rent and repairs and so on, but that had been about it. Looking at him towering over the crowd, it made her a little sad. Even though he could be absolutely infuriating, she had at one time thought she and Rob could become good friends. Still, maybe he was genuinely happy with Jessica; she shrugged as he caught her eye and made his way over, kissing her on both cheeks.

‘Stella called me to see if I wanted to pop down,’ he said answering the unspoken question. ‘Said I could come on the proviso I got some of my acts to come.’

‘She didn’t!’ Emma said, lifting her hand to her mouth.

He grinned. ‘Sounded like a fair enough trade-off to me.’

He popped a canapé in his mouth and turned round to look for Jessica but she was now having her photograph taken in a swarming mass of paparazzi by the door.

‘I have to say, Em. This is officially a
great
party.’

‘You say that with such surprise,’ smiled Emma.

‘You have many talents Miss Bailey, but I wasn’t sure partying was going to be one of them. Next time I have one of my naughty rock acts in town I’m gonna tell them to give you a call.’

They both laughed.

‘I haven’t seen you in weeks.’

‘I’ve been staying in London actually. Jessica’s idea of
rural
is Holland Park, although this weekend I’m forcing her out of the Big Smoke.’

‘Are you both coming out to Chilcot?’

‘Norfolk actually. A friend of mine is lending me his house up there. It’s on stilts right by the beach, a crazy-looking thing.’

‘It will be absolutely beautiful. I love those long windswept beaches like Brancaster on the north coast. The lavender fields might still be out too. I’m jealous,’ she smiled.

‘I think Polly will like it too.’

Emma looked at him curiously, remembering what he had said
to her once about not introducing girlfriends to Polly until he was absolutely ready. She felt a stab of something unpleasant, not envy exactly. No, it was disappointment that Polly was meeting
Jessica.
She’d hoped it would be someone more deserving.

‘Polly and Jessica?’

‘A breakthrough, I know,’ he grinned.

‘I
knew
that’s why you really wanted Winterfold,’ she teased.

He looked at her curiously. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The huge family house. Actually half a dozen families could live quite comfortably in Winterfold, but the principle is the same – it’s a nesting instinct, Rob Holland. Secretly you want to settle down.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘So it’s a coincidence Polly is meeting Jessica?’

‘Actually, I double-booked,’ he said grumpily.

‘Whatever you say …’

He looked away, suggesting that he didn’t want to talk about it any more. After a pause, he said, ‘Seriously Emma, you did great. I always knew you were going to.’

She shrugged modestly.

‘I never did buy you that drink to say thank you.’

‘I suppose you’ll be less crazy after tonight.’

‘Uh-uh, fashion is a never-ending conveyor belt.’

‘Well, when you are less busy give me a ring, we’ll grab a beer at the Feathers.’

‘That would be nice.’

Over the crowd, Emma could see Jessica looking around for Rob, a look of annoyance on her face. Rob followed her gaze and frowned.

‘Listen, I’ve gotta go,’ he said quickly. ‘I think Jessica needs me.’

‘I bet she does,’ said Emma under her breath as Rob pushed through the crowd. ‘I bet she does.’

‘So do you think we’re the hottest power couple in London yet?’

Stella looked at Johnny and laughed.

‘The hottest
what?’

‘Power couple,’ he said, entirely serious, before pausing to pose with Stella for a photographer. He didn’t need to pose; from any angle he was easily the most handsome man in the room, even dressed down in jeans and a white shirt.

‘If we were in New York it would be difficult but over here … I mean Madonna and Guy are getting on a bit and once the
Vanity Fair
piece comes out…’

The week before, Johnny’s publicist had got a call from
Vanity Fair’s
London editor requesting an interview and shoot time with Johnny and Stella.

‘We’re not seriously getting the cover are we?’

‘Not the US cover. Not yet, anyway,’ he grinned. ‘But if the US cover is some TV star no one’s heard of over here, we might get the British cover. Remember that Patsy Kensit and Liam Gallagher ‘Cool Britannia’ cover? That was never a US cover but they stuck it on the British issue and it was still one of the most memorable magazine images of the last twenty years, wasn’t it.’

‘Well, let’s just wait and see, huh, Liam?’ smiled Stella. Secretly she was hoping they weren’t on any
Vanity Fair
or any other cover, any time soon. Things had returned to normal with Emma after their showdown in the studio, and although her boss had made it clear she had no wish to be in the public eye, Stella was conscious not to steal any more of her boss’s thunder. Her eyes darted around the room searching for a face.

‘Why are you so edgy, baby?’ asked Johnny.

‘He’s not here, is he?’

‘Who?’

‘My father.’

Johnny squeezed her hand.

‘You kind of knew he wasn’t going to be, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘But you always hope.’

Johnny turned her around and looked her in the eye.

‘People are always going to disappoint you in life, Stella. So Chessie got her way and they’re not here, but look around! Five hundred people are here to see you and the things that you’ve created. Are you going to let Chessie and your father ruin that?’

She nodded. Johnny was right. This was the biggest night of her life and she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone spoil it.

‘You’ll never guess what,’ said Jessica, snaking her hand around Rob’s waist and pushing her mouth close to his ear.

‘What? Sorry, I was miles away,’ said Rob, rather startled to see her. While Jessica had spent the last half hour flitting around like a social butterfly, Rob had been thinking about Emma, or
rather about what she had said. Was she right? Did he want to settle down?
Did he want to settle down with Jessica?
When he had first got together with Madeline, a friend had quipped that relationships were a question of timing. That had turned out to be correct: when Rob had met Maddy, he had been mourning his brother; he’d just taken a job in his father’s company and had wanted to embrace a more stable and sensible way of life. Maddy had fitted the bill perfectly, but the more he had got sucked into the record industry and the temptations that came with it, the more that relationship had faltered. But maybe now he was ready. As forty loomed, he was sick of transient relationships. He looked at Jessica smiling up at him. She was good company and beautiful. She knew his crowd, and didn’t make too many demands on him, she fitted comfortably into his life. But was she really so different from any of the indeterminate blondes, brunettes and redheads who had shared his bed in the last decade? Maybe it was just timing after all.

‘Sorry, Jess, got a lot on my mind at the moment,’ said Rob, returning her embrace. ‘What were you telling me?’

‘I was telling you how much I love this party!’ she gushed. ‘First of all I get invited to Donatella’s party on Sunday, then I speak to Eugene Vlodsky who says he’s going too and can give us a lift to Milan in his father’s jet! Isn’t that just so cool?’

Rob pulled away from her, frowning.

‘You want to go to a fashion party in Milan this weekend? Have you forgotten what we’re supposed to be doing?’