Guilty Pleasures (36 page)

‘This is one fucking-awesome party,’ said Tom, taking a vodka shot from a passing tray and knocking it back. It was Sunday afternoon and in front of his eyes two hundred of Ibiza’s most beautiful people were partying around a huge, turquoise, infinity pool, as if it was their last day on earth. In Tom’s direct line of vision were two world-famous music producers, a hip Hollywood actress, and a smattering of West London socialites in various stages of undress. Roland Gonzalez, the white-hot techno DJ was at the decks watching as Alexia Dark, the supermodel, was thrown into the pool by an Eighties rock star whose face was so rigid with cocaine, he couldn’t even laugh.

The party was being held at the sumptuous villa belonging to Miguel Cruz, one of the richest men on the island. He was the owner of both the Desire nightclub and Sugar, the small Ibiza Town bar that Tom, Jamie and their other business partner Piers had commandeered for the summer.

‘Of course it’s awesome. It’s the last weekend of the season,’ replied Jamie distractedly, smiling over at a six-foot pneumatic blonde wearing a feathered head-dress and a tiny, gold, sequinned tunic. ‘Shit, check her out, Tommy. I think she wants me.’

‘Uh, I think
she
is a
he,’
laughed Tom, trying to keep himself alert with another vodka shot. He couldn’t believe that he was going back to England at the end of the week. It had been a glorious, fun-filled summer; his bar had closed the night before and what a send-off it had been. Tom and sixty of his new best friends had drunk the bar practically dry and he’d celebrated by spending the night with Peaches, the Sugar Bar’s stunning promotions girl,
resulting in only two hours sleep before coming to this party. Piers, the third partner in Sugar and Spice Productions came striding around the pool. Dressed in long white Bermuda shorts and a stripey Hackett T-shirt that did little to disguise his girth, he was fiddling anxiously with the signet ring on his little finger.

‘Whatsup?’ asked Jamie tipping his sunglasses onto the back of his head.

‘Miguel wants to see us in his office,’ said Piers, frowning.

‘Fine. Sure. Right,’ said Jamie. Curious, Tom studied his face and was concerned to detect the same level of apprehension in Jamie’s manner.

‘What’s going on, guys?’ asked Tom.

‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ said Jamie, ‘Completely fine. Miguel probably just wants to sign some paperwork or something.’

But Tom caught the look that passed between Jamie and Piers and it did nothing to reassure him that Miguel wanted to clear up some admin. They looked scared.

They were led away from the pool and into the house by a besuited bald-headed man and through to an expensively furnished study, with long shutters opening onto a terrace on the other side of the house. Miguel Cruz, an impressive-looking man with a hooked nose and wiry grey hair, remained seated sat behind his desk when they entered the room, while the bald guy waited silently by the window, his hands folded in front of him. Tom felt as if he had been hauled in front of the headmaster. Miguel picked up a document from his leather-topped desk and considered it for a few moments.

‘I have in front of me the accounts for the Sugar bar and the Spice nightclub,’ he said finally, looking at each of them in turn.

Not one for small talk then,
thought Tom, feeling hot in spite of the cool mountain breeze blowing in through the shutters.

‘I see Sugar and Spice Productions has made a a340,000 loss.’

‘What? How can that be?’ asked Tom, completely floored by the news. He took a step forward to try and peep at the papers in front of Miguel. ‘But I did a bloody booming trade all summer!’

Jamie pulled him back and Tom saw the look of fear on his friend’s face. Jamie and Piers were responsible for the accounting. Tom had given the books only the vaguest look. His administrative responsibilities had amounted to no more than cashing up at the end of the week and banking the proceeds. He knew that the
Spice club hadn’t been delivering the sorts of crowds that Jamie and Piers wanted, but a340,000 in debt! – they must have been haemorrhaging money.
Where had it all gone?

‘We’ve a heavy outlay to get established,’ explained Piers nervously. ‘Publicity, alcohol, venue refurb and so on.’

‘I’m sure,’ smiled Miguel, ‘Many clubs have the same problem in the first season. I’m sure it will be better next year. However, it is in the terms of the contract that you must settle the balance within 28 days,’ Miguel added coolly.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Jamie confidently. ‘Perhaps we can talk again later in the week?’

‘No need,’ said Miguel taking a sip from his crystal tumbler of water. ‘Deal with my business affairs manager Carlos as you have already been doing.’

He stood up and walked to the shutters. ‘Now I suspect young men like yourselves would rather be out by the pool rather than in here with me.’

The three men stepped outside and into the strong September sun. They were all subdued; Miguel’s calm acceptance of their explanation had been far more unnerving than if he’d shouted and made threats. When he was sure they were out of earshot of the office, Tom turned on his friends.

‘Three hundred and forty thousand? Where the hell’s all that gone?’ he hissed angrily.

‘You heard Piers,’ said Jamie. ‘It cost a fortune to refurb the club, I mean the barstools alone! Ostrich doesn’t come cheap you know.’

‘But that much? Miguel must have been screwing us on the booze. I knew we shouldn’t have let him supply us.’

‘You were the one who signed for most of the drink,’ replied Piers tartly.

‘That’s because I was the only one who sold any!’

‘Don’t be a cock, Tom,’ said Jamie, ‘I was there when you took that delivery, remember? Do you have any idea what they were loading into your cellar? Did you check the paperwork? No – you were too busy sniffing around the tart in the mini-skirt!’

‘Sod off, Jamie! I worked my arse off…’

‘Chaps! Come on!’ shouted Piers. ‘This is getting us nowhere. The truth is we didn’t make any money and now we owe serious money to some rather unpleasant people.’

‘What do you mean, “unpleasant”?’ asked Tom.

Jamie and Piers exchanged a look.

‘Our friend Miguel has something of a reputation, shall we say?’ said Piers. ‘He doesn’t like people who owe him money. He can get quite nasty.’

‘Oh, bugger,’ whispered Tom.

‘Exactly.’

Tom thought for a moment.

‘Can you really get a340,000 just like that?’ asked Tom remembering Jamie’s confidence in the study.

‘I have a couple of trust funds that I’d rather not use,’ shrugged Jamie. ‘Otherwise I might be able to tap my father for a hundred gees.’

Tom gaped at him. Jamie was talking about hundreds of thousands of pounds as if it was pocket money. He looked at his friend in a new light.

‘Well, a hundred grand isn’t going to cover it,’ said Tom sitting on a chair under a parasol. Jamie and Piers sat opposite him and took two drinks from a waitress.

‘Three hundred and forty thousand euros is about two hundred and fifty thousand quid,’ said Piers. ‘It’s less than ninety grand each. Personally I think it could have been a lot worse.’

‘Ninety grand
each
?’ hissed Tom. ‘And I’m supposed to chip that in too, am I?’

‘Of course you fucking are, you twat,’ replied Jamie.

‘But I’m not a proper partner! I was only supposed to be getting 10 per cent of the profits. QED I owe 10 per cent of the debt,’ said Tom, knowing that 10 per cent of their debt was well beyond his reach, let alone a third. ‘After all, Sugar has been turning a profit all season, I’m the one who’s been making money. Why should I get screwed for you pair spending God knows how much on bloody ostrich-skin stools?’

‘Come on, Tom!’ said Jamie, slamming his drink down on the table. ‘You are a partner of S&S Productions even though you didn’t put a dime in up front. If Spice had made a million and your bar had flopped, you’d still have wanted your 10 per cent and you’d have got it.’

Tom’s watched the giant disco ball twirl over the pool, wondering if he had a legal way out of this situation; his mother must know a lawyer.

But all he had was a one-page letter of engagement from Jamie and Piers. Off the top of his head he could barely remember what it said but he felt sure it was nothing more detailed than a confirmation of his partnership in S&S Productions and a 10 per cent slice of any profits. Tom shook his head and pushed his drink away. Suddenly he felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

‘I can’t believe you’ve come,’ said Johnny, throwing down his script and gathering Stella up in his arms, swinging her round and planting kiss after kiss on her neck. ‘Save me from this set of divas and neurotics.’

Stella beamed. She had driven out to the set of Johnny’s film on a whim, not sure if he’d be available or whether he’d even want her there – these actors had to stay in character, didn’t they? But when she’d knocked on the door of his trailer, the look on his face had been worth the effort.

‘I can’t stay long but it was a great day for a drive,’ she giggled.

‘Anyway the cast aren’t that bad are they?’ She peered out of the small window onto the set. It was like looking back in time. Johnny’s film was a 1930s romantic drama, featuring a farmhand’s torrid affair with the Nazi-sympathizing American wife of a rich English industrialist. Johnny, of course, was the farmhand. Actors were milling around the grounds of the location, a stately home in the Brecon Beacons, in tea-dresses and Veronica Lake curls or sombre three-piece suits and trilbies. Just being here had already sparked off a couple of ideas for Stella’s latest Milford collection.

‘What’s Lisa Ladro like?’ asked Stella referring to Johnny’s glamorous co-star. Lisa was a ‘showbiz’ thirty-six, which made her at least ten years older. Certainly, she had a string of high-profile marriages and a cabinet full of Golden Globes behind her. Apparently she’d hand-picked Johnny especially for the role, which he took as a massive boost for his career as Lisa’s latest husband was the Oscar-winning director Marv Houston.

‘She’s the worst of the lot,’ he grinned. ‘You should see her list
of demands: macrobiotic meals served four times a day, Jo Malone candles by the truckload, Evian water to wash her hair, they’ve even had to install a bikram yoga studio next to her trailer, which has to be heated to, like, precisely 37 degrees. The list goes on. Do you think I should be more demanding?’ he added seriously.

‘No, I do not,’ smiled Stella, stroking his cheek. ‘Don’t you go changing one bit.’

He pulled her onto the day bed and sat her on his knee. ‘So how’s my baby been this week?’

‘Milford is taking off like you wouldn’t believe since the party. Stylists for every big celebrity are on the phone requesting bags. Plus, I’m working like a madman to get this 20-piece collection done for the next London Fashion Week. A great Indian silk factory who work with Valentino are going to supply us, and I’m getting two assistants to help me. How’s that for a start?’

‘My little Tom Ford,’ said Johnny, running his fingers through her hair. ‘You and I are going to take over the world.’

She let herself sink back into him, smelling his faint musky cologne, feeling his strong muscular arms wrap themselves around her, and felt a sense of consuming bliss.

‘Look, there’s the first assistant,’ he said pointing through the window to a man with a pair of headphones hanging around his neck. ‘How do you fancy a tour around a movie set?’

‘Only if the tour guide is you,’ she said standing up and pulling his hand.

It was almost six by the time Stella left the set. Johnny went back to his trailer to re-read the script for a night scene the director wanted to get in the bag. He lay back on the day bed, propped his head up with a cushion and popped open a bottle of Peroni. There was a knock at the door, and he sat up, expecting it to be his call for make-up. The door opened and Lisa Ladro was standing there in a white towelling robe, her face freshly made-up. She tossed back her mane of copper hair as she stepped into the trailer.

‘I’m not disturbing anything?’ she said in her faint Southern accent.

‘No, she’s gone. Finally,’ said Johnny smiling and putting down his beer.

‘She seems sweet.’

‘She is,’ replied Johnny holding out his hand.

The actress locked the trailer door behind her, checked that the window blinds were down and unfastened her robe in such a seductive manner it made Johnny instantly hard.

She was fucking sexy for an older bird, he thought, his eyes raking over her bronzed naked body, in perfect condition except for a bit of cellulite on her thighs and a slight crepeyness around her cleavage. The fact that she’d fucked a load of Hollywood legends turned him on too. There had been chemistry since the first day on set. She’d flattered him and stroked his ego, comparing him to a young Paul Newman. By the end of week one of filming, she had been stroking something else entirely.

‘Now why don’t we finish what we started earlier?’ she purred, walking over and straddling him on the bed. Johnny groaned as she unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down his trunks. His cock sprang free and she took it between two warm soft hands. For Johnny, networking had never been so enjoyable.

‘That’s it, Xavier has the shot,’ said the photographer, stepping away from his tripod and tossing his grey hair back dramatically. Cassandra allowed herself a small smile. Putting aside the Frenchman’s annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person and overlooking the small fact that
she
dictated when they had the right cover shot in the bag, Cassandra was still pleased. Standing there in front of them, framed by a backdrop of virgin rainforest, Georgia Kennedy looked like an exotic bird of paradise, her apricot couture gown iridescent in the fading afternoon light.

The shoot had gone even better than she had hoped – wonderfully, in fact – despite the fact that Sulka had caught her completely by surprise.

Although Cassandra knew the precise location of every YSL boutique in the Western world, geography was not her strong point. She knew little about the country, except that it was an oil-and gas-rich Muslim state and Georgia Kennedy was the ruling prince’s wife. Picturing her
Rive
cover, she had imagined Georgia against a dramatic backdrop of tawny Arabian sand dunes. She had instructed Laura Hildon, who was styling the shoot, to bring dresses in shades of nude and camel ‘so Georgia looks dip-dyed in the sand’. It had been a rare oversight. After a 15-hour flight via Singapore, they had stepped out onto a lush, tropical island nestled in the Java Sea. The colour and texture of the jungle backdrop was going to make it difficult to put any cover-lines on the image at all, but Georgia’s beauty and regal poise were such that Cassandra knew no words would be necessary.

‘Georgia. You were absolutely wonderful,’ said Cassandra, going
over to the actress. She was about to give her the traditional air-kiss but catching the warning glance of a stern-looking courtier, she gave her a short respectful nod instead.

The shoot had taken place on the wide terrace of the Royal family’s summer palace, an enormous wooden lodge that clung to a tropical hillside and which had views over the whole principality; thousands of acres of jungle, a grey stripe of sea, and the capital city of Sulka Town shimmering miles away in the hazy distance.

‘I’m surprised how much I enjoyed that,’ smiled Georgia, taking a sip of iced water, offered to her by a waiter from a silver tray.

‘You should,’ said Cassandra, ‘the Ellie Saab couture looks divine on you.’

She had specially commissioned the gowns from Saab, not only because she loved the beautiful craftsmanship of his evening dresses but because the couturier worked out of Beirut, which she had assumed was just a short hop to Sulka. Instead the gowns had had to travel across an entire continent and had arrived by a Fed-Ex van grumbling out of the jungle minutes before the first shot. Georgia smiled. She had a few lines collecting round her eyes but otherwise she was still exquisite.

‘My life may have changed but there is still a little bit of the girl from Kansas City in me who loves dressing up in wonderful gowns.’

Cassandra turned to see Giles waiting patiently behind them, ready to conduct his interview with Georgia. She was of course hoping that Georgia was about to give them an intimate portrait of palace life, but she suspected that the princess was too clever and dignified to do that.

‘I’m also grateful that this shoot will highlight some of the causes close to my family’s heart,’ said Georgia, looking straight at Cassandra. ‘And you know how much Alex is grateful. I’m so glad his new charity has given him some focus.’

Feeling the piercing gaze of this elegant woman, Cassandra suddenly felt a stab of fear that Georgia Kennedy knew exactly why and how this shoot had happened.

Surely not,
she told herself, feeling rattled nonetheless.
Surely not.

The
Rive
crew waited around the Summer Palace until Giles had finished his interview and Laura had packed away all the clothes,
after which a 4×4 took them on the long bumpy journey through the jungle and back to the capital city.

‘I might start writing this up while it’s still fresh in my mind,’ said Giles as they walked through the cool marble lobby of their hotel.

‘Good idea,’ replied Cassandra. ‘I think I’ll go for supper with Laura. Maybe you can join us in the bar for drinks later?’

Laura looked exhausted. Without the luxury of an assistant, which Cassandra had vetoed on the grounds of secrecy, Laura had had to carry, unpack, press and pack all the clothes herself, which she had done with very little grumbling – a remarkable achievement given her seniority; in the world of fashion, the chain of command was as rigid as the army and any deviation invariably ended in a hissy-fit.

‘Supper?’ said Laura wearily. ‘I have rather a lot to do,’ she said, glancing at the suitcases of clothes.

‘You have an hour now,’ said Cassandra glancing at her watch and turning towards the lift. ‘Let’s meet in the restaurant at eight.’

In her room, Cassandra stepped out of her clothes, damp and sticky from the humidity, leaving them on the floor as she walked into the shower, letting the steaming water run over her body until every nerve felt revived. She wrapped her hair in a turban, pulled on a fluffy white robe and flopped onto her four-poster bed. She was just reaching for the phone to call Max, when it started ringing.

‘Did you get everything you need?’

Alex Jalid sounded eager and concerned.

‘It was wonderful, Alex. I can’t thank you enough for arranging this.’

‘You can thank me by never repeating our conversation in Mykonos or anything that has gone before or after it.’

She gave a small smile as she replaced the receiver. She would of course keep her side of the bargain, but it was inevitable that Alex would be caught out again one day soon. He was too important, too careless, too arrogant not to be. For a second she wondered who would benefit from his indiscretions next time? A jilted lover? An opportunistic member of his court perhaps? She didn’t care; he’d been useful to her this time – that was all that mattered.

Laura was already at a table in the hotel restaurant, rumoured to be one of the best eating establishments in the country and full of rich Sulkanese couples and American oil company executives
dining on expense accounts. As she sat down, Cassandra examined Laura critically. Her hair was lank and her eyes rimmed red. She hadn’t even changed; Cassandra could smell the hot sweat of the jungle from the other side of the table. Laura had already ordered an aperitif and lifted the cocktail to her lips, draining the glass in one.

‘I needed that,’ said Laura, motioning to the waiter for another. Cassandra merely lifted an eyebrow.

‘So are you happy the way it went?’ asked Laura.

Cassandra’s smile was wide and genuine.

‘It’s the coup of the decade,’ she said warmly, ‘and I think Xavier definitely did it justice. I think the sales figures will go through the roof. The strongest covers are often the simplest, aren’t they? Those 1960s
Esquire
covers – Andy Warhol in a Campbell’s soup can or Muhammad Ali with his hands tied. Even that
Vanity Fair
cover of Jennifer Aniston after her break-up with Brad Pitt – just Jennifer in a man’s shirt. The power of a picture was worth a thousand words.’

‘Well, thank goodness the Ellie Saab dress arrived in time,’ said Laura, taking another drink. Cassandra pursed her lips and let the jibe pass; she was not about to admit her mistake to Laura. She noticed that Laura had glanced twice at her watch in the last five minutes.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said, shrugging when she realized Cassandra was waiting for a fuller answer. ‘Actually, I was just keen to call Max. I haven’t spoken to him in two days.’

‘I’m sure he’ll cope,’ said Cassandra.

Laura gave a half-smile and flushed. Cassandra sensed that something was wrong.

‘Tell me,’ said Cassandra, hoping she had achieved the right note of professional firmness and personal concern. Laura finished her cocktail before she spoke.

‘I’m not sure Max is happy that I’m spending so much time out of the country,’ said Laura, her eyes darting to the table.

Cassandra felt a little stab of panic. After all, Max had never once complained to her when Laura was on a photo-shoot in LA, Paris or Peru if it meant they could spend a sex-charged night in a hotel or a lazy weekend in Provence.

‘Did he actually say that?’ she asked intently.

‘No,’ replied Laura, ‘but he seems ever so distant these days. My mum calls it the “disapproving quiet”.’

Cassandra felt a sudden short-lived light-headedness; a sense of glee and triumph not to mention wonder that Laura thought Max’s distance from his wife was
disapproval!
She instantly imagined herself a fly on the wall in the Carlton household; Max’s barely-disguised disinterest in his wife, the inevitable lack of sex in the bedroom – or anywhere else for that matter – their polite but stilted conversations over supper during which Max would feign a meeting in Brussels or Geneva to spend the night with his lover. It was all Cassandra could do to stop herself from laughing out loud.

‘Isn’t Max happy for all the wonderful professional opportunities you’ve been given?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I suppose so, but because he’s away so much himself now …’ Laura paused as her eyes started watering. ‘I, we, don’t want our marriage to suffer.’

Laura drew a napkin to her eye and dabbed it quickly.

‘I’m so sorry, Cassandra. I’m just tired and emotional not to mention rather embarrassed,’ she said with a small smile.

‘Don’t be,’ replied Cassandra.

The waiter came over and Cassandra ordered two salads for them before snapping the menu shut. Laura looked at Cassandra hesitantly.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, and this is probably as good a time as any …’ She trailed off, wilting under Cassandra’s gaze. ‘I was wondering if I could cut back on the number of overshoots I’ve being doing.’ She held her hand up in front of her apologetically. ‘Cassandra, I am so grateful for the opportunities you have given me and I think I’ve been doing some of the best work of my career.’

‘But?’ asked her editor slowly.

‘But for the sake of my marriage I’m not sure I can carry on working like this,’ replied Laura, her voice barely a whisper.

Cassandra looked at the young woman sitting opposite her, despising her for her weakness, hating her for marrying the one man who had got under her skin; the very thought of him made her ache with desire. She glanced down at the table where Laura’s left hand was resting gently on the stark white tablecloth; the wink of the flawless diamond on Laura’s platinum wedding band, a symbol of fidelity and eternal love, seemed to mock her. Cassandra
longed to tell Laura how Max felt inside her, how much she loved the taste of his cock, how he knew every intimate part of her body and how he desired it madly, even when they spoke on the phone. She bit her lip gently as she composed herself. In her experience the truth rarely got you what you wanted.

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Cassandra finally. ‘Do you respect yourself?’

The question seemed to take Laura by surprise.

‘Yes,’ she answered cautiously.

‘Then don’t give up. Laura, you love fashion,’ said Cassandra leaning forward and putting her hand over the younger girl’s. ‘I see it every day in your eyes at work. I’ve seen it on this trip. Fashion is in the blood that pumps through your veins. You know as well as I do that fashion isn’t a career, it’s a way of life. It’s a way of expressing ourselves. We’ve both spent years on our hands and knees in fashion cupboards ironing clothes and sewing on buttons because we simply don’t want to do anything else. Fashion is your passion; it’s your life-force. Don’t let a man take away a vital part of you.’

Cassandra took a small breath, wondering if she had overdone the melodrama.

‘He’s not a man,’ said Laura, holding her head up straight. ‘He’s my husband.’

‘Precisely,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘Marriage is not something that takes over your life. It’s something that fits into your existing one. A really good marriage is one where you both understand that and support each other’s passions and ambitions.’

‘I thought maybe I could become a contributing editor …’

Cassandra felt a jolt of anxiety. She felt sure it was only a matter of time before he ditched his mousey bride, but until then she needed Laura in a position where she could monitor and control her. She shook her head gravely.

‘You can’t give in now, Laura. I saw how you looked at each other at the wedding: your marriage is stronger than you think. You can ride out a little bumpiness. Think of it as short-term pain, long-term gain. You have raw talent and influential friends,’ she lied. ‘Work your butt off for the next two years. You’ll be the next Venetia Scott or Katie Grand and then you can pick and choose your jobs. You’ll get the best advertising campaigns, consultancies at fashion houses. Then you can do much less and you and Max
can relax together. But if you give up now, you’ll just be another lady who lunches who once had something to do with fashion but no one can quite remember what. Do you think Max is going to respect you for that?’

Cassandra saw Laura’s eyes sparkle at that final mention of Max. How desperately she sought his approval!

‘Do you think that’s what Max wants?’ asked Laura more brightly.

‘I think he wants a wife he admires, a wife who forges her own destiny and doesn’t rely solely on him for her identity. Remember Max is a self-made man. He has a fierce work ethic, I’m sure he wants a partner not a dependant.’

Laura was nodding slowly. ‘You’re right. Oh, Cassandra I’m so sorry for bringing this up. I’m going to give
Rive
my everything and I don’t want you doubting me for a minute.’

Cassandra sat back in her chair, a broad smile of relief on her face.

‘I’m only glad I can help,’ she said, raising a regal hand to summon the wine waiter. ‘I think this calls for champagne.’