Guilty Pleasures (4 page)

‘This is absolute dynamite,’ said Cassandra in a low voice, eager to now end the meeting and run the copy past the company lawyer.

‘OK, back to work,’ she barked, waving a hand in dismissal and swivelling around in her chair. She snatched up the phone and was just about to call the legal department when she noticed the red light on her second line was flashing.

‘I didn’t want to disturb you while you were in the meeting,’ said Lianne apologetically, ‘but Phoebe Fenton has been on the phone twice in the last ten minutes. She’s still holding.’

Cassandra groaned, holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece as she debated whether to wait until she had called the lawyers. But curiosity got the better of her and it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

‘Put her through.’

There was a click, then Lianne’s voice.

‘I have Cassandra Grand for you, Ms Fenton.’

‘Phoebe, darling,’ purred Cassandra settling back into her ergonomic chair. She knew Phoebe a little, as they had met at numerous shows and fund-raisers over the years, but she wasn’t a real acquaintance. Cassandra couldn’t afford get too close to celebrities, for obvious reasons. One week they could be hotter than the sun, the next in fashion Siberia.

‘Cassandra, honey, how are you?’ said Phoebe warmly. ‘Did you enjoy the shows?’

‘Vintage Kors. Calvin was a little predictable. Some wonderful colours at Matthew Williamson and Zac Posen. It was a shame you were in London but then I’m sure you had great fun on our shoot.’

‘Actually that’s why I’m calling,’ replied Phoebe.

‘Yes, I’m so looking forward to seeing the shots,’ said Cassandra enthusiastically. ‘I love Xavier’s work.’

There was a brief pause before Phoebe began again. Cassandra could tell Phoebe was picking her words very carefully.

‘Cassandra … I’m a little concerned about how things went.’

A little late for that, darling,
she thought.

‘Oh, really?’ said Cassandra, feigning surprise. ‘I heard it went well. Xavier is a genius. We were very lucky to get him in London when the New York shows were on. He makes women look so strong. So beautiful.’

‘Yes, I was wondering if we could talk about that. I’m nervous about the shots and the implications of the interview. I was wondering if I could …’

‘Darling, you know we never give copy approval. Once we start, everyone wants it and then the whole magazine grinds to a halt,’ replied Cassandra, cutting her short.

Phoebe paused again.

‘Yes, I realize that. There’s just a few things I’d like to explain. In private? I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel for lunch.’

‘I’d love to, Phoebe,’ said Cassandra, beginning to enjoy herself, ‘but it’s London Fashion Week now. I’ve got to see the Paul Smith show and I have crisis after crisis to deal with here.’

‘Cassandra,’ said Phoebe, failing to disguise the annoyance in
her voice, ‘we go back a long way and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t want to get lawyers involved when we don’t have to.’

‘Lawyers?’ laughed Cassandra. ‘Why on earth would we need to involve lawyers?’

‘Can you come to the Met for one o’clock? I’m in the penthouse.’

In that case I don’t feel too sorry for you,
thought Cassandra.

‘I have a lunch at Cipriani but I could drop by at 12.30.’

‘See you then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

You have no idea how much,
thought Cassandra, and hung up.

Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, Cassandra flipped open her compact and put on some lip gloss. She allowed herself a small smile at the face looking back at her. Many women would feel inferior meeting a supermodel for lunch but Cassandra honestly didn’t feel that way. She didn’t have their freakish symmetry or gangly frame, but she was undeniably a beauty, with high cheek bones and a feline slant to her vivid green eyes. Her nose was a touch too long, her chin a little too pointed and at five feet eight inches tall she tipped the scales at eight stone dead – to go a pound over might mean not fitting into the sample clothes. And as a modern style icon, that would be career suicide. Not that she didn’t have to work hard at it. Daily Pilates. Twice weekly tennis lessons. Three times a week Joel,
the
top session hairdresser, came to her Knightsbridge apartment at 6.30 a.m. to blow-dry her long dark glossy hair. Plus she visited the Mayr Clinic in Austria once a year to eat spelt bread and Epsom salts for ten days, returning with glowing skin, a flat stomach and an uncontrollable desire for ice cream. No, Cassandra Grand was not a drop-dead beauty, but she was the pinnacle of chic. Impeccably dressed in a simple, understated style, she wore no jewellery except for a large diamond stud in each ear lobe, a gift from a lover. In fact, except for the La Perla underwear, she had paid for nothing she was wearing; her entire outfit were gifts from fashion houses and luxury goods companies desperate for endorsement from one of the world’s most stylish women.

She snapped the compact shut as the car pulled up on Park Lane.

As Cassandra stepped out of the lift on the 10th floor into the penthouse of the Metropolitan, she could see the smudge of Hyde
Park on the horizon through floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe was sitting on the cream couch wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. Long wavy hair the colour of coffee beans was tied in a ponytail. In her late thirties, Phoebe Fenton was still extremely beautiful, but her eyes looked tired and distracted.

‘Phoebe, darling! You look wonderful,’ said Cassandra, kissing her lightly on both cheeks.

‘Mineral water?’ asked Phoebe, reaching for a crystal tumbler.

Cassandra nodded. ‘Still.’

Cassandra sat carefully on the sofa opposite Phoebe and crossed her legs elegantly under her.
I think I’m going to enjoy this
she thought, accepting her drink with a smile. Phoebe no longer had an agent – in fact negotiations for the cover shoot had been done through her PA – and that instantly gave Cassandra the upper hand. A big Hollywood publicist could get you over a barrel. If you upset one star on their roster, they could and would refuse access to any of their charges. You wouldn’t even get photo approval for an ancient head-shot. But now Cassandra was in the driving seat.

‘So have you read the interview?’ asked Phoebe.

Cassandra gave a little deliberate laugh and shook her head.

‘Wasn’t the interview on Friday night?’ she asked, ‘Vicky won’t even have transcribed the tapes yet. You need to give these big-name journalists at least a fortnight to get their copy in.’

Phoebe ran a finger around the edge of her tumbler.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ve been told already, but I was a little, well,
manic
at the shoot on Friday.’

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

Phoebe looked down at her glass again.

‘You see, my friend Romilly popped by, she often comes to shoots with me. She dresses me for the red carpet and I feel comfortable with her, but she can be a bit … a bit wild. But she’s a good friend and I need all the ones I can get at the moment.’

Phoebe looked up at Cassandra and the look of sadness in her brown eyes almost melted Cassandra. Almost. Phoebe sighed and continued.

‘We had some drinks and I guess I was a little too loose-lipped.’ She leant forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘Cassandra, I’ve just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,’ she said quietly.

‘Manic depression?’ said Cassandra. Phoebe nodded.

‘I don’t know if the separation triggered it, but the doctors say
it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a vicious circle. I’m depressed so I’ve been drinking, but drinking seems to bring on these extreme mood swings. I go a bit crazy. I say things I don’t mean. I’ve just been put on lithium to keep it under control but it doesn’t seem to have stabilized me yet.’

She stood up and walked over to the huge window.

‘I’ve never met Vicky, your journalist before. She seems a nice woman but you never know, right?’

‘Vicky is one of the best celebrity profilers in the UK,’ said Cassandra with a hint of reproach.

‘I’m just thinking she could paint an untrue picture.’

‘I’m sure Vicky will be fair.’

Phoebe went over and sat down next to Cassandra, so very close that Cassandra felt uncomfortable.

‘Cassandra, please,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Ethan is fighting for custody of Daisy and he’s fighting hard. Falling around in night-clubs, doing nude photo shoots. If I look like a bad mom his team of very expensive lawyers are going to tear me apart. I did this shoot as a favour to
Rive.
I don’t want it to make them take my baby away.’

Cassandra suppressed an internal snort.
A favour!
No one did anything in this industry without some ulterior motive. No doubt Phoebe wanted a set of sexy pictures to make her husband see what he was missing and come back to her. Well, the plan had backfired.

‘Phoebe honey, don’t worry,’ said Cassandra. ‘I haven’t seen the copy, but when I do, I’ll make sure it’s all completely complimentary. Our readers are going to love you.’

Phoebe huffed like a little girl denied her pony.

‘Well I hope so, because I don’t want to get difficult.’ She flashed Cassandra a look that betrayed her simpering, girl-next-door persona. After all, thought Cassandra, no one got to the top of the tree in modelling by being a walk-over.

‘I’m sure my attorney would go mad if he knew I was even talking to you. But I’ll get an injunction on the magazine if I have to,’ she said fiercely.

‘Listen, I think we’re all getting a little carried away,’ said Cassandra smoothly, putting out a placatory hand. ‘So you were a little drunk at the photo-shoot. Your friend may have been a little badly behaved. So what?
Rive
is a fashion magazine not the
National Enquirer.
We are here to celebrate people, darling, not destroy them.’

Phoebe looked a little more at ease.

‘If you like I can email over the shots when I get them.’

‘Is it all right if I look at the copy too?’

‘You know we don’t do that, Phoebe.’

‘Please. For me?’ she said, putting her head on one side.

Jesus, this woman is 38,
thought Cassandra.
She’ll be saying ‘Pretty please, with sugar on top’ next!

‘When are you back in New York?’

‘Saturday.’

‘We won’t have layouts for at least a fortnight. How about I Fed-Ex something over to you then. Just so you can have a look at it?’

‘I’m really grateful, Cassandra. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My shrink says Romilly’s not good for me. But it was tough being in that marriage. Claustrophobic’

Cassandra touched her on the knee gently.

‘He’ll be sorry when he sees these photographs. You’ll look amazing and everyone will be jealous. Trust me.’

In the back seat of her car Cassandra took out her phone.
An alcoholic, drug-taking bisexual and she blames it on bipolar! The nerve of it!
She punched in David Stern’s number.

‘David, I have a lunch and then the Paul Smith show so I won’t be back until at least 3 p.m. But in the meantime there are a couple of things I want you to do.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Talk to Jeremy, talk to the subs. Tell them to rush the Phoebe Fenton copy through as it is. Then I want you to work on the cover. Go with the bare breasts image. Main cover-line: “Phoebe Fenton Bares All”. I want “Bares All” in gold block foil across the cover; make sure it covers her nipples. I want this issue to
fly
off the shelves, not be
taken
off it.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked David.

Cassandra had asked herself that very question. It was a gamble, certainly. Some advertisers wouldn’t be happy and some of her more conservative subscribers would be on the phone. But the fashion market was just the same as any other market: sex sells,
and after a disappointing audit on last month’s issue she needed to pull something big out of the bag. For, despite her position of power and influence as editor of
Rive,
Cassandra knew her kingdom rested on shifting sands. Editors were expendable, pawns used by management to cover their failings. And more than anything, UK glossy editors had a shelf-life; after forty, maybe forty-five, they tended to mysteriously disappear. It was a little better in the States. So the US
Rive
boss Glenda McMahon was still wielding her power at 50, but a few dud issues and even she was instantly replaceable. What Cassandra was painfully aware of was that with the exception of perhaps Carmel Snow and Diane Vreeland, editors rarely left a legacy beyond their tenure. And it was a legacy she wanted.

‘What do you mean “is this a good idea”?’ snapped Cassandra.

David paused again, weighing his words carefully.

‘Is this not going to crucify Phoebe? The tabloids will take this and rip her to shreds. I didn’t think that was our agenda.’

‘For a queen, you’re very uptight, David,’ she sneered. ‘Our agenda is to
set
the agenda. To sell issues we have to be bold, we have to be provocative. We have to take chances.’

‘Well this is certainly that.’

‘Just do it, David,’ she barked and snapped the phone shut.

And finally, after one hell of a gruesome week, she allowed herself a laugh.

‘Good morning, Gretchen.’

It was 7.45 a.m. Although Price Donahue’s working hours did not officially start until 8 a.m., there was already a hum of activity around the office. Emma herself had been there since 7 a.m., trying to get through a backlog of work which had piled up since her trip to England.

‘Oh God, morning Emma,’ said Emma’s secretary breathlessly, rushing into her office and presenting her boss with a large bunch of red and yellow tulips. ‘Sorry, I wanted to get in before you this morning so I could get these in a vase.’

‘What’s all this for?’ she smiled, gathering the flowers up.

‘Your birthday, silly. You make me remember when half of corporate Boston is born so I think I can remember my own boss’s.’

Emma smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Gretchen was forgetful, disorganized and her time-keeping was atrocious, but she had a kind heart, a rare thing at any level in business, thought Emma as she watched the girl scuttle off to find a vase.

‘Who’s 21 again?’

Emma looked up to see her friend Cameron Moore, a manager in the retail division, pop her head around the door. Her perfectly blow-dried mane of dark hair hung to one side, like a shampoo advert.

‘Welcome back, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Here, a birthday gift.’

Cameron handed Emma a small orange box tied with a chocolate ribbon. She smiled. Emma usually bought clothes because they were smart, not because they were designer names, but she still
recognized the famous bright orange of Hermès. She opened the box and a gorgeous silk scarf fluttered to the table.

‘Oh, Cam, how wonderful! Thank you,’ she said, getting up to give her friend a kiss on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you remembered.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Cameron, rolling her eyes, ‘That secretary of yours has been bombarding everyone with emails for about a month! But enough of that, how was England?’

Emma sighed, looking down at the scarf, examining the stitching.

‘Eventful. I’ve been given a company.’

Cameron’s face lit up and Emma immediately regretted saying it. The news would be around the building in minutes and eyebrows would be raised. Total commitment had to be shown to Price Donahue at all times.

Cameron closed the door and hushed her voice.

‘The family company? Milford?’

Emma nodded. As Cameron’s area of expertise was luxury retailing she was interested to hear her friend’s thoughts on the company even though she personally had little interest in her new shareholding.

‘Your uncle
gave
it to you?’ said Cameron incredulously. ‘The whole thing?’

‘A controlling interest, yes. It was a bit awkward really,’ she shrugged. ‘Still, it was nice to see my family, even if the circumstances could have been better.’

‘Family?’ hissed Cameron. ‘Forget about the family! Jeez, Emma, you’ve got your own
company!
This is enormous!’

Cameron sat down on Emma’s desk, as if stunned by the news.

Emma laughed at her friend’s reaction, but it did make her think.

‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘Do? You should go straight in to see Davies right now and resign!’

‘Resign? I have no intention of giving up work here, it’s …’

Cameron interrupted, nodding her head.

‘Yes, yes, I know, it’s your life. But, Em, haven’t you ever dreamed of getting off this merry-go-round? Haven’t you ever wished you could stop telling fat old duffers how to run their companies and do it yourself?’

‘Cam, I’ve even taken up golf to get this partnership,’ she laughed.

‘Golf? Emma! This is your big chance. What, you want to spend the rest of your life doing all the hard work for Daniel Davies and his little clique, hoping they’ll throw you a bone someday?’

Cameron picked up Emma’s scarf and waved it at her.

‘OK, so Milford might not be Hermès right now. But honey, it
could
be.’

Emma looked her friend doubtfully.

‘I don’t think so.’

Cameron smiled.

‘With you in charge, sweetie, anything’s possible.’

Emma was sitting back at her desk at Price Donahue, trying to concentrate on a spreadsheet relating to a possible merger between two haulage companies, but for once, the jumble of figures was failing to hold her attention.

Looking at the orange Hermès box still on her desk she reached into her handbag and pulled out a letter that had been given to her by Anthony Collins at Milford and which she had read once on the flight home.

She stared thoughtfully out of the window before a ping made her look up: an incoming email.

‘How was it? Mark.’

She folded the letter, put it back in her handbag and began typing.

‘Interesting, to say the least. How about dinner to discuss?’

There was an instant reply.
‘Dinner it is for the birthday girl. Eight?’

She looked at her watch and groaned. She’d been so wrapped in her own dramas that she’d forgotten to send out an important letter. It wouldn’t do to slip up on anything right now; the partnerships were due to be announced tomorrow. She called out to her secretary.

‘Gretchen? Have you done that letter of engagement for the Frost Group yet? It was supposed to go this morning.’

Gretchen put her head around the door, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘It’s already gone,’ she said. ‘Mark came to speak to me about that a couple of days ago. Said the letter was going out in his name.’

‘Really? When was this?’

‘Tuesday. Sorry, Emma, but he’s a partner. I didn’t query it.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ said Emma quickly. ‘I’d just forgotten he was going to do it, that’s all.’

When Gretchen had gone, she swivelled round to look out of the window. For some unaccountable reason, there was a sick feeling in her stomach. Was she being paranoid? Why had Mark sent the Frost letter out in his own name? OK. Maybe it was protocol because he was a partner but she had hustled hard for that piece of business.

She picked up the phone and dialled Mark’s extension but it went straight to message.

‘Emma. I thought you’d like to know,’ said Gretchen popping her head around the door and whispering. ‘It looks like partnerships are being announced today.’

‘Today!’ said Emma. ‘I thought it was going to be tomorrow, Friday.’

Gretchen came into the office and closed the door. She was the hub of the PA grapevine; a better gossip than she was secretary and Emma didn’t doubt that her sources were good.

‘Jason Rich has already been seen coming out of Daniel Davies’ office grinning like a Cheshire cat. Apparently a couple of other senior managers have just had meetings chalked in for after lunch.’

For the rest of the day Emma couldn’t settle as all afternoon senior managers had been going up to see the managing partner Daniel Davies. When Gretchen put the call through at 5 p.m. asking her to go and see Davies, Emma could hardly stand the suspense.

This is it,
thought Emma feeling sick. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt.

She tried to calm herself, but had never felt so nervous about anything in her whole life. Three years at Stanford. Another two at Harvard; Emma had always known she was not as academically gifted as her father, a Fellow at Oxford, so she had to work damn hard to the exclusion of everything else. No social life. No boyfriends. The work never stopped once she got to Price Donahue with six years of ninety-hour weeks, eleven and a half months a year. But a partnership at 29! It would mean instant respect around the city and instant respect in corporate America, not to mention a high six-figure salary. In ten years’ time she could pick and choose board directorships at some of the biggest blue chip companies in the world. And best of all, it would have been all of her own making, not like the brash, young CEOs she met on the corporate circuit who only held the job because their daddies had held the position and their daddies before that. With a lurch, she realized that she was also thinking about Milford.
Handed to me on a plate.
Where was the victory, the glory in that?

She went to Daniel Davies’ office on the top floor and tried to read his face the minute she walked through the door. He was sitting behind his desk, furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad with a silver fountain pen. He was 45 but his thick black hair was greying, making him look older. His gaze, when he looked up at Emma, gave nothing away.

‘Ah, Emma,’ he said, putting his pen down carefully.

‘Daniel,’ said Emma feeling her palms go clammy.

‘Have a seat and I’ll get straight to the point. You know we’ve been extremely pleased with you over the last twelve months. Client feedback has been excellent from many of your projects and we always like having a Harvard Baker Scholar on the team,’ he said, referring to the prestigious award given to the top 5 per cent of students from the business school.

A flock of butterflies took flight in Emma’s stomach.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘But despite my enormous respect for your abilities, I’m afraid you are not going to be invited to join the partnership this year.’

It was as if she had been kicked. She felt a thickness in her throat.

‘I see,’ she said evenly, fighting back her emotions. Now was not the time to fall apart-a tearful scene would only confirm their decision.

‘I wonder if you could expand on that?’ she asked. ‘I know it was competitive this year, but some feedback might be useful.’

She was digging her nails into her palm, but managed to meet Davies’ eyes.

He averted his gaze slightly.

‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Some partners simply felt that you were a little short of experience to make the jump to the next level. I’m sorry.’

Emma nodded. She had rehearsed a hundred times how she would respond to the news that she had not made partner. She knew the dignified response would be to thank him and leave the room immediately, but she had felt so sure. She had to know.

‘Could I ask if it was a unanimous decision?’

She knew she was the strongest manager by a mile, she just
knew
it. But if the senior partners couldn’t see it, then she was obviously wasting her time at the firm.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, examining his manicured fingernails. ‘Of course, the decision is taken by the board, but we take advice and recommendations from the partners you have worked most closely with.’

He paused and gave her a small encouraging smile.

‘Everyone thinks you can do the job, Emma,’ he said looking at her with his dark eyes.

‘But some people think you could do with a little more maturity before you progress to the next stage.’

Emma could not hold it inside any longer.

‘Who?’ she asked weakly.

‘Emma. Being a partner isn’t just about doing the job. It’s about bringing in business. Mark Eisner thinks you need to be more confident in social situations. You need to interact better with potential clients, be more aggressive with salesmanship.’

‘Salesmanship?’ repeated Emma, stunned. ‘Only last week I brought in Frost Industries. I met PJ at a convention. He invited me to Vermont… It’s worth a fortune in fees.’ Her head was spinning. How could Mark, the man she was in love with, have betrayed her so brutally? He knew how much she had wanted this partnership. Only days ago, she had lain naked in his arms as he had told
her she was the brightest talent in the firm.
Surely Daniel Davies was lying or mistaken?

Davies raised an eyebrow. ‘It was my understanding that Mark Eisner brought in that business and closed the deal. He told me so himself on Monday. We are grateful for your work on the pitch and I am sure you will be involved in the team that implements the work.’

She bit her lip knowing it was pointless to contest what David had said. She remembered how Mark had insisted on coming on the Vermont trip. At the time, she’d been flattered and excited.
‘Bring me. Let’s have a couple of nights in a five-star hotel on the company,’
he’d told her. But no: was he just looking for a way to steal her thunder? How much more of her work had he passed off as his own?
The bastard.

‘Emma. Given time, I, for one, think you have a future at Price Donahue,’ said Davies sympathetically. ‘You are only 29 years old.’

‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ she whispered, her hands trembling.

They looked at each other, each knowing that Price Donahue was a company of Young Turks; you had your window of opportunity to make partner. If you didn’t make it, you were history.

Without another word she got up and left the room.

She walked back to her office in silence, a short shake of the head all she needed to impart her news to Gretchen.

‘Who did?’ she asked, knowing Gretchen was popular with all the PAs and secretaries in the company.

‘Pete Wise, Jack Johnson, Bob Hatch,’ she said apologetically.

Pete Wise?
The man was an idiot! And what business had Jack Johnson brought in? Despairing, Emma grabbed her coat and headed out into the cold Boston evening.

The tall office blocks of downtown soared up around her. In front, Boston harbour shimmered like a vat of ink. Suddenly she felt very small and alone.