Guilty Pleasures (46 page)

‘Ruan, I think you’d better call me a cab. I’m completely beat.’

He picked up the phone and made a call.

‘There’s no taxis for at least forty-five minutes. They’re all at Panton Hall ferrying everyone home,’ he said finally putting down the receiver.

‘Then I’ll walk.’

Ruan laughed.

‘Don’t be mad! You don’t want to go walking through the estate at this time of night. I saw Rob at the party. Maybe he’s still there and could pick you up on the way past.’

‘No!’ she shouted.

Ruan looked surprised and then gave a low laugh.

‘I did hear a rumour.’

‘What rumour?’ said Emma feeling her cheeks blaze pink.

‘You and Rob?’

It felt wrong to lie to him, especially in his own home.

Finally she shrugged. ‘It was a one-off. A mental aberration. I knew he was a bit of a bastard and I thought I’d be the last person to get caught in his web.’

‘You women, you’re so predictable,’ he tutted. She picked up a newspaper from the sofa and hit him with it.

‘That’s right, rub it in. I’m a sucker for a handsome face and a fat wallet.’ She sat back in the sofa and sipped the whisky he had offered her. ‘Anyway, what about you? You were the heart-throb of Chilcot. Sorry, the whole of Oxfordshire; I thought you’d have settled down years ago.’

‘Well, I almost did. I got engaged about three years ago,’ he said frankly.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said, suddenly curious about what sort of woman Ruan would be interested in. ‘So … ?’

‘So she left me for someone else.’

‘Handsome face, fat wallet?’ smiled Emma sadly.

‘Something like that. And the last woman I fell for was married. So here I am. Still single. I guess you could say I haven’t had the best of luck.’

He gave her a long penetrating look which unnerved her considerably, but she was too tired to try to get up. All she could do was sit there, thinking how good-looking he was and what a waste it was that he was alone. Certainly Ruan was more handsome than Rob and Mark, but they had been able to arouse great passion in Emma, a passion that had taken her out of her comfort zone and had made her feel alive, whether it was deliriously happy or prickling with rage.

Ruan was another sort of man entirely. More stable, more solid. Hard-working and serious, in many ways he reminded her of herself. He had consistently been her friend and supporter and she was terribly fond of him.

Suddenly she felt Ruan take off her shoes and put them to the side of the fireplace. The small, intimate gesture sent a jolt through her and she sat up.

‘Let me pull out the sofa-bed for you,’ he said softly.

He pulled himself up onto his knees and as he did so, his face passed within inches of Emma’s. Before she could even think about what she was doing she reached forward and put her hand on his cheek, guiding him down until their lips pressed gently together. Her eyes closed and she enjoyed the soft, natural sensation of their kiss. She felt him pull away gently and her split second of pleasure was replaced with an unbearable awkwardness.

‘I’m drunk,’ she smiled, trying to make light of it.

‘You’re my boss,’ he corrected quietly. ‘Otherwise it might be different.’

‘Look, I’d better go,’ she said quickly, moving to get up.

‘You’re drunk and tired,’ he said with a low laugh. ‘Crash here. I’ll just get you a blanket.’

As he brought over a tartan wool throw their eyes locked and she felt herself flush.

‘I’m not embarrassed if you’re not,’ said Ruan and Emma smiled gratefully.

She remembered him turning off the living room light and the gentle padding of his feet as he went upstairs. The next thing she knew her eyes were open and dawn light was cracking through the cottage window. She squinted at her watch: 8 a.m. Ruan was still asleep and the Milford office had officially closed for Christmas. She was desperate for a cup of coffee but there was no time to hang around – she swung her legs off the sofa, moaning as she felt the pain in her head. Speaking in a low voice, she called a taxi and went across to the chair where her coat had been flung. She winced at the memory of last night as she spotted her shoes by the fireplace where Ruan left them, a small but potent reminder of what had happened.
How could I have been so bloody stupid?
she thought. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the thought of staying in Chilcot and bumping into either Rob or Ruan made her cringe. But there was another option and as she heard the taxi toot outside Ruan’s cottage, she made up her mind. She was going to take the lesser of the two evils. She was going to Gstaad.

Sitting outside one of Gstaad’s most popular cafés, Tom unzipped his ski jacket, took a sip of black coffee, and watched the Gstaad wonderland go by. Tom was usually unmoved by anything Cassandra loved, but he had to admit that the gingerbread houses with their powdered sugar snow twinkling in the fading afternoon light was enough to convince anyone that Gstaad was the prettiest village in the world. And to think he almost hadn’t come. Not that it had been plain sailing. The bruising around his eye had already prompted difficult questions from Virginia and Roger and he’d almost rather face those goons again than have another showdown with Cassandra, who was due to arrive at the Milford chalet any second. His sister had consistently refused to take his phone calls since that stupid party in Paris. It was ludicrous! Nearly a year had passed and yet she was still behaving as if he’d killed her puppy or something. But then, even with that little pleasure hanging over his head, somehow the sights and the smells of Gstaad made it all seem worthwhile.

‘Emma! Hey, Emma, over here!’

Emma was looking good. Fresh off the slopes, she had a healthy pink-cheeked glow and her smile was wide as she hoiked her skis off her shoulder and sat down next to him.

‘Tom! I didn’t know you were coming!’ she cried, reaching over to give him a kiss with genuine affection. ‘I could have done with some company on the Wasserngrat.’

‘I’m out of action,’ shrugged Tom. He was reckless by nature, but even he wasn’t convinced his knees would be strong enough to snowboard after being hit with a baseball bat two weeks
earlier. ‘I think the booze and cigarettes are finally catching up with me.’

‘Oh yes? Stella told me you were trying to quit.’

‘You’ve been talking about me behind my back then, have you?’ he replied, secretly pleased.

‘I’ve been curious since the second I heard you’d both been down to St Ives to see her dad,’ she nudged him in the ribs.

‘We’re just friends,’ he said quickly.

‘I’m glad. She needs cheering up. Johnny Brinton is a viper. I saw him all over some woman at the Dugdale Festival. I tried to tell Stella but she didn’t want to hear it at the time. I don’t blame her. When you’re in love who wants to hear it?’

‘Viper? He’s a worm. No, he’s lower than a worm. He’s a slug!’

‘Just friends, hey?’ smiled Emma sensing the fierce, protective tone in Tom’s voice.’

‘Stella’s great.’

Emma started laughing quietly.

Tom sat bolt upright in his chair.

‘Emma Bailey! You work in fashion for two minutes and already you’ve become this terrible gossip. What’s happened to you?’

‘I heard about Chessie,’ said Emma, more seriously.

‘Did Stella tell you what else happened at Trencarrow? It turns out that Christopher has been sculpting all this time. I’m going to have a word with my mum to see if she can introduce him to a big gallery in London.’

It was only then that Tom realized with a sinking feeling that he still hadn’t asked Julia about Christopher. After all she had done for him, it somehow felt rude asking her to suggest a big London gallery for Christopher. But then Tom had to admit he wasn’t really doing it for Christopher; he was doing it for Stella.

He glanced at his watch.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better go and face the music’

Emma pulled a face.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll be back yet,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘They’re still at the Eagle Club having lunch. Apparently Cassandra’s gone straight up there to meet all her terrible Eurotrash friends. She finds it terribly embarrassing that Roger goes up there. My heart bleeds.’

Emma giggled. She was so relieved to have an ally over Christmas.

‘A pact,’ she said, squeezing his fingers. ‘Let’s stick together.’

Tom stood up. ‘All for one and one for all,’ he said, making an elaborate bow. ‘Lead on, D’Artagnan.’

Le Chalet Anglais was an 80-year-old traditional Savoyese chalet set back on a hill behind the town with beautiful views of the Palace Hotel’s Rapunzel turrets. The main living room was a long high-beamed loft in aged pine lit by two chandeliers with a roaring stone fireplace at one end. The sumptuous dining area had a long rustic wooden table set with silver and bone china next to a huge open-plan kitchen area. By the time Emma had taken a hot shower and come back downstairs, everyone had arrived back at the chalet while a pretty chalet girl – who Emma predicted would end up in bed with Tom by the end of the festive season – was pulling a huge Beef Wellington from the oven. It smelled delicious.

‘Bloody awful snow,’ said Roger, sipping a G&T in a velvet club chair in front of the fire. ‘Global warming is going to put this town out of business if we’re not careful. Ah, Emma,’ he said rising to his feet. ‘Glad you could make it.’

‘Thanks for inviting me. Actually, the snow wasn’t too bad on the slopes today although on Boxing Day I think I’m going to Les Diablerets if anyone wants to come?’

‘I will,’ said Ruby, putting her hand in the air. ‘I want to go skiing with Emma.’

Emma laughed. She didn’t see Ruby a great deal; only in the school holidays when she stayed with Julia, but had enjoyed getting to know the young teenager who was fun, feisty and clever.

Standing next to the fireplace in skinny jeans, a white T-shirt and a red fox fur gilet, Cassandra viewed her daughter narrowly.

‘You are not going to Les Diablerets with Emma. She’s bound to go off-piste and leave you.’

‘Emma’s always been a wonderful skier, haven’t you?’ said Roger, handing her a glass of claret. ‘Did you keep it up when you went to America? Jackson Hole has some decent skiing, I hear.’

‘The Aman resort out there is wonderful,’ piped up Rebecca.

‘I sometimes got up to Maine,’ said Emma, ‘but to be honest, Gstaad was probably closer to Boston than Jackson Hole.’

Emma was relieved that the atmosphere was not as tense as she’d anticipated. Still, such a change in Roger’s attitude towards her
couldn’t simply be festive spirit, could it? She mused, eyeing him carefully.

The chalet girls were serving the food in big earthenware pots in the middle of the table, so Roger clinked his ring against his glass.

‘Before we start the meal I’d like to give a little toast to Saul, who’s made this all possible tonight and I’m sure is up there right now delighted that we’re all here together to enjoy it.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried Tom, who seemed to be holding up his part of his pact with Emma by hitting the advocaat.

They all settled down around the table. Roger made a point of holding Emma’s chair for her and then he sat down next to her.

‘So I hear things are going well in your department,’ said Emma.

Roger nodded enthusiastically, as he glugged wine into both their glasses.

‘The wife of this
very
rich Eastern European came in a few days ago, didn’t she Roger?’ said Rebecca flicking a sheath of hair over her shoulder. ‘She ordered a 50-inch crocodile bag with real eagle feathers. It’s going to cost her £120,000 and apparently she didn’t even blink. Isn’t fashion crazy sometimes?’

‘That’s not fashion, that’s money laundering,’ said Cassandra cynically.

‘All I could think of was: where are we going to get a croc big enough for a 50-incher?’ said Roger, shaking his head.

As the meal progressed, Emma could not help but think that anyone listening to the laughter and banter around the table would believe they were watching a happy close-knit family sharing a warm Christmas together, rather than a collection of warring factions jostling for position inside a business balancing on a knife-edge.

When finally there was a lull in conversation, Roger put down his glass as if he was preparing to say something important.

‘Now we’re all here,’ he said, raising his voice to include everyone, ‘and in such convivial surroundings, I think it’s time I brought something up.’

‘Roger,’ said Julia. ‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

He shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘It’s good news, Julia. Or at least I think it is.’

Emma put down her fork and looked at Roger, suddenly feeling
in her gut that she wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.

‘I was having dinner with Victor Chen a couple of weeks ago and, well, he’s expressed serious interest in Milford.’

‘Who’s Victor Chen?’ asked Tom, refilling his glass.

‘He owns VCT, the luxury goods company,’ said Cassandra with authority. ‘I use the word “luxury” loosely because half of his company’s products are now made in China.’

‘I think that’s rather uncharitable, Cassandra,’ said Roger. ‘I believe you could say the same about many high-fashion brands too. Just because something is made in the Far East doesn’t meant to say that the quality is inferior.’

‘That depends on your definition of “quality”, Roger,’ said Cassandra icily. ‘If Milford moves production to Taiwan, you’re in danger of destroying the brand altogether.’

‘Come now, Cassandra …’

‘How interested is he in Milford?’ interrupted Virginia. ‘Are we talking about a minority shareholding or something much bigger?’

‘Oh, the whole thing,’ said Roger blithely. ‘Naturally the renaissance of the company is making waves in the industry and everyone is saying we’re the new Burberry and Emma here is our Rose Marie Bravo, guiding our company from the ashes back to the top of the fashion tree. Of course people are going to see Milford as a good investment.’

Emma and Tom glanced at each other.

‘Have you any idea of how much he’d be willing to pay?’ asked Virginia.

Roger shrugged.

‘Who’s to say without a valuation, and anyway, a company is only worth as much as somebody is prepared to pay for it. Look at the sale of J Crew. Sold for four billion dollars off the back of profits of only four million dollars. The value is the brand. And our brand is back in business.’

People started talking amongst themselves and an excited twitter ran around the table.

‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Emma raising a hand slightly.

Roger’s smile began to fade.

‘VCT’s interest is flattering but immaterial. I don’t want to sell. Serious interest from a big group like VCT is a greater indicator that we’re doing something right, but that’s all. I think we’ve got
something really valuable here – we’re just at the start of our journey.’

‘But surely we should at least wait to see what the offer is, darling?’ said Virginia, a note of reproach in her voice. ‘You can’t be saying no to a sale full stop?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Emma firmly. ‘For the foreseeable future at least. I have a five-year plan I want to see through. The plan is to build the business, not prime it for sale.’

‘Do you appreciate how much I am doing for this company?’ said Roger, unable to hide his anger. ‘I’m going to great lengths to sound out interest and follow up leads.’

‘No one has asked you to do that, Roger,’ said Emma calmly.

Roger got up from the table and stalked across the room, going outside onto the balcony.

‘Look what you’ve done, Emma. It’s Christmas, you know,’ said Virginia.

‘The subject is closed,’ said Emma, meeting her gaze. ‘We’re not interested.’

‘How can you be so damned stubborn!’ cried Virginia, throwing up her hands. ‘You have no idea what they are even offering. Perhaps you should consult a few other people before you start making such sweeping statements as “We’re not interested”. The
nerve!
This isn’t
your
company alone, Emma.’ She glared at her daughter for a moment before continuing.

‘As we’re talking about this and as you seem to have destroyed the atmosphere, I might as well tell you that Jonathan was talking to Harry Wilcox, a lawyer friend of his, and
he
recommended that we go public. We are hot news and we may never get any hotter. Harry said something about us being over-valued which, in share terms, means a very good return for us.’

‘And why would we want to go public?’ said Emma, raising her voice just slightly. ‘Having to answer to so many shareholders? Do you really want that, Mother? We need to have a longer-term strategy to build a valuable luxury goods empire instead of selling out at the first opportunity. We should be trying to build something that could be worth ten, twenty times as much in ten years. And we should be building it our way. The Milford way.’

‘Your
way,’ said Rebecca, sarcastically.

‘Look!’ said Emma, rapping her knuckles on the table and sending her glass of water flying. ‘We are
not
selling the company
to VCT or anyone else right now. We are not going to float the company either. I’m sorry if that spoils your Christmas but that’s the way it is.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma felt sure she had seen Cassandra smirking, but when she looked around, the expression had gone. Julia looked at her watch and sighed.

‘Look at the time. Let’s go to church.’

Emma was glad of the break and found the tranquillity of the church soothing after the confrontation at dinner. She wasn’t religious but it felt like a safe haven, somewhere she could be alone with her thoughts away from the accusing stares of her family.

After Mass the rest of the family drifted out slowly and Emma hung back, hoping to avoid another argument. Unfortunately for her, so many people were eager to exchange Christmas pleasantries with the priest, the church doorway became a bottleneck and when she finally stepped out into the night, Emma found herself walking next to Cassandra. Her cousin was wrapped up in a long sable mink fur and black boots, like a ghost from a more glamorous age. They walked in silence, the others moving on ahead until all that Emma could hear was the soft crunch of Cassandra’s boots in the snow.

‘Why did you stick up for me at dinner?’ asked Emma suddenly. It had been bothering her since Cassandra had spoken; it was so out of character.

Cassandra thrust her hands in her pockets and shrugged.

‘It wasn’t a question of sticking up for you. I’d simply hate to see Milford products being made on a conveyer belt in the Far East.’

‘Well, I appreciated it; thank you.’

Emma wasn’t sure she entirely believed Cassandra; her cousin never did anything without a motive; everything was calculated to benefit her. But then, Emma could do with every ally she could get at the moment. She had been nervous about coming out to Gstaad before this sudden outbreak of inter-family warfare and now she felt completely isolated.
It won’t kill you to be civil, Emma,
she told herself.