Guilty Pleasures (8 page)

‘And that’s exactly where we should be aiming Milford,’ said Emma firmly.

Roger laughed.

‘Well, if our problem is a lack of sales, shouldn’t we be pursuing a policy of more
inclusive
luxury to increase sales?’ he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Emma took out another pile of papers from her leather folder.

‘I have had this faxed through from a ex-colleague of mine at Price Donahue. She’s an expert in the luxury sector.’

Emma began passing the crisp white documents down the table.
Thank goodness for Cameron,
she thought.

‘Her analysis of the luxury goods market is that the sector is becoming devalued. When so many designer goods are now made in China, the very top end of the market, the growing numbers of high-net worth individuals, want a return to traditional craftsmanship. With that in mind I believe we need to be
more
exclusive, we need to be right at the very top end, the most luxurious on the market. We don’t want to be in the business of churning out ‘it-bags’. We want to make
heirlooms
for fashionable women.’

Emma stood and walked over to the video screen which was now showing a black and white photograph of a white-coated artisan bent over a work-bench, making tiny holes in the leather enabling a bag to be hand-stitched.

‘We need to get back to this. Gorgeous design and beautiful craftsmanship. Ruan, after this meeting can we discuss reverting production to hand-stitching?’

Her mother was laughing gently.

‘Darling, I know you’re only trying to help but you really don’t know anything at all about the company. We’ve just spent thousands putting in the new machines to increase productivity.’

Emma stared back at her mother, her lips pursed.

‘As it happens, I do know about the factory machines and every other part of the company,’ she said, her anger making her rush her words. ‘I have been over every inch of the company books and I know that money has been wasted on poor decisions in every area. That doesn’t mean we should continue to do so.’

‘This is preposterous,’ said Roger slamming his hand on the table. ‘Anthony?’ he said looking over to the lawyer. ‘Must we endure this, this … piffle?’

‘Roger, please. Calm down,’ interrupted Emma. ‘This is not personal, it is simply what needs to be done to save this company from going under.’

‘Emma, show some respect to your uncle!’ said Virginia sternly. ‘How dare you speak to him like that!’

‘I think perhaps we need a short break?’ said Anthony, quickly fiddling with his glasses.

‘Fine,’ said Emma, gathering her papers. ‘I will be in Saul’s office. Sorry,
my
office.’ And she walked out, her head held high, but her heart sinking.

‘This is totally outrageous,’ shouted Roger storming into the office, just as Emma was sitting down. ‘Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me in front of everybody?’ he said, leaning over the desk and glaring at her.

Emma was taken aback by the force of his fury, but she felt protected by Saul’s desk between them and she was tired of being bullied, especially by Roger.

‘I don’t mean any of this as a personal attack, Roger,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘But the business is on its knees. I saw the designs
for the Autumn/Winter line and my gut feeling is that we’re going to have to go again with them.’

‘Go again! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with them,’ he spluttered. ‘What exactly do you propose we do instead?’

Emma looked at him, her eyes narrow. She had made the decision about what she was about to say the moment she had left the Milford shop.

‘I propose we get a new creative director.’

‘But, but – I am in charge of design,’ he said, panic in his voice.

‘Roger, we can discuss this later.’

‘We can discuss this in court!’ he bellowed, marching towards the door.

‘Roger, please.’

‘Please?
Please?
That’s all you can say?’ he shouted, turning back, the fury blazing in his eyes. ‘You come in here with your prissy little business school theories with zero experience in the real world and start telling us that a business we’ve been running for decades is worthless. How
dare
you!’ he hissed. ‘You’re playing with people’s lives!’

Emma began to feel the situation spiral out of control before her. Suddenly she could hear Mark’s words in her head.
You’re too nice. You’re an academic, not a corporate player.

‘I dare, because I have to!’ shouted Emma, stopping Roger in his tracks. She grabbed a thick file and threw it down on the desk between them. ‘You look at the figures, Roger: they’re all there in black and white. If we don’t do something pretty radical, Milford is dead before the end of the year. How’s that for the real world?’

Roger’s face drained of colour and his mouth worked without sound.

‘I am still a large shareholder of this company, young lady,’ he finally managed. ‘I know what the figures say and with a marketing budget…’

‘Roger, you have a 20 per cent shareholding,’ said Emma, stabbing a finger onto the spreadsheets. ‘And 20 per cent of nothing is nothing.’

She stood up and inhaled deeply. There was no going back now.

‘I give you my word, Roger, that by the time I have finished, your stake will be worth fifty times what it is now. Twenty years ago Gucci was almost bankrupt, now it’s a multi-billion dollar company. A great designer turned Bottega Veneta around in months,
not years. Chanel was once in the doldrums, so was Burberry, the precedents are all there. But we need to be brave, we need to
try.
Give me a chance, Roger. I can do this, I know I can.’

‘And what makes you think we can trust you?’ said Roger slowly.

Emma almost smiled.

‘Saul did,’ she said. ‘That’s a start, isn’t it?’

The showroom of designer Guillaume Riche’s Parisian atelier was alive with colour. Stork-thin models strutted down the makeshift catwalk with smoky eyes and hair so straight it swung in time to the music. Each girl brought out a look which was more beautiful than the last: a cashmere wrap coat in cyclamen pink, a bone white chiffon blouse with a graphite wool pencil skirt, a voluminous evening dress in amethyst. This was ready-to-wear at its most bold and luxurious. Finally Alexia Dark, one of the industry’s hottest models, walked past in a gown sculpted in layers of primrose tulle so delicate it looked like the ripples of water on a tropical beach. Tomorrow, the unveiling of Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection would be the hottest show in town, but tonight it was a dress rehearsal and a private view for the luckiest, most talented fashion magazine editor in Paris: Cassandra Grand.

Standing at the end of the catwalk was a small man in tight charcoal jodhpurs. From the back he looked like a jockey except for the long grey hair that fell down between his shoulder blades. As the music died, he spun around dramatically to face the woman sitting in the front row and threw his hands into the air.

‘Cassandra!’ he cried. ‘You are not clapping! Tell me why you are not clapping? You hate it! You hate the show!’

Cassandra laughed. She stood up and pulled on the little mink shrug that had been sitting on her lap.

‘The beauty of the dress rehearsal, Guillaume,’ she said, linking her arm through his, ‘is that I don’t have to clap. I’ve spent the last four weeks of shows clapping. I can’t stop clapping because some devious design houses such as yourself have been known to
film the audience to make sure they are clapping and withhold advertising if you do not show sufficient ardour. I’m sick of clapping. I practically have RSI.’

‘So you hate the show?’ Guillaume said nervously.

‘As we both know, clapping is really no indication of the quality of a collection.’ She paused dramatically and gave him a playful smile. ‘But in this case I think the show is absolutely sensational.’

Guillaume stopped in his tracks and collapsed to his knees, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the god of fashion.

‘Sensational. Do you mean that?’ he said, slinking into a Louis Ghost chair next to the catwalk. ‘I am not sure the hair is absolutely right. I think maybe the girls need white lips.
Merde.
I wish the venue would be ready so we could have a full dress rehearsal. But the sets aren’t ready. They are
imbeciles.
Useless.’

Cassandra sat down and put her hand on his knee to reassure him. Guillaume Riche, one of the world’s most beloved designers, really did not need overblown sets or white lipstick to show off the brilliance of his latest collection – it was amazing. Although he was nearly sixty, Guillaume was a designer at the peak of the game. In 24 hours’ time, celebrities, editors and buyers from all the top retail stores in the world would throw themselves at his feet and scratch each other’s eyes out to get hold of their favourite pieces. But tonight, Guillaume’s genius was for Cassandra’s eyes only – as his collection always was in the final hours before it was unveiled. Her position as editor-in-chief of
Rive
meant she could not be Guillaume’s official muse – other advertisers would not be happy – but she would always be called upon to make final suggestions, perhaps a change of shoes or accessories, or change the running order. Occasionally Cassandra actually recommended the axing of a look entirely and although Guillaume would naturally throw a hissy-fit to register on the Richter scale, he trusted her implicitly. And why wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it Cassandra who, almost single-handedly, had resurrected his career? The Nineties minimal aesthetic had very nearly killed off the flamboyant Guillaume Riche brand entirely, until Cassandra, then a junior stylist, had championed him on every shoot she styled. But much more significantly, when Cassandra had graduated to dressing up-and-coming starlets, she had used Guillaume’s designs to dress them for the red carpet – and Hollywood needed little encouragement to fall back in love with Guillaume; his luscious
clothes were old-school, movie-star glamour that flattered the legends and made the younger generation look sophisticated and worldly. And where the A-listers led, the rest of the fashion industry followed. Today Guillaume was now one of the most important designers in the world, a flamboyant foil to Lagerfeld’s commercial brilliance and this show, Cassandra was sure, would be his biggest triumph yet.

‘But how can we improve it?’ said Guillaume, getting up and pacing around.

Cassandra flipped open her Moleskine notebook and reviewed her scribbled comments. Even in a mediocre collection she could pick out the one gem that could make a woman beautiful and elegant.

‘I adored the inverted pleating, the volume of the skirts. However … the penultimate exit…’

‘What is wrong?’ said Guillaume, his eyes blazing. ‘What?’

‘The obi-belt on the amethyst dress, perhaps you should try it in pumpkin rather than black? It’s just a little too predictable.’

For a moment, it looked as if Guillaume would explode. Then he reached out and pinched Cassandra’s cheek affectionately.

‘Ma cherie,
you are always right.’

He clicked his fingers in the air and an assistant came running with two cups of espresso. Cassandra glanced at her watch. It was time to go back to her suite at the Plaza Athénée and prepare.

‘You are coming to the party?’ she said, downing the coffee in one.

‘Of course, but only for a short time, I’m afraid. Your timing before my show is very bad and then …’ he threw his hands in the air again, ‘… you request pumpkin obi-belts! But don’t worry, the rest of Paris will be there.’

‘Not all of them. Only those who are lucky enough to have been invited,’ she smiled.

‘Is Glenda coming?’ he asked. Glenda McMahon was the editor-in-chief of US
Rive
and therefore one of Cassandra’s most bitter rivals, despite the fact that she was Cassandra’s former boss and mentor.

‘Darling Glenda!’ she exclaimed, without a hint of irony. ‘I know she’s in Paris. I saw her at Lanvin yesterday. Whether that means she will turn up tonight is anyone’s guess.’

Her offhand comment switched Guillaume into a playful mood.

‘I see she was only one place above you in
Time’s
“Most Powerful Women in Fashion” …’

‘Will people stop mentioning that silly list?’ replied Cassandra, standing up and handing her coffee cup to a make-up artist.

‘One place,’ said Guillaume gleefully. ‘She is surely going to feel the breath on the back of her neck.’

‘Guillaume …’

‘My prediction is that in twelve months’ time that job will be yours.’

‘Guillaume, stop it! Glenda is a very gifted editor.’
But not as good as she was,
added Cassandra silently. As close a friend to Guillaume as she was, she simply couldn’t admit that she wanted Glenda’s job – Guillaume was as indiscreet as he was gifted. US
Rive
was where Cassandra had started her magazine career and it only seemed right that she should finish it there because New York was undeniably the centre of the media world, where money men, models and insiders collided and formed alliances. That was where she would make her next move, she was sure of it. She’d been at UK
Rive
for three years and knew it was already too long. She often lay awake at night thinking ahead to the day when she would be given the US
Rive
job, planning how she would finally take it beyond US
Vogue
to become the greatest fashion magazine on earth – and how she would make herself a legend at the same time.

‘Well, if you are not interested in that job,’ said Guillaume slyly, ‘what about another one I hear of in New York?’

Cassandra looked at him curiously. She thought she knew every magazine move that was being made or plotted. She thrived on gossip, it was the lifeblood of the industry, running up and down the front row, crackling between the tiny tables of the fashionistas’ favourite Parisian restaurant Chez George, at art previews and society weddings. For Cassandra it was not just idle tittle-tattle, it was professional ammunition.

‘And what job would this be?’ she asked.

‘The launch of the AtlanticCorp’s US fashion weekly,’ said Guillaume, ‘they have an editor-in-chief already but…’

‘Carrie Barker – I know. She was drafted in from their newspaper division.’

‘Yes. But they are not happy at all with the dummy and frankly my darling, I’m not surprised. The publishers presented it to me last week and it was … How do you say,
shit.’

Cassandra caught her breath. This was gossip of the highest quality.

‘So they are firing her?’

Guillaume nodded. ‘I told them they could do better.’

He clapped his hands as if he was already bored with the conversation and an assistant appeared carrying a long plastic bundle.

‘Now, ma cherie. What are you wearing to the party?’

‘What? Oh, I haven’t decided …’ said Cassandra, still lost in thought.

‘Well perhaps I can help,’ said Guillaume with relish, tearing the layer of plastic off the package. Cassandra gasped.

‘For you,’ smiled Guillaume. It was a beautiful sculpted tulle gown, the very same show-stopping gown Guillaume had used to end the catwalk show, except this version had been created in the most glorious pale biscuit colour, its neckline sprinkled with delicate seed pearl embroidery. She reached out a finger to touch the beading.

‘Lesage?’ she said recognizing the work of the great French artisan house.

He nodded and she beamed. The colour was the perfect complement to her skin.

But it was more than that: this was a dress that would be fêted by journalists in thousands of column inches and be worn by A-list stars on the red carpets of the Oscars or Cannes – except they wouldn’t be the first to wear it. Cassandra Grand would be, even before it had its official debut at Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘just so, so, beautiful!’ Carried away by the moment, Cassandra dropped her guard and embraced Guillaume, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘And it will fit perfectly.’

Cassandra smiled. She knew it would. It would fit her lithe body perfectly and it would fit her new plan perfectly, her new plan which started tonight.

‘Maintenant,’ screamed the sexy blonde, grabbing onto the bed-sheets.

‘Sure thing, baby …’

Tom Grand had dropped French as soon as he could at Shrewsbury school and he could barely remember how to say hello let alone decipher the ramblings of someone in the throes of orgasm,
but he didn’t need a dictionary to know the girl currently astride him was having a good time. Her small tits, glistening with sweat, were jiggling up and down as she slid herself along his cock, twisting her pelvis to grind her springy bush into him. Frankly, she was a wild-cat. Her name was Sophie. She was French, an actress, and when he had met her that afternoon in a café in the Bastille, where she’d been drinking espresso and painting her fingernails black, he’d suspected she’d be a right goer. He hadn’t minded that she wasn’t the most groomed girl he had ever seen. She had stringy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and had been wearing a green parka coat and flip-flops despite the cold. But she had a delicious way of holding her cigarette, a filthy laugh and beautiful, dark, flinty eyes. Almost immediately he’d wanted to take her back to his swanky room at the super-chic Hôtel Costes. It was being paid for by
Rive
magazine and he wanted to make full use of the mini-bar and room service. But Sophie wasn’t impressed and besides, she wanted to feed her cat. So before Tom knew where he was, they were in bed in her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Montmartre improving Anglo-French relations.

Sophie lifted herself off him, stroking her clitoris with the tip of his throbbing cock. When Tom could stand it no more he grabbed her hips, pulling her back down so that they were rocking in tandem harder and faster until they both came together in a spine-jolting explosion that made Tom cry out so loudly, it made his throat hurt.

‘You’re fucking good,’ he said finally, exhaling deeply and collapsing onto the mattress.

‘Good at fucking?’ she replied in rather rickety English.

Tom laughed.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant,’ he said, propping his head up on the pillow and thinking that if it hadn’t been for his mother he’d be halfway to India by now. He’d been finally evicted from his Camden flat for non-payment of rent just before Christmas and while he’d managed to extend his time in London looking up old girlfriends, he’d finally accepted his fate and moved back in with his mother just before Saul’s funeral. When the chance of a trip to Goa came along-his friend Mungo said he could get him work at an ‘amazing’ full moon party – Julia had given him such a hard time about it all that when Cassandra had asked him to DJ at some do in Paris he’d quickly accepted. He knew his mother would have put her up to it, but he was slightly less angry
when Cassandra had indicated that she could introduce him to fashion show producers and other people who might finally get his music career going. Plus,
Rive
were putting him up at the Costes, which was never a chore.

Although he and his sister weren’t particularly close – Cassandra was too wrapped up in her shallow little world to really care about anyone else – every now and then she would throw him a bone. His mother and his friends were forever reminding him how lucky he was to have someone that connected and that powerful as a sibling, but Tom didn’t see it that way. Yes, he had a wardrobe full of Dior Homme suits, Tom Ford shirts and Bill Amberg bags, none of which he had paid a penny for. His friends called him the best-dressed loser in town and that was exactly the point. Every opportunity Cassandra gave him, simply fuelled his sense of inadequacy and every job he fucked up just showed him up in sharp contrast to his sister’s brilliant career. He used to think that he was just as creative as Cassandra and that he just hadn’t found the right outlet yet, but at 26, finding himself jobless and back at his mother’s, well, maybe he wasn’t really good at anything. Still, at least he was successful with the ladies.