Guilty Pleasures (50 page)

The next two weeks seemed to pass in slow motion. To Cassandra, it was as if she were detached from her own life, watching it all unfold on a movie screen. Guillaume Riche was on the phone immediately after he heard of Cassandra’s ‘resignation’, insisting she recuperate at his chateau. She politely declined, knowing he was knee-deep in preparations for couture, but she was grateful for the support. Astrid Brinton also offered the use of Greywood, but the gesture was slightly undermined by Astrid’s insistence that Cassandra step down as chair of the Charles Worth exhibition and party at the V&A. ‘We don’t want to lose people because they feel awkward do we, darling?’ she had said. Cassandra soon found that this was a common feeling among many of her so-called friends. When she’d been appointed editor-in-chief of
Rive,
there had been fifty-seven bouquets of flowers waiting in her office from people in the fashion industry. On the news of her ‘resignation’ there were none; just a yawning, embarrassed silence and a couple of regretful texts from David Stern and Jeremy Pike. No magazine executives called, desperate to sign her as an editor, no fashion houses begged her to add her vision to their brand. She was, at least for the moment, a pariah.

Cassandra wasn’t entirely surprised. You couldn’t spend your entire working life air-kissing and not be aware how shallow the industry was. What did shock her, though, was how hard it hit her. Her whole life had been built around fashion and now it seemed she was frozen out, with no one to lean on. But by far the worst thing was that she had to deal with the loss of Max completely alone. No one knew about their affair. Over the last six months
the one person with whom she had shared all her problems was Max and now he was gone. Cassandra had always been self-reliant, happy in her own company, but now she felt more alone than she had ever been. Famed for going to three or four parties a night, she now sat at home in her cashmere joggers and socks, staring at the walls. She had never been depressed, there had never been time, there was always so much to do, so much to look forward to, but now she felt crushed by the weight of everything. What was the point? Who cared what happened to her, anyway? Deep down, she knew she was letting the waters pull her under and the old Cassandra reared up enough to finally get her out of the house, to visit the health club at the Berkeley hotel. She was sitting by its beautiful rooftop pool, staring at a magazine, when she took the next body blow: her phone rang.

‘Cassandra, it’s Guillaume.’

‘Oh, hello, darling,’ she said, vaguely. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, fine. Just wondered if you had heard the latest from
Rive
?’

She stayed silent, not sure if she really wanted to hear.

‘Well, the big news is that Francesca Adams is the new editor-in-chief,’ said Guillaume, not waiting for an answer, ‘and the magazine is going to go weekly.’

Cassandra sat and listened as Guillaume filled her in on the industry gossip. Glenda McMahon had been named editorial director over all international editions including UK
Rive
and, as they were planning a September relaunch, Glenda had been in the UK for the last twenty-four hours, presenting her vision to the team.

‘They all hate her, of course,’ said Guillaume kindly. ‘To be honest, it’s just not the same for anyone. I really missed you at couture, darling. Le Grand Palais was a less glamorous place without you.’

‘I’ll be back,’ whispered Cassandra and hung up, her hands shaking.

Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, her head was buzzing with thoughts.

How could she have been so stupid?
Francesca was more ambitious and resourceful than she had given her credit for. Francesca had been suspicious about an ‘off-flat-plan’ shoot at the Milan collections and she must have seen an opportunity and gone digging deeper. Cassandra had warned Laura to be discreet, but she was a
stupid, naïve girl and Francesca had found out. Francesca must then have told Glenda and cut a deal for the editorship. Cassandra took a deep breath and looked out over the pool. It was as if the anger had burnt away a fog surrounding her. She was seeing clearly now. Very clearly. Suddenly it occurred to Cassandra that the Berkeley was one of the favoured London hotels for the international fashion community and it was where Glenda always stayed when she was over for the London shows.
I’ll bet that bitch is here now!
she thought, getting quickly dressed and marching down to the front desk.

‘Ms McMahon, please. I believe she’s staying in the Wellington Suite?’ said Cassandra in her ‘do-not-fuck-with-me’ voice.

‘Just a moment,’ said the blonde clerk nervously, obediently turning to her computer.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have a Miss McMahon in that suite.’

‘Well, can you try your other rooms? This is urgent.’

‘I’m afraid Miss McMahon isn’t staying with us at all at the present time,’ said the girl. ‘I’m sorry.’ The look on her face told Cassandra she was telling the truth.

Retreating into the hotel’s Caramel Room, she ordered a mint tea to calm her, before ringing Lianne. Her old assistant sounded uneasy speaking to her but confirmed that Glenda had been in the office but had already left. Apparently, Lianne hadn’t been taken into her confidence over her sleeping arrangements.

Cassandra rang every top hotel looking for her, but failed to track Glenda down. Frustrated, she pushed through the revolving doors and jumped into a black cab. Then suddenly she had a moment of clarity. Of course! She would be staying at the Alliance company flat. It was so typical of a brown-nosing company toadie like Glenda to stay there to show the new management how she was saving them money. She redirected the cab to the anonymous red-brick block behind Harrods and strode up to the door. Cassandra still had keys which admitted her to both the building and the flat. In the lift, however, Cassandra began to doubt her instincts – what if she walked in on some French family using the flat while their fat papa was out dealing with some paper crisis at the printers? With this scenario in mind, she knocked on the door several times but there was no reply. She was about to leave when she heard a muffled laugh coming from inside.

Suddenly sure she had been correct about Glenda, she slid the
key into the lock and opened the door. She immediately recognized Glenda’s fur cape hanging up in the hall. Her heart was pounding. She cautiously ventured farther into the flat, her ears searching for signs of life. There was a rustle coming from the living room doorway – then there she was, Glenda, dressed in a long silk kimono.

‘Cassandra!’ she almost squealed, then regained her composure, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Getting some answers,’ said Cassandra, taking a step forward, her voice dripping with loathing. ‘It was Francesca who told you about Georgia Kennedy, wasn’t it? Not Giles at all. You just blamed it on him so I would get rid of my best member of staff.’

‘Cassandra. You’re being emotional,’ said Glenda, backing up slowly, a look of real fear on her face. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you but you brought it on yourself. I’d love to talk about it more but I’m in a hurry, so I’d be grateful if you’d leave.’

Cassandra advanced on her, stabbing the air with her finger.

‘What did you do to get Pierre Desseau on your side so quickly? Fuck him?’

Her voice was low and uneven. Until now she had ignored the sound of a shower running in the background, her instincts blunted by anger. The sound of gushing water stopped and Cassandra kept silent, her nerve endings prickling, knowing now that Glenda was not alone. The bathroom door at the end of the corridor opened and out stepped Pierre wrapped in just a towel. Without conscious thought, Cassandra screamed and, all sense of control completely gone, she hurled herself on Glenda, her fingers like talons, grabbing at her silk kimono and tearing it open.

‘You scheming bitch!’ she yelled, her manicured nails sinking into Glenda’s face and neck, her hands clawing at her hair. Pierre leapt forward to separate the women.

‘Stop this!’ he shouted, struggling to restrain Cassandra who kicked and flailed, her whole chic façade completely gone. Pierre finally managed to grab Cassandra’s wrists and push her against the wall, manhandling her into a bear hug. Realizing she was beaten, Cassandra gave one last primal scream, then went limp in his arms. With glassy eyes, she looked at Glenda cowering in her torn kimono, the front of her body exposed. She did not look good naked, she thought in a detached way. The skin around her belly was crumpled like chamois leather and her nipples, clearly the result of a botched boob job, were terribly uneven.

Cassandra laughed cruelly. ‘Your tits. They look cross-eyed!’ She giggled hysterically. Gasping, Glenda quickly pulled her kimono about her, fled into the bathroom and locked the door.

‘You’re mad, Cassandra, mad,’ said Pierre, releasing her from his hold.

She straightened up and pushed her hair away from her eyes.

‘I was mad for ever getting involved with you,’ she replied as calmly as she could. ‘You two deserve each other. Your weekly “vision”’ – she spat the word – ‘will flop by the way. You clearly have no understanding of why women buy
Rive.
But I’ll let you learn that the hard way.’

She turned her back on him and walked out of the front door without looking back. When she got out onto the cold street she sank onto the step feeling hollow, raw and completely and utterly betrayed and wondered how things could possibly get any worse.

Stella’s debut womenswear collection for Milford, held on the final day of London Fashion Week, was a sensation. She had channelled all her unsettled emotions into her work and the result was a clever yet sumptuous show that had made even the most jaded fashion editor sigh with joy. Reports of the show in the next day’s broadsheets talked of Stella’s spectacular use of colour and coined the phrase ‘stealth-wealth’ – Milford’s clothes, they gushed, needed no garish logos or labels to show they were the best. Milford, they said, had redefined the words ‘luxurious’ and ‘classic’. Stella’s vision had worked. She had taken her lead from the masters and it showed; the gowns were cut as beautifully as the best Schiaparelli and floated round the body as fluidly as fresh air. The bouclé day jacket had its seams weighted with fine chains, like the finest Chanel couture, to ensure that it hung perfectly. More importantly, the whole collection was wearable. The clean-line dresses, skinny trousers and scoop-neck sweaters were just what every woman wanted because they would flatter any figure. Stella had used the very best fabrics: the gossamer-fine cashmere tank needed the barest of design twists to look exquisite while the pencil skirt in the softest midnight-blue nappa leather looked and felt like the last word in super-luxury. When Stella took a bow and the whole audience of Covent Garden’s Paul Hamlyn Hall erupted, Stella felt as if her life was finally turning a corner. Emma launched herself backstage as soon as the show was finished. She hugged Stella tightly, the two women knowing that in years to come they would look back on this show as the defining moment in the company’s history.

‘We did it,’ laughed Emma feeling light-headed with relief and glee, her own troubles temporarily put to one side.

‘We’ve just got to get through tonight,’ replied Stella. ‘We get through tonight and then we know we’ve done it.’

Cassandra sat in the back seat of Astrid Brinton’s Mercedes, biting on her thumbnail. She still couldn’t believe that Astrid and her mother had persuaded her to come. When she had first heard that Emma planned to host a huge party at Winterfold the night of Milford’s debut collection, she had scoffed. It was one thing for Valentino to persuade fashion’s great and good to attend his sumptuous Louis XVIII chateau on the outskirts of Paris; it was quite another for a nonentity like Milford to expect people to make the 70-mile journey out of London. But Cassandra was out of the loop: Milford was no longer a nonentity. According to Astrid, it was the hottest ticket of London Fashion Week, with Clover Connor and Ste Donahue rumoured to be making their first party circuit appearance together following their stints in rehab. Kowalski were due to play an acoustic set and a fleet of Audis was bringing the guests from the fashion show to Winterfold. Cassandra checked her lipstick in her compact. She knew she looked stunning even if she didn’t feel it. Her oyster duchesse satin cocktail dress matched her colouring and tiny waist perfectly. Her dark, blow-dried hair bounced down her bare back and her five-inch heels would make her stand above almost anyone else at the party. For once, however, that thought sent a shiver through her.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ said Astrid as the car pulled through the gates.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Cassandra her mouth dry with apprehension.

She looked at her friend, grateful that just being next to Astrid, the society giant, offered her some sort of protection.

‘You had to come, remember?’ continued Astrid sternly. ‘There’s absolutely no point slinking off into the shadows like a loser. You’re not a loser, you are fabulous and you have to remind everybody just how fabulous you are. Because
everybody
is going to be here tonight.’

That last comment particularly irked Cassandra. Her own fall from UK
Rive
seemed to have been exaggerated by the apparently unstoppable ascent of Milford and she couldn’t help but wonder
if she could have done things differently; if she had contested the will or joined forces with Roger, perhaps she would now be in charge of this thriving empire.

‘Actually, I’m surprised you two are coming tonight too,’ said Cassandra. It had only been a few weeks since the tabloids had gone crazy over Johnny and Stella’s dramatic split.

‘It wasn’t our bloody fault,’ said Blake from the front seat adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. ‘It’s our son. He’s a tart. As if everyone doesn’t know he’s shagging that old slag Lisa Ladro. He’s such an idiot; when her husband finds out, neither of them will ever work in Hollywood again.’

‘I’d forgotten what a beautiful house it is,’ said Astrid as Winterfold loomed into view, the drive lined with torches, its windows glowing pumpkin. ‘Do you think it’s more beautiful than ours?’

‘So I suppose now you want to move?’ said Blake sardonically, turning round.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ snapped Astrid. ‘I was just saying how fabulous it is. But at least someone suitable like Rob Holland lives here now. It would have been frightful if Roger and Rebecca Milford had moved in.’

‘What have you got against them?’ asked Cassandra, feeling slightly defensive about her own flesh and blood.

‘Dreadful social climbers, the pair of them,’ said Astrid. ‘Helen, our nanny, used to go to school with Rebecca – apparently she used to be so
common.
It’s everywhere now though, isn’t it? Such vulgarity. Everybody wants to become a billionaire without doing anything. Did you see some frightful nouveaux riches Russians have bought Wadham Court? I mean it’s the fourth best house in the county after Blenheim, Greywood and Winterfold!’

Cassandra looked at her friend and almost smiled at her hypocrisy. Instead, she felt a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach: she knew this was just the start. It was going to be a night of furious social competition.

The party was glorious. Guests had come from London in their hundreds, by courtesy car or helicopter, with many staying in every country-house hotel in a 20-mile radius. Since the show, Stella had already had three job offers and had been lavished with praise from some of the top retails buyers in the world. Harvey Nicks and
Harrods, Colette in Paris and Bergdorf’s in New York, had all told her that despite the limited run of the collection – Stella had insisted that only 100 copies of each piece would be made available-they were all going to put in large orders. Standing under a heater on Winterfold’s impressive parterre, Stella felt as if she was watching a glamorous Fifties movie, as if she were
inside
a glamorous Fifties movie. She took a deep breath of night air and thought to herself that, for the first time in a long time, she couldn’t be happier.
Well, with one big exception,
she thought darkly, but then shook all thoughts of Johnny from her mind as she reached out and held her father’s hand. Christopher Chase’s fingers felt knotty and hard like the top of an old walking stick. She felt closer to him than she had for years and that made up for everything; she was glad that he seemed to be coping with Chessie’s disappearance so well.
He’s been through it all before, I suppose,
she thought with a wry smile. Before Christmas Christopher had turned down Stella’s offer to come and live with her, even on a temporary basis, but he had delighted her by turning up to both the show in London and the party in Chilcot.

‘He seems to have grown into a nice young man,’ said Christopher, nodding over to Tom who was chatting animatedly to Ste Donahue.

‘He is nice. In lots of ways,’ said Stella taking a contented sip of champagne.

‘In the important ways?’ asked Christopher.

‘He’s kind and decent and funny.’

‘But?’ said Christopher raising one bushy, white eyebrow.

‘He’s a bit directionless and irresponsible,’ she replied, feeling slightly disloyal, especially as they were things she’d heard said about Tom second-hand.

‘There are worse things to be, such as selfish, pompous and vain,’ smiled Christopher and his reference to Johnny Brinton was crystal clear. ‘Those people you can’t help. Other people, people with a good heart, you can.’

‘People can only help themselves, Dad.’

‘You helped me.’

He put his arm around her and they both smiled. It was time to start helping each other.

Emma had come into the courtyard to get some fresh air. Her head was spinning; she had just spent the last ten minutes talking to Tom Ford. She had giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl, but
suddenly she felt that whatever the last year had thrown at her, she could take it all on again if it gave her one ounce of the contentment and self-worth that she was feeling right now. It was cold outside and while her dress, a long column of bottle-green silk, made her feel like the subject of a Tamara de Lempika painting, it offered no protection against the chill.

She turned round and saw a dark figure silhouetted in the light of the courtyard doorway. As he moved closer, she could see that it was Rob. Standing hidden in the shadows, she watched him for a moment as he took a gold cigar cutter out of his pocket and cut off the end of his Cohiba.

‘You know you don’t have to step outside to smoke?’ she said, walking into the light. ‘Saul used to chomp on cigars like they were going out of fashion.’

He looked up and laughed.

‘Now you tell me,’ he grinned. ‘Happy Birthday, by the way.’

‘You know, with all the excitement of the day, I keep forgetting.’

He nodded, looking her up and down. He whistled.

‘You look incredible tonight.’

‘Aw, this old thing? These are just my usual work clothes,’ she said, avoiding his eye. After her accident, they’d got their friendship back on track, but it still made her awkward to be complimented by him.

‘Well, I hope this has been a better birthday than last year?’ he asked.

She laughed. That evening in Boston, standing in the rain with Mark after he had got a Price Donahue partnership, seemed like such a distant memory it was almost as if it had never happened.

‘Well, thanks for letting us have the party here.’

‘Hey, it’s
your
house.’

‘The company’s,’ she corrected him, ‘… although for how much longer I’m not sure.’ She looked up at him. ‘The truth is, I’ve been thinking about selling Winterfold.’

Rob stamped out his cigar and frowned.

‘I thought you said you’d never sell. Hasn’t your family had this house for like a hundred years or something?’

‘I never said “never”. I mean, what do we need it for? It’s vanity. Ego.’

‘You could look at it like that, I suppose. Personally, I’d say it was history, your family’s heritage.’

Her family.
While she loved Saul and was grateful for the opportunity he had given her, she was still bitter about the way the rest of the family had treated her – and on top of that, there was the nagging suspicion that someone close to her had been involved in that attempt on her life in Gstaad. Until she had found out who had been driving the car which pushed her off the road, she couldn’t trust a single member of her family.

‘I’m not sure the family needs bricks and mortar to define itself,’ she said diplomatically. ‘Well, maybe some of them do,’ she laughed.

‘Roger you mean?’ smirked Rob.

‘I didn’t say that,
you
did. No, I do love Winterfold but what’s important is the business. The house is an extravagance. We still have the factory and the offices and a sale would get rid of a lot of the corporate debt.’

Rob raised his eyebrows.

‘You’re not one to let sentimentality get in the way of a decision, are you?’

‘So if we do sell, would you be interested?’ she asked directly.

‘Ah, so you think my ego needs some place like this.’

They both grinned.

‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Emma. ‘As incumbent tenant I thought you deserved first refusal. You always said you wanted to buy it.’

‘Ouch,’ he winced. ‘Is that what I’ve been reduced to: “incumbent tenant”?’

‘You know I think a lot more of you than that,’ she said quietly. Emma had drunk three glasses of champagne and she instantly regretted coming out with something so soppy and romantic. So far she had kept her dignity where Rob was concerned and had no intention of getting hurt again. Rob had been good to her after the accident but that’s how their relationship should stay, supportive but platonic.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied. He moved closer towards her; their cold breath was making white puffs in front of them and merging into one big cloud.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Can’t have you freezing to death on your birthday, can we?’

She could feel that tension building up between them just like the night in Somerset and took a small deliberate step away from him to defuse it.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Are you interested in Winterfold? I thought you’d bite my hand off. I know you Americans love all that lord of the manor stuff – well, here’s your opportunity.’

He didn’t smile back, in fact his blue eyes looked sad.

‘You know how much I love Winterfold,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I’m going to be needing an English stately home for much longer. I’m leaving London.’

‘You’ve leaving the London office?’ she asked masking her disappointment. ‘Are you being posted somewhere else?’

His eyes didn’t leave her face.

He nodded. ‘Back to New York.’

She felt a thickness in her throat, suddenly thinking about Cassandra’s smug news that Rob had been seen looking cosy with Madeline at Sant Ambroeus. She remembered how he had started to tell her something at the Christmas party before she had been disturbed by her mother.

‘But you’ve not been in London for even eighteen months.’

‘Something’s come up,’ he said trying to smile.

‘Madeline?’

He looked surprised. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Cassandra saw you have lunch together at Sant Ambroeus.’

‘She’s the mother of my child, Emma, I am going to see her occasionally,’ he said, a smile pulling at his lips.

‘She said you were looking cosy,’ added Emma, trying to sound teasing.

Rob smiled and shook his head slightly.