Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Cassandra. Busy day?’ said Jason obsequiously as she joined the two men in Greg’s corner office. It was a wonderful space – B&B Italia furniture, walls painted a delicate shade of cornflower and fabulous views over the Thames, views Greg rarely got to enjoy as he spent 90 per cent of his time in New York.

  ‘How are you, Cassandra?’ said Greg, neglecting to rise. Greg was a tall man and even sitting down he looked powerful and capable, a grey three-piece suit matching his swept-back hair and implacable eyes. He seemed very serious.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said Cassandra, giving him the full wattage of her smile. ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?’

  ‘Don’t screw around, Cassandra,’ said Greg, an edge to his voice. ‘You know what I’m here for. Jason has been good enough to bring me up to speed on the Phoebe Fenton situation …’

  The snake, thought Cassandra, noting his smug smile.

  ‘It’s a wonderful issue, isn’t it,’ she replied evenly. ‘Looks very strong on the news-stand and every major newspaper has carried at least part of the interview on their front page. It’s too soon for EPOS figures,’ she continued, referring to the weekly electronic sales figures the magazine received from newsagents using barcode-readers, ‘but with this sort of publicity, I feel we have a chance of breaking Rive’s previous sales record.’

  Greg laid one hand carefully on the table.

  ‘That may be so, Cassandra,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘The problem is that we have Phoebe lawyers crawling all over us.’

  ‘But, why …’

  He lifted the hand briefly to silence her objections.

  ‘Phoebe is claiming that we’ve “sexed up” the interview. They say that the journalist was creative with the facts and that any reference to Ms Fenton’s depression was made to you in passing conversation and has been taken completely out of context.’

  ‘I would dispute that,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘If Phoebe’s people …’

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of phoning Phoebe’s people already,’ interrupted Jason leaning forward in his chair, ‘and they have made a proposal, a rather generous proposal in the circumstances, I would say. They say they won’t pursue us for damages if we pulp the issue.’

  ‘I don’t need to remind you of the financial implication of pulping the issue,’ said Greg. ‘Not to mention the impact on the next circulation figures.’

  Cassandra let them speak, determined not to lose her cool and intrigued to see how far Toxic was prepared to push it. I can’t believe he’s actually using the magazine as a sacrificial lamb, undermining his own sales figures, just to twist the knife in me! Cassandra knew she had underestimated the extent of his ambition. She looked across at him; despite his stern face she could tell he was enjoying it, enjoying having blind-sided her, enjoying being teacher’s pet.

  ‘Pulp the issue?’ said Cassandra calmly. ‘How can you call that a generous proposal? It is simply not an option.’

  Greg brought his hand down on the desk, making both Jason and Cassandra jump. ‘I will decide what is and is not an option for this company, Cassandra,’ he said in a low voice. If nothing else, Greg Barbera was clearly pissed off at having been dragged to London to sort this mess out. ‘Our legal department thinks it might be the best way forward and Jason seems inclined to agree. I, however, am keen to hear what you have to say on the matter.’

  Cassandra paused, nodding slightly, before picking up the yellow Tanner Krolle handbag she had left next to her chair.

  ‘I’m sure you are both aware of the libel laws in this country?’ she asked, reaching into the bag. ‘It’s rather like the conundrum of the tree falling over in the woods: if no one is there to see her take cocaine, did it really happen? The burden of proof, therefore, is on the publisher, i.e. Phoebe Fenton may well have a mental illness, but if we can’t prove it, we are libelling her. If we can, however …’

  Cassandra placed a small silver Dictaphone on the table and turned it on.

  The voice was tinny but unmistakably the New York drawl of Phoebe Fenton.

  ‘… I have bipolar disorder. It’s been making me a little crazy.’

  Greg’s face softened with the smallest of smiles as she let the tape run.

  ‘You make sure your back is covered,’ he said approvingly.

  Cassandra merely smiled. She had found the tiny buttonhole micro phone she’d used to tape her conversation with Phoebe useful on numerous occasions. Greg Barbera’s smile might not have been quite so wide if he’d been aware that Cassandra also had numerous tapes of her conversations with him: his promises of pay-rises and career advancement, his bitter attacks on his own company and indiscretions about his colleagues. It was all just ammunition – for now.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ blustered Jason, trying to dig himself out of his hole. ‘I called the head of media planning at the Emerald agency, just to see what they thought of the issue. She’s not very happy either.’

  ‘You called her?’ asked Cassandra incredulously, unable to keep herself in check any longer. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  Greg looked at Jason, his expression suggesting that he too might like an answer.

  ‘I was just gauging opinion,’ said Jason weakly.

  ‘Greg,’ said Cassandra, turning her back on Jason, ‘running the interview in exactly the way in which it was told to us was a calculated decision. I knew some of the more conservative advertisers wouldn’t be happy but I suspect that when they see the circulation figure for that issue, they will applaud our bravery. Now is not the time to be “gauging opinion”, it’s a time to press our advantage, to go to the advertisers and guarantee them that Rive’s year-on-year circulation will rise by at least 5 per cent.’

  ‘Guarantee?’ spluttered Jason, ‘But we don’t even know how the issue is doing yet! April is never the strongest selling issue of the year.’

  Cassandra turned and stared at him levelly.

  ‘I predict by this time next week we’ll be reprinting.’

  ‘But our legal team says …’

  ‘Fuck our legal department,’ said Cassandra mildly.

  Greg held up a hand to bring the sparring match to an end.

  ‘OK. So how do you suggest we proceed?’ He was pointedly asking Cassandra. Jason had already been dispensed with.

  ‘Let me with deal with it,’ she said confidently. ‘I have already phoned my friend at Schillings to fire off a letter to “Phoebe’s people”,’ she mocked Jason’s words. ‘And I will personally call all the major advertisers once we have the EPOS figures for the first week of sales.’

  Greg seemed to be satisfied.

  ‘Cassandra,’ said Greg, his eyes unreadable. ‘Just be careful.’

  Cassandra smiled politely, knowing she was back in control, then looked at Jason who had the look of a wounded animal.

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have a magazine to edit.’

  She closed the glass door behind her and walked down the corridor, imagining with relish the pain Jason Tostvig was about to be put through. That bastard! She had been wrong to think he was harmless; it had almost been a costly slip. She had been right about one thing though; he was stupid – stupid enough to cross her. Cassandra stalked back into the same bathroom she had left only twenty minutes before and leant on the sink, taking in deep breaths. She reached up to curl her eyelashes and saw that her hands were shaking. Pulp the issue indeed! For all her reputation, Cassandra knew something like that wouldn’t just be a black mark; it could be the loose thread which might start the whole thing unravelling. Even Diana Vreeland for all her brilliance and international reputation was ultimately dispensed with. That’s what fashion was all about – dispensability.

  For a second she felt a wave of profound doubt: the person on top of the mountain was on the thinnest ridge and had the longest way to fall. She suddenly turned and ran into the nearest stall and threw up. When the spasms had passed, she wiped her mouth carefully and, checking no one had been in the
bathroom to see her shame, walked back towards her office, her head held high.

  There was no turning back. She had so many balls up in the air, so much at stake; she couldn’t afford to let up for a moment. Fashion was a game of poker: all about bluff and re-bluff, not who had the strongest hand. Cassandra had all her chips in the middle of the table, she couldn’t back out now. As she turned the corner to her office, she saw Jason Tostvig coming out of Greg Barbera’s office, his head bowed, his tie undone. Cassandra smiled. She would deal with him later.

  11

  ‘How are you bearing up?’

  Roger popped a slice of tender Welsh lamb into his mouth and pulled a face.

  ‘I can’t say I’ve been delighted by the events of the last few weeks,’ he replied sourly. Roger and William Billington were sitting in the dining room of Mark’s Club, the establishment Mayfair restaurant where Roger had been coming since he was old enough to sign a cheque. William had been Milford’s banker for more than twenty-five years, a role he had inherited from his father before him, but the two men were more than just business associates, and in fact Roger had dated William’s sister for a while before he’d mistakenly double-booked her with a feisty deb one New Year’s Eve. The resulting catfight was still fondly remembered by both men. Roger and William’s relationship was based on something much more solid: a shared love of fine wines, food and money. Once a month they met up socially, taking it in turns to buy each other lunch in the best restaurants around London.

  ‘Did you and Saul have a falling out?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Roger, looking surprised. ‘In fact the whole family is in shock. Saul hadn’t even seen the girl in the last three years, she was something of a black sheep to tell the truth. Never used to involve herself in family affairs, never summered with us at the house in Provence – not since she was a girl, anyway. Never joined us for Christmas in Gstaad. Strange girl; very closed off, I’d say.’

  William chewed a mouthful of his steak thoughtfully.

  ‘However, I heard that she’s removed you from your position – a bit of a sideways move?’

  Roger barked a hollow laugh.

  ‘It’s so transparent, isn’t it? Some trick they’ve taught her at that management firm she was with no doubt. Make your mark, fire a few people, especially people more capable than yourself, who might make you look bad.’

  ‘Hmm …’ said William.

  ‘More wine sir?’ asked the sommelier, appearing at Roger’s side.

  Roger nodded, tapping the top of his glass.

  ‘And she’s replaced you with whom?’ asked William.

  Roger laughed cynically, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘Ah, you haven’t heard? Some 26-year-old with no fashion college background and no track record bar some lowly position in a tacky Hollywood accessories company.’

  William winced. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He scoffed, ‘I’d almost understand it if she’d have got in a heavyweight designer, someone from Hermès or Bottega Veneta perhaps, but she’s treating it as some sort of game. Trashed the entire new collection for no apparent reason, wasted thousands in the process. Now she has all these grand ambitions for expansion. I still have a 20 per cent stake in this company, William, and frankly I’m worried my shareholdings aren’t going to be worth the paper they are written on by Christmas.’

  William sat back and sipped at his wine.

  ‘I have to admit that Emma’s appointment came as a surprise to us all at Billingtons. We all assumed that you were the natural heir.’

  ‘Well, there we are in agreement,’ snorted Roger. ‘Saul never gave me the tiniest inclination it was going to pan out any other way.’

  ‘Well, to be straight with you, Roger,’ said William, ‘Saul was a dear friend but you know I was getting concerned about his lack of focus with the business. It was never really in his blood. He enjoyed the trappings, but the nuts and bolts? Not interested.’

  Roger felt no qualms about being disloyal to his brother. Saul had left him with nothing – well, nothing he wanted – so why not speak his mind?

  ‘I totally agree,’ he nodded. ‘Meanwhile, you are aware Emma is looking for a capital injection of twenty million?’

  William put down his glass.

  ‘That much? We have an appointment in the diary for Friday so no doubt she will tell me more then.’

  ‘And are you going to support her?’ asked Roger, holding his friend’s gaze.

  ‘You mean are we going to support her,’ said William with a smirk, ‘or are we going to get behind you?’

  Roger was glad he didn’t have to make the purpose of their lunch explicit. He tapped his Limoges china plate with his fork for emphasis. ‘I could do great things with the company.’

  ‘I was looking forward to seeing it,’ said William with a sympathetic smile. ‘Of course no one knows what to make of her. She was a manager at Price Donahue so she obviously has some merit.’

  Roger looked up. He had bargained on his friend’s unwavering support and didn’t like to hear Emma being talked about in such a positive manner. For a second he imagined Rebecca’s response if the bank did decide to support Emma. Ever since the board meeting when Emma announced her intention to be CEO of Milford, Rebecca had been truculent and teary. The whole situation was having a detrimental effect on his wife’s wellbeing and he wasn’t going to let it continue.

  ‘She’s a number cruncher, William. Obviously that’s no bad thing, and if Milford were a bank I’d be happier. But she has no experience in this sector, none at all. Plus she is naïve, her plans for expansion are foolhardy to say the least and they require a massive capital injection to proceed. I can’t see how Billingtons could possibly be prepared to support her.’

  William nodded slowly, seeming to digest Roger’s words.

  ‘Well… the bank could refuse to support Milford’s application with Emma as CEO. To lend money of that amount, we could impose certain stipulations. Such as an alternative CEO.’

  Roger smiled into his crystal tumbler.

  ‘However …’ said William, pointing at Roger with his fork, ‘she could dig her heels in. Then she could be removed by a directors’ show of hands but as a 70 per cent shareholder she could call a special meeting and fire all the directors on the board and put her own stooges in place.’

  Roger swallowed a mouthful of potato rather too quickly, which triggered a coughing fit.

  ‘Could she do that?’ he spluttered into his napkin.

  William nodded.

  ‘But what’s more likely is that she would go quietly. Without the support of the other shareholders or financial institutions she’d have little choice but to roll over. There’s no point hanging on to 70 per cent of a company which can’t even get a fifty pound overdraft. I suspect she’d return to America and be happy to sell her shareholding to you – probably for a song.’

  Roger licked his lips at the prospect.

  ‘So … what does that scenario rely on?’

  ‘First. When she comes to see the bank on Friday we make it clear that we are not prepared to back the company with her as CEO. We’ll lend to Milford on the condition that a more experienced executive is in charge.’

  ‘Me?’ said Roger eagerly.

  William’s smile was sphinx-like. ‘We could even make things doubly difficult and suggest there are a couple of loans that are dangerously close to being called in. It would put her in a very untenable position.’

  Roger smiled and popped a spear of asparagus into his mouth.

  ‘Of course,’ mused William, ‘we are assuming that no other bank will lend to her.’

  The smile dropped from Roger’s face.

  ‘And how likely do you think that is?’

  ‘Very. Banks can have a sheep mentality. They want to support who everyone else is supporting. If they know that Milford’s existing bank isn’t prepared to lend they will understandably be nervous. Emma’s lack of experience in the
sector and the appointment of a similarly inexperienced head designer won’t help either. Frankly I’d be surprised if anyone else is prepared to back her.’

  ‘So we wait for her to come to you.’

  William tapped his glass against Roger’s.

  ‘You have my faith and my full support. Now, shall we order some dessert? The poached pear here is wonderful.’

  12

  She was almost there. Five miles into her six-mile jog, she picked up the pace, her eyes focused on the road as it went over a gentle rise and downhill. Every Saturday Emma took the same route in a long, wide loop around the village. She was particular like that. Back in Boston she had pounded the same route around Back Bay every day if she could; Mark used to laugh at her, said she had a touch of OCD and sometimes Emma thought he might be right. But she enjoyed the routine and the challenge, and each run she pushed herself faster and faster. She had an athlete’s physique. Small breasts, long legs and lungs built for stamina, and she was now completing the course ten minutes quicker than when she first came to Chilcot. But today wouldn’t count, because today she was taking a detour. Emma veered off her usual route and down a narrow lane, squeezing her hands into tight fists as she ran. Then she saw it: a bend in the road that made her shiver. It was a pretty stretch, dappled in the shade of an oak tree, but it was a bend that had changed her life forever, claiming the life of her father twenty-two years ago in a car accident. Emma had spent every day of the last two decades missing her father. Jack Bailey had been an Economics Fellow at Oxford University. Brilliant and charismatic, at 35 he was destined for even greater things; government think tanks, a rumoured advisory role in the Treasury. Emma hadn’t cared about any of that, of course, she’d just loved her father because he was gentle and funny. Emma was a classic daddy’s girl. She was like him in many ways with her logic and intelligence, her thirst for knowledge. A big bear of a man, Jack had a big laugh and a fierce mind and Emma could still remember clearly their games of chess, the trips to zoos, castles and museums and the nuggets of information he’d scatter about to make them fascinating as well as fun. How the elephant is the only mammal that can’t jump. How the Egyptians had invented paper aeroplanes. In the ink-black country sky they’d gaze at the stars through Jack’s old telescope as he told her about the planets and pointed out the shapes: a bear, a plough, a dog. She slowed to a stop in front of the tree, looking up through its branches towards the cornflower blue sky. It had been a cold September night that had ended it all. She was seven years old. Tucked up in bed she’d thought nothing of the police sirens whizzing through the village until an hour later there had been a knock at the door followed by the sound of sobbing. Emma would never forget her mother coming to her bedside, not bothering to turn the light on. She could just make out her mother’s tear-streaked face, just a shape in the dark telling her the news that her father had been killed, of how his Volvo had crashed into a tree on the outskirts of the village.