Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  Oscar was quiet for a minute, busying himself in the mirror with a complicated tie knot.

  ‘Now, what were we saying about the advertising?’ he said calmly.

  Cassandra’s wide mouth twitched with just the suggestion of a smile. She walked up behind Oscar, undid his cravat and tied it for him again.

  ‘I think you were saying that you were looking at increasing your spend substantially over the next year, possibly tying Forden into a long-term deal. Maybe a solus deal. I think you had realized that our two companies could have a special relationship. I think “special relationship” was the phrase you used.’

  Cassandra gave his knot a final tug and stood back, satisfied with her handiwork.

  ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said, walking naked into the bathroom, ‘I must go and shower.’

  Forty minutes later, Cassandra pressed the bell next to the door of a grand Belgravia townhouse. I should have a fuck before every important meeting, she thought, feeling her skin prickling with the power of sex. She was shown into a wide, light kitchen at the back of the house with a view of the long tree-lined garden through the French windows. This was the impressive London home of AtlanticCorp chief executive Charles Dyson, the man in charge of over fifty newspapers around the world. It was no secret that AtlanticCorp was launching a weekly fashion magazine in the States, a big-selling US equivalent of the weekly French Elle. And after Guillaume Riche had told Cassandra that the editor-in-chief heading up the project was about to be let go, she’d told Guillaume to use his contacts and leverage to let AtlanticCorp know that Cassandra Grand would be a superior replacement.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind meeting me at home,’ said Charles, sitting down opposite Cassandra at a large, rustic kitchen table and pouring coffee. ‘I get paranoid having meetings in hotels and restaurants. Even in the most obscure places you always seem to be spotted by someone. And it would never do for us to be seen together, would it?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed Cassandra.

  ‘I took the opportunity of ordering lunch. I hope you haven’t eaten,’ said Charles while a chef, complete with white uniform and tall hat, brought out lobster rolls and teriyaki beef. They made small talk, both gently flirting, politely probing, neither giving anything away. When the meal had been cleared, Charles pulled a large leather portfolio from behind his chair and placed it on the table in front of him.

  ‘You know AtlanticCorp would be very interested in having you on board for the new launch,’ he said, meeting Cassandra’s gaze.

  ‘What about Carrie?’

  ‘Let’s just say that’s not your problem. Well, this is it: Project Diamond,’ he said grandly.

  Cassandra smiled. She was itching to see what they had developed. She lifted one finger towards the file, but Charles pulled it back protectively.

  ‘You understand that I can’t show you anything,’ said Charles, frowning. ‘Our team have spent six months putting this dummy together, it’s top secret.’

  Cassandra was not to be deflected so easily. She simply shrugged.

  ‘Not so secret that you haven’t already presented to advertisers,’ replied Cassandra, ‘and you know what big mouths they have.’

  Charles knew full well that Cassandra had enough friends in the fashion community she could ask for a full written report from each of them on what they had seen at those presentations.

  Cassandra lifted a glass of mineral water to her lips. ‘Besides, you can’t even begin to expect me to give up a job like UK Rive to jump ship to a completely unknown entity without seeing something. I’m happy to sign a non-disclosure agreement.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘In blood, if necessary …’

  ‘Ink will be fine,’ smiled Charles and pulled out a document – a single sheet of paper which Cassandra scanned quickly.

  ‘All seems fairly standard …’ she said pulling out her fountain pen and signing her name with a flourish. ‘Now show me what you’ve got.’

  She flipped through pages of shoes, bags, lipsticks, spas, and trend stories – most of it well executed but nothing that would get the industry ablaze with glaring originality. Cassandra frowned at a fashion spread featuring a stunning black model on a white horse.

  ‘Who is the photographer here?’

  ‘Arnold Marsaud.’

  She lifted one eyebrow and looked up at him. ‘I know newspapers rather than magazine are AtlanticCorp’s forte. Therefore you might not fully understand that using sub-standard photographers is a false economy. It’s like trying to save money by buying cheap racehorses. They won’t win the Kentucky Derby.’

  Charles shifted in his seat. He wasn’t used to having his projects criticized so openly.

  ‘We have a good team,’ he said defensively. ‘The features team come from a wide range of prestigious titles.’

  Cassandra was not impressed.

  ‘Features? But this is supposedly a style magazine,’ she said frankly. ‘Fashion people are only interested in the environment the magazine produces. You have to get big-name fashion photographers in from the start or you’re finished.’

  Charles paused, looking at Cassandra shrewdly.

  ‘I understand we seem to be having a few problems in that department.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Cassandra. ‘This is a fashion magazine.’

  ‘Which is why we are looking for someone with heavy-hitting fashion credentials to take over from Carrie’s good work.’

  Good work my arse. Admit it, you made a bad appointment, thought Cassandra.

  ‘Well, Giorgio and Karl are very dear friends of mine,’ said Cassandra. ‘Guillaume Riche is like a father. And I’ve just had a very productive meeting with Forden and you know how difficult they are to please.’

  ‘Which is precisely why we thought of you, Cassandra,’ said Charles.

  Cassandra looked at the spreads again, turning them over slowly, and then closed the portfolio.

  ‘Well, Charles,’ she said, ‘it’s extremely flattering that you thought of me. However, I can’t just leave UK Rive for the editorship of Project Diamond. Entre nous the company has even bigger plans for me and I’d be a fool to leave them unless there was a considerable carrot being dangled under my nose.’

  Charles’s expression did not change as he flatly mentioned a high six-figure salary that made her stop and think.

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Plus share options, a driver and an interest-free loan to buy a property of your choice. Home ownership is so rare in Manhattan these days. New York is such a wonderful place to work.’

  Charles knew he had pressed exactly the right buttons, but Cassandra forced herself to resist.

  ‘I was deputy editor of US Rive for three years, remember,’ she smiled. ‘I love New York, but…’ She was silent for a few moments as if she was giving it consideration.

  ‘What I’d be really looking for is an editorial directorship, plus …’

  She wrote a seven-figure number on a napkin and passed it over to him.

  ‘… a remuneration package in this ball-park. And a seat on the board.’

  Charles folded up the napkin slowly.

  ‘That would be a considerable departure for us,’ he said. ‘As you know, magazines are a new media platform for us.’

  ‘And I have to safeguard my career very carefully,’ she said.

  Charles nodded.

  ‘I think we both need to go away and think about it.’

  Cassandra smiled politely and pushed her chair back, offering her hand.

  ‘I will definitely be in touch,’ she said, holding his hand and his gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary. She knew by the way he smiled back at her that she had hit home. Mission accomplished. It had been a very productive day indeed.

  14

  ‘You’re a little early, madam,’ said Morton, opening Winterfold’s double doors before Emma had a chance to put her key in the lock. She threw her car keys on the walnut console table, flopped into a deep wing chair and kicked off her
shoes.

  ‘Ooh, that feels good,’ she said, wriggling her feet in the deep pile carpet. ‘When it’s eight o’clock and you’re telling me it’s early, maybe it’s time to retire,’ she smiled at Morton, glad to see his genial face, even more glad of the mug of hot tea he produced from nowhere. When Emma had first moved into Winterfold, she had thought having a butler was a terrible extravagance, some strange reactionary throwback to colonial times, but now she realized why Saul enjoyed having him around so much. The house felt far too big for her to live in alone and coming home to dark empty rooms would have had her reaching for the gin. With Morton in residence, however, Winterfold felt more like a home – a huge home, admittedly-but slightly more warm and cosy, slightly more alive. Plus, Emma enjoyed the old man’s company; he was polite and deferential, however many times she asked him to treat her ‘as a friend’, but there was a twinkle in his eye and a wry smile on his lips. I suppose that’s what you’d need, looking after Saul for so long, thought Emma.

  ‘This arrived for you this afternoon, madam,’ said Morton, carrying a large cardboard box through to the study. ‘I think you’ll be more comfortable in here. I’ve made the fire for you.’

  ‘Morton, please call me Emma. And here, let me get that,’ she said, standing and taking the package from him. Emma had no idea how old Morton was – 70, nearing 80? – but he was certainly too old to be doing heavy lifting.

  ‘Whatever can this be?’ she wondered, walking into the cosy study, warmed from the crackling fire. According to his butler, Saul had spent most of his time in this room and Emma could see why. It was one of the most welcoming in the house, with wood-panelled walls, acres of bookshelves and deep squashy sofas facing a home-cinema grade media system: plasma TV, state-of-the-art stereo, internet access, the works. Emma placed the box on a mahogany coffee table in front of the fire and knelt to open it. She pierced the top with a letter opener and sliced back the lid. She frowned as she pulled out the layers of bubble-wrap packing. Stacked inside were dozens of CDs. She pulled them out and spread them on the table: David Bowie, Marvin Gaye, Led Zeppelin, Oasis, John Coltrane. One by one she looked at them, having a foggy awareness of some names – The Beach Boys or John Lennon, of course – but most she had never even heard of. I mean, who were the Velvet Underground? And surely there can’t be a band called Niggers With Attitude? As she reached the bottom, she noticed a business card which had fallen down the side of the box. She picked it up and had to suppress a smile at the hand-written message on the reverse. It read: 100 albums to listen to before you die. Enjoy. Rob x.

  Morton walked in carrying the teapot and a plate of biscuits. Placing them on the side, he bent and picked up a copy of Frank Sinatra’s Songs For Swingin’ Lovers.

  ‘I have this on an LP. Oh, and this,’ he said, picking up Bob Dylan’s Blood On The Tracks.‘It’s a good selection; whoever sent these has good taste.’

  ‘Thanks, Morton,’ said Emma, still smiling. ‘I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur.’

  ‘Oh, in my youth, madam, in my youth,’ he smiled, the twinkle back in his eye. ‘Myself and Mrs Morton used to cut quite a dash through Soho, if I do say so myself.’

  Emma giggled.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, Mr Morton.’

  Emma crossed to the CD player and slotted a disc into the drawer. The Beatles by The Beatles. It seemed the safest choice to Emma, although curious it doesn’t have much of a cover, she thought. She pressed the shuffle button, expecting a random jingly jangly Sixties pop song but instead was faced with a spiralling swirl of psychedelic guitars. Emma’s mouth hung open and she scrabbled to look at the track-listing. ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’? ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’? ‘Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey’? What was all this? But as the record carried on, Emma found herself swept up in it. It had a strange primal urge she liked. She settled in a big armchair by the fire and used the remote to flick through the tracks, finding everything from beautiful ballads to strange avant-garde soundscapes. The record seemed to be almost as big a revelation as the man who had sent them. Emma had googled Rob Holland the evening after they had met on the common. She hadn’t meant to, but curiosity had got the better of her and she’d been surprised that he had his own Wikipedia entry. An even bigger surprise was that Rob wasn’t just an executive of Hollander Music he was the European chief executive. The company itself was a subsidiary of Hollander Media, a huge NYSE company that owned thirty radio stations, a major Hollywood studio, and a TV station network, to just scratch the surface. It was a multi-billion dollar international company. His father Larry was chief executive and the family were still major shareholders, which made the Hollands one of the fifty richest families in America. Rich enough to rent Winterfold? thought Emma, recalling their conversation on the run. Rob Holland could probably buy Winterfold with the interest from his trust-fund alone.

  Morton popped his head around the door.

  ‘I was about to serve dinner, madam, but you have visitors.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Emma, surprised. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Your mother, your Uncle Roger and Aunt Julia. Should I show them into the red room or would you rather stay here?’

  ‘Here, I think,’ said Emma, rising. She smoothed down her skirt and quickly looked in the mirror above the fire, suddenly unaccountably nervous.

  ‘Hello. What a surprise,’ said Emma as they walked in. Her unsettled feeling increased as she saw the cool look of purpose on their faces. She doubted they were popping round for a cup of sugar.

  ‘I hope we didn’t disturb you,’ smiled Julia, taking off her scarf.

  Emma shook her head. ‘Of course not, please do come in. I was just… well…’ she said, scrabbling for the remote to turn down The Beatles.

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t be long,’ said Roger gruffly.

  ‘Yes, I think we should cut to the chase here,’ nodded Virginia, sitting in a chair without removing her coat.

  ‘We’re all a little worried, dear,’ said Julia with a note of kindness, leaning against the desk.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘William Billington at the bank phoned Roger this afternoon to give him a heads-up that the bank are going to turn down Milford’s application for a capital loan.’

  ‘What’s he doing phoning Roger?’ said Emma feeling a hot flush of panic.

  ‘I am a director of this company,’ said Roger coolly. ‘I’ve dealt with William for years. He was trying to let us down gently. Frankly it was all rather embarrassing, not to mention incredibly worrying,’ continued Roger disapprovingly. He had walked over to the drinks table and began pouring himself a brandy.

  Emma looked down at the floor. She thought her business-plan was convincing and at her meeting with Billington’s she’d felt sure that she had their support.

  She glanced at Roger wondering if he’d had anything to do with the bank’s decision. After all, he’d dealt with William for years.

  Emma was determined not to show her disappointment and fear.

  ‘It’s a set-back but I do have a few other meetings lined up and I’m confident that we’ll get the money.’

  ‘None of us share that confidence Emma,’ said Roger, leaning back in the chair and sipping his drink.

  ‘Oh? And who exactly is “us”?’ asked Emma.

  ‘The other directors. The factory. Have you spoken to the shop floor at all? They are aware that you want to decrease production and they all believe they are going to lose their jobs. So much for your expertise in management,’ he sneered. ‘The only positive thing you’ve done so far is to get a new designer onboard and she’s a complete amateur. How old is Stella now exactly, sixteen?’

  Emma felt the anger welling up in her, outraged that they had come into her own home and ganged up on her.

  ‘And then there’s the rumour that the directors aren’t getting the end of year bonus,’ added Julia softly.

  Emma shot a look at her mother. That had to have com
e from her; Emma had only mentioned it to her briefly the day before. It was the final straw and she came out fighting.

  ‘First off, Stella Chase is a very talented and successful designer,’ she said firmly, ‘we’re damned lucky to get her and when she starts work on Monday, everybody had better make her feel like that. Secondly, I really don’t think directors should get a bonus when the company accounts are running at record losses. How would that management strategy go down on the shop floor, Roger? And finally, whether you believe in me or not, I have had some very positive feedback from the banks and lenders I am meeting next week, and I maintain that I’m confident we will get the money we need.’

  ‘The money you want for your hare-brained schemes,’ said Roger petulantly, reaching for the decanter.

  ‘Billington’s will lend us the money if someone experienced is CEO,’ said Julia.

  ‘Someone like Roger?’ said Emma cynically.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Virginia. ‘Someone like Roger. This is for the good of the family you know, Emma,’ said Virginia.

  ‘Oh, you talk to her,’ said Roger to Virginia, taking his glass and leading Julia towards the door. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.’

  For a minute Emma and her mother didn’t speak, both staring into the fire, listening to it crackle.

  ‘Go back to Boston, sweetheart,’ said Virginia finally. ‘You were doing so well out there.’

  Emma felt she’d been punched in the stomach. She couldn’t believe her own mother would betray her like this.

  ‘So you don’t think I can turn the company around?’ she said, a waver in her voice.

  ‘Oh, I think your intentions are good Emma, but look at the facts. Morale is low, our bank has turned against us and this is tearing the family apart. Personally I don’t need the money, as Jonathon does very well. But Julia? Her gallery hangs on by a thread and Roger, well… Roger has his expensive wife.’