Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Fashion editors will get a less expensive bag, of course, while fashion assistants can get something like a key-ring,’ continued Zoe, popping a canapé into her mouth.

  ‘Do we really need to give so many away?’ said Emma, instantly totting up the cost in her head. ‘I bet Hermès don’t give out hundreds of Birkins every season.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ smiled Zoe. ‘They are an established venerable brand and they don’t need to seed,’ she said referring to the marketing ploy of giving celebrities and taste-makers free bags every season.

  ‘Well, good for them. I don’t want Milford bags being seen hanging off the arm of every Tom, Dick and Harry celebrity. I’m not sure consumers at the very top end of the market are impressed by that.’

  ‘But even Hermès has benefited from celebrities,’ continued Zoe. ‘In the 1950s Grace Kelly was snapped on the cover of Life magazine holding her Hermès shoulder bag in front of her pregnancy bump. Hermès renamed it ‘The Kelly’ and – Hey presto! – an icon was born.’

  ‘But even if you send celebs a bag you can’t be guaranteed they’ll use them,’ said Stella, remembering her time in LA. ‘Cate Glazer sent an ostrich-skin bag to this big-time actress once and the next week it was spotted on the arm of her cleaner.’

  ‘So, Emma. Who do you know?’ asked Zoe, sitting on the arm of a long cream sofa.

  ‘Oh, I’m best friends with Jennifer Aniston,’ she said with an ironic smile.

  ‘Marvellous! That’s a great start,’ chimed Zoe.

  Emma shook her head, frowning.

  ‘Zoe, I was joking.’

  ‘Oh. Well, obviously I can send them to my contacts,’ said Zoe, completely unfazed.

  Stella looked at her suspiciously. Stella had encountered Zoe’s kind – self-interested, mercenary – many times before at LA fashion parties. She wondered how many of their bags would end up in the back of Zoe’s own wardrobe or on the arms of her friends. She made a mental note to tip off Emma.

  ‘Otherwise we could get someone to endorse a product,’ continued Zoe. ‘But for the right celebrity, well, that fee could run into hundreds of thousands.’

  Stella and Emma exchanged troubled looks.

  Stella glanced at her watch. 12.45. Still no one. For the first time since she had arrived in England, Stella had time to think – and time to panic. Yes, life at Cate Glazer had many faults, she was taken for granted and overlooked, but at least it was secure. When Emma had knocked on her door, she had been ready for a change, a new challenge, but sitting in this big empty room, it all suddenly felt too reckless. She walked over to the walnut table and twisted the top off a mini-champagne bottle. ‘Well, if no one else is going to have them…’ she smiled. Just then, there was a slight creak as the door opened. Stella, Emma and Zoe all looked at each other as an elegant brunette in jeans and a beautifully-cut cashmere coat walked in and signed the visitors’ book. Sophie North, Vogue. She was from Vogue!‘Oh, I love this,’ said the woman, picking up the 100 Bag in the darkest aubergine. Zoe winked at Stella. They were in business.

  19

  Winterfold’s walled garden was crowded with nearly a hundred people all talking, laughing and drinking cocktails. There was a model on a Lilo in the swimming pool, three naked women in the hot-tub and two rock stars drinking champagne out of an ice bucket. It was the first warm day of spring and everyone was enjoying the feel of the sun and the sense of liberation that comes with the end of winter. Everyone except the party’s host, that is. Rob Holland sat in a pink rubber ring, looked around him and wondered why he wasn’t enjoying himself more. Five years ago he would have loved this, basking in the glory of finally having a big country house with a pool and a lake, bathed in sun and surrounded by willing women and bubbly on tap. So what was the problem? OK, so Winterfold was rented, but his wealthy West London circle of friends neither knew nor cared as long as he invited them down for long weekends. This weekend he had Kowalski, the country’s hippest hard-partying rock band as house guests. They’d brought a troop of friends and hangers-on, including half a dozen gorgeous models, one of whom was now waiting naked in the jacuzzi for Rob, and they were all going through his food and drink like a plague of locusts.

  The truth was that at 38, watching people ten years younger – God, twenty years younger – glugging champagne and dancing to the music pumping from the huge speakers on the lawn, made him feel old. One minute he had been a crazy teen hooked on rock music and all its decadent charms, the next he felt like Grandpa Joe, hanging out with the kids at the chocolate factory. If he was honest, Rob had wanted this to be a quiet weekend, getting ready for the arrival of Polly, his six-year-old daughter who lived with her mother in New York and visited him every school holiday. But it hadn’t worked out like that. He’d been forced to invite these over-styled, overgrown teenagers to his new home because there was mutiny at his record company. In the last months, two of the major acts on his record label had walked out and both had petulantly released material on their own websites within days. And it wasn’t just happening to Rob, it was happening all over the industry. He’d never known a time when there’d been more disputes over back-catalogues and digital rights; it seemed as if every other band was going on strike or storming out. Rob was torn: he had always been a enthusiastic supporter of talent but when he had the Hollander money-men, his father’s inner circle, breathing down his neck, suggesting redundancies and reduced marketing spends, what was he to do? In the case of Kowalski, one of Hollander Music’s biggest-selling acts, Rob had done what he knew best. Their manager Tony Holden had begun to play hardball over their latest contract, so Rob had gone on a charm offensive, inviting them to his country retreat, plying them with booze and women and made them feel happy, special and loved. So far it seemed to be working. Tony had started talking about new studio sessions and tours, intimating that they might be ready to sign to the label long-term. Rob had smiled and responded enthusiastically, but inside he felt like the poor little rich boys at his elite prep school in Connecticut who curried favoured with the jocks and the popular set by doing their homework or paying them money. And he was doing exactly the same, ultimately to keep his father – and his father’s money-men – happy.

  He looked over to the jacuzzi where Trudy, the 22-year-old blonde glamour model was waving at him. That didn’t make him feel any better either. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought. Trudy was the third blonde model he’d slept with in as many months; the last two hadn’t got beyond a second date. Inevitably, people called Rob a womanizer, but he called it pragmatic. He had a big job, a young child and a difficult ex-girlfriend. Not to mention his father. That was enough people making demands on him 24/7; he didn’t need anyone else, and in the music business, there was always another pretty girl. It kept the loneliness at bay and the sex drive satisfied, so what was the point in getting involved unless it was with someone looking for the same things as he was? Now that was something the music business did not supply.

  The door of the garden creaked open and Rob tipped his sunglasses down to see who it was. He groaned audibly when he saw Emma Bailey approaching across the lawn.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he mumbled, struggling to get up and out of the rubber ring. He saw the expression on her face change from surprise to disapproval to fury.

  ‘Emma. Great to see you!’ he said quickly, turning on his most dazzling smile. ‘New hair. I like it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered Emma angrily. ‘What on earth are you thinking …’

  ‘Ah, let’s go over to the gazebo, shall we?’ said Rob, taking her by the arm and steering Emma away from his guests. She looked as if she was about to erupt and he didn’t want a dressing-down in front of a load of rebellious youths.

  The gazebo was at the end of the garden away from the pool. Honeysuckle climbed the white lattice walls, but the sweet, heady scent did nothing to calm Emma down.

  ‘Who the hell are those … those people?’

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re g
oing in a few minutes,’ said Rob, sheepishly.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look like it,’ spluttered Emma, as she watched two more people disrobe and jump into the pool screaming. Rob shrugged.

  ‘Look, the lease doesn’t say anything about not having parties.’

  Emma was in no mood for technicalities.

  ‘This is still my house!’ she snapped. ‘You’ve only been in it two minutes and what sort of respect are you showing my home? I know how these things end up, the place is trashed and a white Rolls ends up in the pool!’

  ‘I thought you never went to showbiz parties.’

  ‘I don’t. Oh, my God,’ she gasped. ‘Someone over there is taking cocaine!’

  Still wide-eyed with shock, Emma turned her head as someone shouted from the jacuzzi.

  ‘Rob, are you coming in?’ shouted Trudy, lifting herself out of the water, her bare breasts exposed above the foam. ‘I’m getting out otherwise. I’m like a prune!’

  At exactly the same time Morton walked into the garden, his shirt sleeves rolled up, holding a silver tray full of tubs of chocolate ice cream.

  ‘Ooh, ice cream!’ shouted Trudy, already distracted.

  He watched Emma’s lips harden into a tight line. Rob felt unsettled at the way she made him feel. He wondered how old she was. Probably not yet thirty and yet she acted a generation older than the people around him. Despite her anger she obviously felt awkward just being here. He felt sorry for her.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry about all this,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well, I think your girlfriend wants you.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Do you want a drink? An ice cream?’ he added weakly.

  She took a seat on a rattan chair and paused for a moment, breathing deeply.

  ‘It’s not a social call,’ she said coolly.

  ‘No, I didn’t think it would be.’

  ‘I’ve come to follow up on our agreement.’

  Rob raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Have I signed my soul away to the devil and don’t even know about it?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘Remember when you first asked me about renting this place?’ she said, her eyes still glued to the action in the garden.

  ‘How can I forget that sight of you in cycling shorts?’

  He saw her flush pink. Ah-ha, a little nick in her steel-plated, career-girl armour! He couldn’t help notice how pretty she was when she wasn’t so uptight but he pushed away the thought as quickly as it had popped into his head. She was his landlady, not some girl in the jacuzzi.

  ‘Yes, that occasion, when we were running,’ she said with a little frown line between her brows. ‘You said that you could get some of your celebrity friends to use our products, endorse them perhaps?’

  From her red cheeks and stilted delivery, Rob could tell it was difficult for her to ask him for help. Now her hands were on her lap and she was playing with her fingertips.

  ‘Celebrity endorsement,’ he said seriously. ‘That can get expensive.’

  Emma looked up, her mouth open.

  ‘You led me to believe they’d do it for free,’ she said.

  For a second Rob thought he could have some fun, string it out. Emma was obviously easy to wind up, but the truth was Rob did want to help her. Emma Bailey might be his polar opposite – she was serious and formal and her idea of a good night was probably a nice game of Scrabble – but he recognized many of her weaknesses and anxieties so clearly it was like looking in a mirror. Rob thought back twelve years; when his elder brother was killed in a climbing accident. The family tragedy that meant Larry and Patricia Holland had gone from expecting nothing from their dilettante second son to expecting everything. Rob’s easy, idle life had been turned upside down when he was thrown into a senior job in his father’s media empire, where half the workforce cried ‘Nepotism!’ and the other half just dismissed him as dead wood. Emma Bailey was just about to find out how lonely it was at the top – perhaps she already had. There were no such things as friends, just people who wanted things from you. Well, she was going to serve him his notice at Winterfold but the least he could do was try and give her a break.

  ‘So you’re asking for my help?’ he teased.

  She shook her head and got up to leave. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Hey, hey! Wait,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘I think I can help you.’

  He handed her a drink and she took it.

  ‘Ste Donahue: the guy that probably just got me kicked out of here. The guy who took the coke,’ he said nodding towards the tall, skinny man wearing just jeans and dirty sneakers. ‘See that girl on the Lilo? That’s his girlfriend.’

  Emma watched as the woman rolled off into the water, then pulled her long lean frame out of the pool, a tiny gold bikini barely covering her perfectly-proportioned body. She shook her wet tawny hair across her back and tilted her face to the warmth of the sun, revealing high cheekbones and green eyes.

  ‘Gosh! Is that who I think it is?’ gasped Emma. ‘She’s that model, isn’t she? Clover Connor – even I know her. She’s always on billboards in Times Square.’

  Rob nodded, a sly smirk on his face.

  ‘Exactly. I think she made $14 million dollars last year; catwalk, editorial, advertising. I think you could say she’s big.’

  Emma pulled a face.

  ‘And Clover Connor goes out with him?’

  Rob laughed. ‘You really don’t read the gossip pages, do you?’

  ‘I can’t believe someone like that, goes out with someone like that,’ she repeated quietly.

  ‘Ste is the lead singer of Kowalski, one the country’s biggest rock acts who are breaking through in America. It’s the classic celebrity pairing,’ shrugged Rob. ‘Model and rock-star. It doesn’t matter that he’s white and skinny and takes more drugs than a lab rat; in her eyes he’s a poet, an artist with even more credibility and fame than she’s got.’

  ‘So are you telling me you can … ?’

  Rob smiled and touched her arm again. An unconscious intimate gesture, that made them both flinch slightly.

  ‘I’ll speak to her. She owes me a few favours, and she’s angling for a recording contract. I’ll see what I can sort out, OK?’

  Emma smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile.

  ‘I am pissed off, Rob, but you’ve bought yourself some time.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, baby!’ he said with a wink.

  Emma turned back towards the gate.

  ‘Oh and Rob? Don’t call me baby.’

  20

  ‘Cassandra, are you ready? Fashion keep yelling for you,’ said Lianne, as soon as her boss had walked through the door. ‘They want to do the run-through.’ Cassandra gave her assistant a rare smile.

  ‘Certainly, I’m on my way.’

  She was in a buoyant mood. She had just come down from Greg Barbera’s office where he had confirmed Jason Tostvig’s departure from Rive magazine to go and join Rural Living as its publishing director. According to Greg, Jason hadn’t been seen in the office since Isaac Grey had announced his change of senior management although he had received a phone call from Jason’s mother saying her son was seeing a doctor about stress and he might need to be signed off work indefinitely.

  Cassandra strode into the fashion department for the monthly ritual of examining every bag, skirt, dress, shirt, hat, scarf and shoe that her editors intended to put in their fashion shoots. Not only was the run-through crucial for ensuring that every major advertiser was represented within Rive’s fashion pages, but Cassandra wanted every item in the magazine to have her personal seal of approval. She simply could not trust anyone else’s fashion eye.

  ‘So. Talk me through it,’ said Cassandra running her fingers along the long rails of clothes.

  Francesca Adams, the fashion director, cleared her throat to speak.

  ‘As you know, I’m doing “Oligarch’s Wife�
�. Belle is shooting the Debutante’s story and Laura is doing the suede story in Papua New Guinea.’

  ‘Yes, how are we doing with the cannibals?’

  Laura Hildon, her blonde aristocratic senior fashion editor popped her head around the rail.

  ‘It’s proving a bit tricky, to be honest. I thought we might just shoot Giselle next to a bunch of locals and get them to hold up a couple of human skulls but we think there might be trouble at customs if we try and take something like that through. I don’t think Giselle will be too happy, either.’

  ‘Well, you’d better find some genuine cannibals then,’ snapped Cassandra. ‘Belle. You’d better go first. It’s obvious that Laura hasn’t prepared her shoot properly.’

  Rive’s talented young fashion editor directed her boss towards the rail of clothes she intended to take to her shoot.

  ‘As you know I’m going for the oligarch’s wife in Sardinia vibe. Trash luxe. Lots of metallics. Lots of Cavalli and Dolce.’

  ‘Will Abramovitch let us use his yacht?’ said Cassandra thoughtfully. ‘We could call it Roman’s Holiday.’

  ‘We’re shooting at Cala Di Volpe. It’s been arranged for weeks,’ said Francesca cautiously, hoping Cassandra wouldn’t make another one of her sudden changes. Cassandra rifled forensically through the rail, pulling out pieces she didn’t consider suitable or up to scratch and handing them to a fashion assistant who was waiting behind her to catch the fall-out.

  ‘I love this piece,’ said Francesca holding up a violet Lycra jumpsuit. ‘It’s perfect for hopping on and off a Gulfstream.’

  ‘I’m teaming it with Roger Vivier pumps and the new Milford 100 Bag which I adore,’ continued Belle. ‘There’s only one sample in the pewter ostrich. It’s coming over from Vogue this afternoon.’