Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  23

  Emma strolled along Oxford’s High Street feeling a real pang of affection for the city. Although she had loved her student and subsequent professional life in Boston with its colonial elegance and cultural micro-climate so isolated from the rest of America, Oxford was steeped in a history Boston could only dream of, not to mention a gentle majesty few cities in the world could match. She’d spent the last couple of hours enjoying supper with Ernesto Pozzi, a professor at North Western University who was currently a visiting Fellow at Magdalen College. As Ernesto had been one of her father’s best friends, Emma had made a point of keeping in touch over the past few years, although finding the time to make the journey to his house in Chicago had been difficult. Emma had been delighted therefore when the old man moved to Oxford, albeit temporarily; it made their meetings more convenient. Over a steak and chips supper in a brasserie full of students, they’d discussed literature and funny stories about students and Ernesto had pressed a huge pile of books on her, insisting she read them all. But mainly they’d talked about Ernesto and her father Jack’s time together as students in Cambridge. Emma loved these stories more than anything. Her mother did not like to talk about her father and as Emma had no brothers and sisters, meeting Jack Bailey’s friends was a way of keeping him alive.

  She stood for a moment in the road trying to get her bearings. She hadn’t been to Oxford for at least five years and couldn’t remember where she’d parked her car.

  ‘Get out of the road, honey!’ said a voice. A hand gripped her arm and steered her towards the pavement. ‘If a bus comes along there won’t be enough left of you to make a handbag.’

  ‘Rob!’ said Emma, looking around as a car tore past, its horn blaring. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Picking up a painting,’ he grinned, ‘from your aunt’s gallery actually. She managed to find me this great Bridget Riley lithograph I’m giving to a couple of friends as a wedding gift. I’ve just driven here straight from work; she kept the gallery open late so I could collect it.’

  She looked at the large package underneath his arm.

  ‘A Bridget Riley? Nice gift. Beats a teas maid.’

  ‘What’s a teas maid?’ asked Rob, eyebrows raised.

  Emma giggled. ‘Some other time,’ she said, noticing that they were heading towards Magdalen Bridge, both walking in step together without asking where the other was going.

  ‘So, how did the shoot go?’

  ‘Really well. The photos look beautiful.’

  ‘I hope you and Madeline didn’t do too much whispering about me. I saw you huddled together gossiping.’

  ‘She’s nice. An impressive woman. Doesn’t strike me as your usual type,’ said Emma with a crooked smile.

  ‘Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean?’

  Emma laughed again.

  ‘Just that she’s quite different from Trudy.’

  ‘I’ll have you know Trudy has a chemistry degree. She’s a very nice girl.’

  ‘I’m sure she is. Does Polly like her?’

  Rob paused before answering.

  ‘Trudy’s never met Polly. I don’t like girlfriends meeting my daughter until, well, I think they’re ready.’

  Emma looked down at the books under her arm, feeling slightly uncomfortable. They fell silent as they came to Magdalen Bridge and stopped, leaning on the ancient stone, looking down into the water.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out,’ said Emma. ‘You and Madeline, I mean. It must be hard living so far away from your daughter.’

  ‘Yeah, I miss Polly like crazy. I feel like a bad father every day I don’t see her which is about three hundred and thirty days of the year.’

  Emma suddenly felt truly sorry for Rob, wondering if he regretted Madeline turning down his proposal of marriage. She looked up and saw that he was examining her face, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  ‘When Maddy and I got together it was a pretty weird time for me. I don’t think it was ever really going to work out between us and it was definitely for the best.’

  ‘A weird time?’

  He hesitated and Emma felt the discomfort again, as if she had pushed him further than he wanted to go.

  ‘I’m a second son,’ said Rob slowly, his eyes fixed on the River Cherwell gurgling beneath them. ‘My family didn’t have any expectations for me beyond keeping out of jail and maybe marrying someone pretty. I dropped out of college, formed a band, went to a lot of nightclubs. If we’d have met back then we’d have got on real well,’ he smiled.

  Emma grinned.

  ‘Then, when I was 25, my brother Sam died. He was five years older than me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m really sorry,’ she replied, very much regretting ever having started this conversation.

  ‘Sam was this brilliant person, good at everything. He came to Oxford University actually. When he died it was a huge wake-up call for me. I was too ashamed to keep living the way I’d been before when my two young nephews suddenly had no father. I offered to join the family company, then met Maddie at a party in Connecticut. She was from a nice family; she was the right sort of girl.’

  ‘But you weren’t right for each other.’

  She looked at him and they both smiled sadly.

  There was a deep silence. Rob had a slightly startled look as if he regretted opening up to her in this manner. Emma was thrown; she’d never had Rob pegged as the sort of person who would do the right thing if it wasn’t what he wanted, regardless of the circumstances.

  ‘Yeah well, I would have been a crap rock star,’ he said, in an attempt at levity. She realized that there probably weren’t very many people he could talk to about this.

  ‘So anyway, where are we walking to?’ he smiled.

  It was past eight o’clock and it had suddenly got dark, the pink sky losing its colour as if someone had turned down the dimmer switch. Streaks of sun still glinted in the river, but the street lights were beginning to flicker on.

  ‘I’m in a car park about five minutes walk down there,’ said Emma, pointing downstream.

  ‘Come on, it’s getting dark. I’ll walk you.’

  They walked down some steps and along a wide gravel towpath.

  ‘It’s really pretty, isn’t it? Oxford.’

  ‘When it isn’t a little spooky,’ smiled Emma, looking around at the dusk closing in. ‘I’m really grateful for the help you’ve given us, by the way. The ad pictures are amazing and we couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re not going to kick me out of Winterfold?’

  ‘It means I owe you one. We really must take you out as a thank you. There’s a really great restaurant in Sherby.’

  ‘Well, that depends on who the we is.’ He smiled.

  ‘Myself, Stella, maybe Ruan,’ she said, not wanting to sound as if she was asking him out. Which of course she wasn’t.‘And Trudy is invited of course,’ she added quickly.

  ‘There’s no need, really,’ said Rob. ‘I wanted to help.’

  They turned away from the river along a narrow street, then round a corner and into the car park.

  ‘Well, this is me,’ said Emma as they stopped by her car.

  ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Rob asked suddenly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The usual I guess; go for a run, do some paperwork, read a bit. I might meet Stella for Sunday lunch.’

  Rob was laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me what’s so funny?’ She was slightly offended. ‘What do you expect me to do each weekend? Sky-dive? Pole dance?’

  He held up his hands.

  ‘Hey, I’m not laughing at you, but I don’t think it would be such a bad idea if you did have some fun. Listen, this wedding I’m going to,’ he said quickly, his words coming out in a rush, ‘it should be lovely, it’s in Wales, the bride’s dad has a castle. Why don’t you come?’

  Emma was completely taken by sur
prise by his invitation.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she stuttered. ‘I’d be in the way, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘In the way of who?’

  ‘Trudy.’

  ‘She’s not coming,’ he said, sounding mildly irritated. ‘I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. Anyway, stop mentioning her. She’s not my girlfriend. It’s just sex.’

  She shot him a dirty look, feeling piqued at the way he confused her.

  During the course of ten minutes, she had completely reversed her view of him, feeling empathy for his loss and respect for his efforts as a son and father. Then, with one comment, her view of him had come back, full circle: he was a sexist pig who treated women as nothing more than notches on his bedpost.

  ‘It’s very kind, but I’m so busy,’ began Emma, opening the door of her car and putting her books on the passenger seat.

  ‘Ah, come on, what else are you going to be doing?’ asked Rob, craning his neck to see the books. ‘Poetry and Romanticism, 1750-1840?’

  She threw her bag on top of the book, as if to protect Ernesto’s books from him. ‘You should read it,’ she snapped. ‘You might learn something.’

  ‘Come on, Em. I don’t really want to go alone but I don’t want to take a girlfriend. And anyway, you said you owed me one. The bride’s dad’s an intellectual, so you’ll be able to talk to him about poetry and stuff.’

  ‘To think I thought you might want me for my company,’ she said, feeling a little hurt.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon,’ said Rob. ‘I think you’ll have fun. We’ll have fun.’

  Emma knew he was right. A warm, sunny weekend had been predicted. So she loved her weekends pottering around Chilcot but it was hard to completely relax when there was a Milford employee at every turn. A wedding in a castle did sound like fun. As for Rob, well, what was she getting so worked up about? So he was a chauvinist. That wasn’t exactly news, but she couldn’t help admit that he was good fun.

  ‘Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘Separate bedrooms and everything, I promise,’ he smiled, holding up three fingers like a boy scout.

  Emma felt a sudden surge of spontaneity that was most unusual.

  ‘In that case you have a deal.’

  Stella had been to premieres many times before in LA, having occasionally been thrown a couple of tickets by Cate Glazer for the opening of one of her husband’s films, but this was the first time she had ever gone alone. Stepping out of her taxi at the corner of Leicester Square, she felt a sudden knot of fear. What the hell am I doing here? she thought to herself. Meeting a man she hardly knew in a dark room surrounded by film stars? Just then she heard a mighty roar from a huge crowd squashed behind the crash barriers and police.

  ‘Not quite what I had in mind for a first date,’ she muttered under her breath as she walked towards the red carpet. Not that Stella was entirely sure she was even on a date. Johnny was going to the premiere separately with some of the cast, which was quite understandable. If he was seen walking the red carpet with any member of the opposite sex it would be a definite statement that they were together – and she and he had barely talked, let alone, well, done anything else. Johnny’s arrangements about meeting afterwards were vague to say the least too. Her ticket had arrived with a bunch of fifty red tulips and a note that read simply ‘See you at the party.’

  But date or no date, Stella had wanted to look her very best, so she had decided to channel the ‘sixties starlet at Cannes’ look. Her favourite canary yellow chiffon dress, known by her friend Tash as ‘the man-magnet dress’, floated six inches above the knee and was cut dangerously low at the front. Her skin was tanned from the recent good weather, and silver Pierre Hardy heels and a vintage Milford clutch bag completed the look which was already getting her noticed. She was only a few feet onto the red carpet and already photographers had started snapping.

  ‘Over ’ere, darling!’

  ‘What’s your name, love?’

  A woman with a clipboard and a headset darted out and pulled Stella into an area in front of a paparazzi scrum. ‘I think you’re wanted,’ hissed the PR woman, stepping out of shot. Stella was overwhelmed by the bright bursts of light and walked away dazzled and blinking.

  ‘Ooh, fabulous dress,’ said a voice. Stella looked up to see a man with a huge camera on his shoulder flanked by a glamorously-dressed journalist who was pushing a microphone into Stella’s face. ‘Fashion TV. Why don’t you tell the viewers about your look?’

  Stella gripped her clutch bag a little tighter. Crikey. Why was anybody interested in her?

  After the film, select members of the audience moved on to the aftershow party at Asia de Cuba at the St Martin’s Lane Hotel. Cassandra was standing in a roped-off VIP area with Johnny Brinton’s stepmother Astrid. Astrid was one of Cassandra’s closest friends, a former stylist who had met and subsequently married the rock star Blake when she had styled him for the cover of his first solo album. Her official age was 38 but Cassandra reckoned she was a decade older. Even so, she looked remarkably good: she was wearing one of her many pieces of couture, a beautiful French navy Chanel cocktail dress.

  From her elevated position, Cassandra could see the entrance and watched as Johnny arrived in a flurry of hysteria, the well-wishers and fans pushing past the bigger names to get to him. He was surrounded on all sides, he was pushed and prodded, but he took it all in his stride, signing autographs and cracking jokes. It took something special, some indefinable ‘ingredient X’ to get that sort of reaction, to rise above the hundreds of good-looking singers, actors, dancers, presenters and models that choked media land and Johnny had it. Yes, that boy has star quality, thought Cassandra.

  ‘So how does Blake feel about being eclipsed by his son?’ asked Cassandra, watching Johnny work the room with such finesse, it was as if she herself had given him a master-class. ‘I think you will look back at tonight and pinpoint it as the night Blake became the second most famous member of the family.’

  ‘Yes, he gave a wonderful performance in the film, didn’t he?’ smiled Astrid, ‘but I have to say, I think there was a certain degree of inevitability about it all, don’t you? Johnny’s been acting up ever since I met his father.’ She paused to accept a quail’s egg and caviar blini from a waiter.

  ‘And is Ruby enjoying herself?’ asked Astrid, watching the girl trying to sip a glass of champagne in a very grown-up fashion.

  ‘Urh,’ groaned Cassandra, ‘she told me on the way over here that she now wants to be an actress.’

  ‘What happened to her wanting to be an archaeologist?’

  ‘That was last year’s little fad. She kept trying to persuade me to do a shoot at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon so she could come with me. It actually sounded like a rather good idea until I found out it was destroyed in an earthquake 2,000 years ago.’

  Astrid giggled. ‘Whenever did something like that ever stop you? I’m surprised you didn’t tell Giles to make it happen.’

  Cassandra rolled her eyes.

  ‘Anyway, where are we on the exhibition?’ she said. ‘I know we have a lunch on Monday but you might as well give me the broad strokes.’

  Cassandra and Astrid had begun to organize a grand charity dinner dance to rival the Met-Gala in New York. The theme was the works of the great couturier Charles Worth, the British designer who moved to Paris and kick-started couture and the modern day fashion industry as we know it. However, as vice-chair of the organization committee, it was Astrid’s responsibility to arrange a venue and she had hit a solid wall. The plan was to have the exhibition-cum-dinner immediately after couture week in January but the Chambre Syndicale, who governed the biannual couture shows had yet to announce the dates, which made it impossible for her to confirm a venue.

  ‘I’ve been tearing my hair out, darling, I really have,’ said Astrid. ‘I have another meeting with the V&A tomorrow and Karoline Braun has been a real find in drumming up corporate sponsorship, but…’

  ‘Who
is that stunning girl with Johnny?’ interrupted Cassandra, surprised that she did not know every good-looking and important person in the room. ‘Is she a model?’

  ‘That’s Stella Chase. I think she’s Johnny’s date tonight.’

  Cassandra opened her grey eyes in surprise. ‘Stella Chase the designer at Milford?’

  ‘The same. She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she? Too small to model but lovely all the same. The photographers have been having a field day with her tonight.’

  Cassandra nodded unconsciously. Yes, she certainly had a certain something.

  ‘How on earth did Johnny meet her?’ she asked.

  ‘He did some shoot for Milford the other day.’

  Cassandra looked sharply at her friend.

  ‘Johnny modelled for Milford?’

  Astrid pulled a face and looked away.

  ‘Now, darling, don’t go all funny just because you’re still pissed off about your cousin. I never told you because I knew you’d react like this and frankly, Johnny could do with a high-profile advertising campaign.’

  ‘High-profile? I doubt that,’ snorted Cassandra. But she felt her good mood evaporate as she thought of Emma Bailey. Just what is that little bitch up to now?

  ‘Can you believe people are talking Oscar-buzz already? Best fucking supporting actor! Can you imagine if I got it?’ laughed Johnny when he had steered Stella into a quiet corner. Stella smiled politely, but she was not in the best of moods. Johnny had taken over an hour to come over and find her. Of course, he had been snowed under with journalists, producers and celebrities telling him what a fabulous performance he’d given. Buoyed by their attention, he was even more funny and charming than he had been at the Milford shoot, but still…

  ‘If I was on the Academy I would vote for you,’ smiled Stella, doing her best to sound witty.

  Johnny took a flute of champagne and downed it in one.

  ‘Can I just tell you how incredible you look tonight?’ he said putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘You could be having an Elizabeth Hurley moment in that dress.’