‘Absolutely; an artesian line if you like,’ said Emma. ‘I’m thinking a 20-piece capsule wardrobe with a cap on the number of pieces in production. We do this for three or four seasons then we can think about a full ready-to-wear line at a slightly more accessible price point.’
‘You want womenswear for next season,’ said Stella, still shaking her head in disbelief.
Emma nodded.
‘You do think it’s possible?’ she asked, with a note of reservation in her voice. ‘If we’re going to do it, we have to do it properly.’
Stella remembered a similar conversation with Cate Glazer, who had also been in a hurry to expand her empire after a couple of hit bags. Cate had had much bigger resources at her disposal than Milford and even more bullish confidence. The fashion press had doubted such a fast expansion at the time but Cate had pulled it off and their first show during New York Fashion Week had graduated them from a bag company to a lifestyle empire.
‘Well, anything’s possible,’ said Stella. ‘But who’s going to design it?’
Emma pulled a face.
‘Me? Come on, Em, I’m flattered but how can I do both? I’m flat out as it is.’
Emma smiled and looked towards the roof. ‘Looked like it.’
‘OK, OK, but I want a team. I know a guy from St Martin’s who’s worked at Donna Karan and another girl who has experience on Savile Row. Although strictly speaking, design isn’t the problem,’ she said, now thinking out loud. ‘Fabric’s the big hitch. It’s one thing turning up at Premiere Vision – that’s the big textile trade fair in September – but the very best suppliers will have exclusive contracts with the top fashion houses.’
‘Can we cut a deal?’
Stella tapped a thoughtful finger on her lips.
‘I know an excellent textile mill in Bologna who might do something with us, but we’ll have to go out to Italy for some heavyweight schmoozing. Then there’s manufacturing – we won’t be able to do it here. Gosh, there’s so much to think about! Where were you thinking of showing?’
‘Paris would be incredible, but that’s unlikely given our lack of track record and the time span. Anyway, I think we should show in London. Given the heritage of the brand it feels only right. I’ve already spoken to the British Fashion Council. We’ll get a professional show-producer, top models …’
Stella listened to Emma’s words, but had already begun to drift off into her own thoughts. What Emma was suggesting … it was every designer’s dream, but did she really have what it took to pull it off? Tom Ford had transformed Gucci in practically one season with his legendary 1995 collection of sexy velvet hip-huggers and satin shirts but he had both a gargantuan talent and a steely commercial brain. There were days when Stella thought she was just playing at the fashion business. Before Emma came along she never had anyone to cheerlead her ambitions. Her talks with her mother never got beyond lightweight chit-chat and the only time her father had ever pushed her to do anything was when he was trying to get her to follow him into sculpture. As if reading her thoughts Emma looked her directly in the eye.
‘I know what a great job you can do with it. Look what you did with the accessories line in a matter of weeks.’
‘No pressure then,’ said Stella a touch sulkily.
‘I’ve had a lawyer looking into the share structure of the company. I want to give you stock in Milford, Stella,’ said Emma firmly. ‘Ruan too, actually. You both deserve it more than I can say.’
Stella wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Wow. That’s great news,’ was the best she could manage.
‘I believe in you, Stella,’ said Emma simply.
Stella walked over to the office coffee pot and poured two black coffees.
‘So. When do we start?’ she asked, handing Emma a cup.
‘Straight away.’
‘Well, as soon as I get back from holiday,’ corrected Stella. ‘Johnny’s parents have this house in Cap Ferrat and I thought I’d go for a couple of weeks. We’re going to drive down. Stay in some chateaux along the way. Johnny starts filming in Wales for two months soon so we wanted to spend some quality time together.’
‘Stella, you can’t just go away for two weeks whenever the mood takes you,’ said Emma, a note of warning in her voice. ‘I don’t want to sound like your boss, but you had five days off last month.’
‘Johnny had a photo shoot for Tatler in the Maldives! He paid for me to go out there.’
Emma leaned towards her, her eyes steely.
‘Stella. We – no, you – have a real opportunity here. You’re on the verge of being the next big thing. Don’t squander it chasing after a man.’
Stella felt like screaming. How dare Emma say such a thing! Yes, of course she’d been spending as much time as she could with Johnny, but why shouldn’t she? She didn’t want to end up an old spinster like Emma, too cynical and angry for a relationship with anything other than her career.
‘Take a look at the press cuttings, boss,’ she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I think I’m doing fine.’
‘That all depends on whether you want to be known as a great designer or as half of an It-couple.’
Stella slammed her coffee cup on the table, all the excitement of launching her own womenswear line and becoming a Milford shareholder completely forgotten.
‘Jesus, Emma!’ she cried, ‘all I’m asking for is two measly weeks off. I’ve been working my arse off for this company and I think I deserve a break.’
Emma looked intently down at her coffee mug before speaking.
‘I’m just saying be careful,’ she said softly.
‘Careful of what?’ shouted Stella, too upset to hold it in. ‘Careful of getting a life? Careful of not devoting every waking minute of my time to the bloody company?’
‘Of course you’re entitled to time off. As your boss and your friend I’m just concerned about how long and who with. You know Johnny has a bad reputation. I don’t want you to waste your time or energy on someone who might not be worthy of you.’
‘How dare you?’ snapped Stella, enraged. ‘You hardly know him. And you know nothing about our relationship!’
‘Do you trust him?’ said Emma.
Her words stung. In some corner of her mind, Stella registered the implication of the question and noted the solemn expression which suggested Emma knew more, but she was too wound up to pay heed.
‘What’s really wrong, Emma?’ said Stella, her voice cracking. ‘Are you jealous? Jealous that I manage to get the job done and have a life? Or are you jealous that all the press is about me?’
Emma was shaking her head. ‘Stella, don’t be ridiculous.’
Stella snorted. ‘Am I? Am I really?’
Emma slowly gathered her things and stood up.
‘Take a week off,’ she said.
‘Forget it,’ said Stella coolly. ‘Let’s just get back to work. Because that’s all there is, isn’t there?’
‘Stella …’ said Emma softly.
‘Let me have those deadlines,’ she said, brisk and businesslike. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it done.’
She walked back out onto the roof. Suddenly, despite the heat, she felt stone cold.
33
August is the fashion industry’s playtime, a small window of opportunity for pleasure between couture and the final preparations for the Spring/Summer collections held in September. Most years Cassandra spent two weeks of August holidaying in the same destinations as the rest of the fashion crowd: the hillside villas of Ibiza, the hip hotels along the French Riviera or on one of the magical islands that pepper the Italian coast – Stromboli perhaps, where Dolce and Gabbana had their own luxurious villa, or Pantelleria, a favourite with Giorgio Armani. But for the last two years Cassandra had spent her time on Guillaume Riche’s 175-foot motor yacht Le Soleil which, from the second the designer had launched it, had become one of the most sought-after August invitations for Europe’s rich, famous and fashionable. Its luxury had
already taken on mythical proportions for those not lucky enough to have sailed in her. People whispered about the hand-painted silk paper and Hepplewhite furniture in the staterooms, about the former Michelin-starred chef in the galley and of service so particular and exacting that each guest would have their bedsheets washed and ironed twice daily, once in the morning and once after their siesta.
As Le Soleil slid through the blue Aegean waters, mooring just off Mykonos Town, Cassandra sat on the walnut deck knowing the great yacht was all this and more. She was one of the few people who could be guaranteed their annual invitation; Guillaume was known for his eclectic mix of guests so that no one, except his very closest friends, could be absolutely sure they’d be asked on board until their handwritten invitation arrived by courier. Not even Ruby had secured an invitation this year, although that had been at Cassandra’s request. Although she felt pangs of guilt at having spent the last two weekends in Provence with Max, she still didn’t want her daughter on board Le Soleil when there was so much work to be done. And just because that work was going to be done in the super-chic clubs and bars of Mykonos Town surrounded by Guillaume’s beautiful people it didn’t mean she was any less busy.
‘What an absolutely glorious night for a party,’ said Serena Balcon, holding the hand of her fiancé actor Tom Archer as she daintily stepped out of the tender that had brought them into the harbour. It was no surprise that Serena was on board Le Soleil. Every designer was currently courting the aristocratic actress, each one desperate to design her wedding dress, despite knowing it would be tough to wrestle the honours from Serena’s old friend the French/Tunisian couturier Roman Le Fey.
All safely ashore, the group from Le Soleil stepped into the golf carts that were waiting to transport them through the whitewashed streets of Mykonos up to a villa situated at the top of town. Dusk was falling, the pink sky spilling a peachy glow over the sugar-cube houses clinging to the hill.
‘Whose party is it again?’ asked Tania Squires excitedly as they approached an enormous white villa.
‘Leopold Mancini, one of the industry’s top manufacturers,’ replied Cassandra. ‘Italian, I believe. He has a big party in Mykonos every year. It’s a must for anyone in the Cyclades.’
Cassandra eyed the New York model, not for the first time on the trip. Tania had an innocence that was quite charming and unexpected in the fashion world so it had not surprised Cassandra to hear, when they were sunbathing together on the top deck of the yacht earlier that day, that she had only moved from West Virginia to New York six months earlier. Tania was the sort of girl who advertised breakfast cereal; an extremely pretty girl, with long, champagne-blonde hair and a face of remarkable symmetry, although her features lacked anything memorable that would mark her out for the very top flight of modelling. Cassandra had already considered and rejected Tania for editorial in Rive, as she felt sure most of the other top fashion editors had done before her. It was why she still behaved like an 18-year-old, having not yet acquired the knowing, world-weariness that typified successful model teens. Still, there was something refreshing about Tania’s wide-eyed wonder that not even Ruby with her routine exposure to the best things in life could match. Cassandra saw Tania take a deep breath of warm Greek air, shut her eyes and smile to herself.
‘It’s so wonderful to be here. I couldn’t believe it when my agent got the invitation from Guillaume.’ She opened his eyes. ‘It’s just crazy, isn’t it? Me and Clover Connor are the only models on board!’
‘He’s probably just after my mother’s couture business,’ came a voice from the seat behind her. Cassandra turned to see the very handsome face of Alex Jalid, Tania’s boyfriend and Georgia Kennedy’s stepson.
‘Guillaume doesn’t work like that,’ said Cassandra. ‘It doesn’t matter how rich you are, how famous you are. Guillaume simply wants a mix of interesting people he can have a wonderful time with.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Alex sullenly, turning to watch Le Soleil which had anchored outside the bay. ‘This had better be a good party, then.’
‘Oh, it will be,’ said Cassandra with a smirk. ‘I can guarantee that.’
Leopold Mancini held his annual party during the same week of August every year, at his enormous villa, one of the chicest in the whole group of Greek islands known as the Cyclades. It had a reputation of being one of the most flamboyant and decadent parties of the year; Mykonos was a favourite destination for both the fashion set and the glamorous gay community, both of whom had a reputation for partying hard. Leopold also had the money to do it justice. He was one of the invisible men of fashion; not a designer or a high-profile CEO of a luxury goods company, but still one of the most important men in the industry. His company Leopold was one of the industry’s most respected manufacturers and with his vast profits came the luxury of being able to stage the most spectacular and lavish events.
This year, as it quietly coincided with his fiftieth birthday, Leopold had decided to pull out all the stops. In the sumptuous courtyard was a life-size ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s David and a twelve-foot champagne fountain spilling over with Krug. Semi-naked waiters circulated with trays piled high with delicacies known for their aphrodisiac qualities: rock lobster, Galway Bay oysters and tiny truffle tartlets. There was even a rumour that George Michael was going to do a thirty-minute set.
Clover Connor drained her fifth flute of champagne and lay back on the day bed to watch her boyfriend Ste Donahue lean against the wall strumming his guitar. They had found a quiet corner at the back of the villa facing away from the sea and into the interior of Mykonos which, in the shimmering darkness, Clover thought looked like the surface of the moon. The party was picking up around them but she had no desire to venture out of Ste’s air-space and into the accusing stares and curious glances. Clover read the tabloids, she knew people criticized their relationship but what did she care? Every date she’d ever had since she was seventeen had been in the papers, it was the normal state of things for her. Besides, most of her previous boyfriends had been musicians because it was a combination that worked; their itinerant lifestyle, the adoration, the money and temptations that they both encountered meant the rock star and the model both understood and needed one another. It was mutually supportive. But Ste was the most fascinating and sexiest musician she had ever encountered. His lean sinewy body, unruly dark hair and handsome, haunting features were the sort she used to dream about when she was growing up in Newcastle. He wrote her songs and sang her to sleep. He was clever, fun and knowledgeable and was hailed in the rock press as a genius. OK, so he enjoyed drugs – they both did. But the drugs helped him create those poetic lyrics that had set the album chart on fire. Anyway, what if he was dangerous? His kisses made her weak. Ste Donahue wasn’t just the love of her life, he was an obsession.
Clover stood up and wandered over to the wall where she could see the party in full swing. She remembered the days when it frightened her to come to parties like this. Ten years ago when she had first arrived in Paris to model she had been taken to some grand town house near the Bois. Coke was being snorted off every surface and the sounds and smells of sex – gay sex, straight sex, group sex – was all around her. Somebody had given her an ecstasy tablet and, too afraid to do anything else, she had taken it. Clover laughed to herself. How funny and naïve she was back then. Ste produced a crack pipe and lit it, the familiar sickly smell mushrooming around him. He inhaled the fumes, closing his eyes in pleasure and then passed it to Clover. A nagging voice in her head told her she shouldn’t. She’d done some coke on the yacht as well as at the party and had drunk almost a bottle of Krug. But then as Ste smiled over lazily, she just wanted to climb into his skin. She loved him, loved him, loved him. The very least she could do was to take his hand and join him in that sweet heaven.
Cassandra and Giles stood on a balcony in the west wing of the villa enjoying the fresh air and peace away from the party. It was a wonderful night out there. Although it was now dark, it was still almo
st 80 degrees. Cassandra loved coming to Mykonos, she loved its stark aesthetics: the sugar-cube buildings, the blue and white churches with their cerulean domes, the startling blue of the Aegean against the dark, dusty volcanic soils further inland.
Giles was staring out at the black curtain of the sea. Only the flashes of silver light caught by breaking waves showed that there was anything out there but emptiness. ‘You know that the island straight out there, Delos, is at the exact centre of the earth?’ said Giles. ‘Legend has it that Delos was an invisible floating island until the god Poseidon anchored it at the centre of the four points of the compass using chains made from diamonds.’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’ asked Cassandra.
‘Because his brother Zeus had got a young lady in the family way and the gods forbade her to give birth anywhere on the earth. Delos wasn’t considered earthly – still isn’t. The Greeks still believe it is a sacred place. You can’t stay there overnight and it’s illegal to give birth or die there.’
Cassandra giggled.
‘Darling, how do you know these things?’
‘Benefits of a classical education,’ smiled Giles. ‘The only thing worth going to a public school for. Well, that and the divine boys.’
A waiter approached them. He was naked except for a white thong and after he had handed them some champagne and turned away, they could see a tattoo on his right buttock that said ‘This way, please.’ They both burst out laughing.
‘So. Has it been a useful trip?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Cassandra coyly.
‘You never let a little thing like being on holiday get in the way of work. Have you persuaded Serena Balcon and Tom Archer to do a cover?’
‘Giles, you do insult me,’ she chided.
He raised a groomed eyebrow. ‘Am I not correct?’
Cassandra laughed.
‘Not both of them together – couples just don’t sell. But yes, Serena has indicated that she might like to do something special for us. Of course I will leave it up to you to think of what that something special should be.’
Guilty Pleasures Page 32
