‘That is interesting,’ purred Cassandra. ‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’
‘Disappointed? Of course not,’ said Jessica quickly. ‘We’re just good friends.’
‘Just like Rob and Emma,’ replied Cassandra, smiling. ‘Just like Rob and Emma.’
50
Tom was in love. He realized it on the M4 heading out of London towards Oxfordshire. The clues were all there: the Kensington town-house he was house-sitting was luxurious – silk sheets, basement pool, home cinema – yet here he was, making the journey out to Chilcot for the weekend in the slim hope of bumping into Stella in the Feathers. Stella he thought with a ridiculous grin on his face as he pressed down the accelerator of his ancient Mini. Just her name was enough to get his heart leaping. She felt so good for him, so right and now she was single. And it didn’t help that she was gorgeous, of course. He had fallen in lust with her the minute he’d first laid eyes on her at the Milford shoot. Not that he’d been silly about it; he’d still slept with at least a dozen stunning women in Ibiza, but the point was that he’d found it difficult to shake Stella from his mind. Yes, her luminous beauty beguiled him, but having got to know her and spend time with her through her recent traumas, it was her strength and kindness that had really won him over. After the smoky journey to Cornwall, Stella had presented him with a gift-wrapped box of nicotine patches. It was an affectionate joke, but he had not smoked in two weeks. He’d been off the drugs too – all right, so he could barely afford them – but it was more than that, it was because Stella had given him something else to look forward to.
Tom flexed his frozen fingers; they were nearly numb and the Mini’s heating couldn’t have picked a colder night to give up the ghost. Despite the weather he was in a good mood as the car chugged off the motorway, onto the A-roads and finally down the winding country lanes towards Chilcot. The night before he had seen a fantastic band, Red Comet, play at one of his favourite pubs in Camden. He’d chatted to the band at the bar and after a number of drinks had convinced himself they were the next big thing. Now Tom was keen to catch up with Rob Holland to pass on their CD and see if he was as excited by them as he was. Suddenly Tom’s smile faded. I’ve got to find some way of hitting the big time, he thought.
Rain was now spitting on the windscreen and visibility was poor.
His mother’s house was on the edge of the village and as he approached, he ducked his head to peer through the smeared windscreen. Dammit! Her car was already on her drive and there wasn’t another parking space within a hundred yards of her house; by the looks of it there was some function going on at the Feathers. He drove past the house and turned into a lane that led off towards the common. He got out quickly, zipping his jacket up to his chin and started walking briskly back towards the house.
Tom barely felt the blow; it all happened too quickly. Something solid cracked hard against the back of his head and his body simply slumped to the ground. Instinct told him to raise his hands to his face, and between his fingers he could make out the shape of a boot coming towards him again and again. His nose cracked and he could feel the blood pour down his face. Blows were raining down all over his body, pain everywhere. Finally he was jerked upwards and a strong hand lifted him by the collar of his jacket.
‘You know why we’re here, doncha, sunshine?’ growled a voice, close to his face. ‘If we don’t get what we want, we will be back. And next time, we’ll cut your balls off.’
The man released Tom, letting him drop, his skull banging against the pavement.
Tom curled into a ball, expecting more kicks, feeling the raw pain all over his body but he didn’t dare cry out in case he provoked more violence. He only began to moan when he heard a car engine gun and roar away. Wincing, he reached into his pocket but realized he’d left his mobile in the car. He rolled over and dragged himself off the ground but was only able to walk doubled-over in a crouch. It was only fifty yards to Julia’s house, but it might as well have been a thousand. He could feel blood dripping down his cheek onto the pavement. Vomit was rising in his throat. Not much further, he told himself, willing his body to move forward. He fell against his mother’s front door. Time seemed to stretch out as he pushed the doorbell.
‘Tom!’ screamed Julia as she opened the door and watched her son fall towards her. ‘Darling, what’s happened?’ She knelt on the ground and rested his head in her lap, blood smearing over her skirt.
‘Who did this?’ she asked, weeping.
It was a minute before Tom could even open his bruised mouth to speak.
‘I owe some people money, from Ibiza. A lot of money, Mum. And now they want it back.’
51
Christmas was one of Cassandra’s favourite times of the year, in spite of being a hectic time in the office. Production of Rive shut down for ten days over the holiday season which meant that not only did they have to have the February issue finished and at the printers, but they also had to have completed most of the March issue as well. The pill was, however, sweetened by the glut of presents that came flooding in from grateful advertisers and fashion houses all thanking her for a ‘wonderful year’. The cream B&B Italia sofa in Cassandra’s office was already piled high with gifts: a set of Prada skis, a large monogrammed suitcase from Louis Vuitton, an Alberta Ferretti cashmere coat, fourteen handbags and a beautiful card from Dolce & Gabbana instructing her to go into the shop and pick anything she wanted.
These were what Cassandra called her A-division presents, gifts she would keep for herself or possibly put in Ruby’s Christmas stocking. On another pile on the Perspex table were the B-division presents: bottles of champagne, leather purses, a Tiffany key-ring, an assortment of kitchen appliances, three Smythson diaries, a Roberts radio and a certificate for a course for six micro-dermabrasion sessions. These were presents destined for her mother, favoured members of staff or to be ‘re-gifted’ to friends not in the fashion industry who wouldn’t suspect that they were free. Perched on an office chair by her desk were offerings so gross that Cassandra could barely comprehend how they could come from anyone working in the fashion industry: cheap chocolates or low-grade scented candles. Cassandra snatched up a nasty-looking red passport holder and smelt it. Not even leather!
‘Who the hell is this from?’ she said, thrusting it at Lianne who was cataloguing the gifts ready for thank you notes. Her assistant pulled a face.
‘That’s from Glenda McMahon.’
Cassandra was about to give her opinion on the kind gift when she saw Jeremy Pike, Francesca Reeve and David Stern at the door.
‘What’s this? A military coup?’ said Cassandra, sitting back in her chair.
‘We hate to disturb you,’ said Jeremy, eyeing the gifts with undisguised envy, ‘but the whole office is really worried.’
‘What is it?’ asked Cassandra, tossing the wallet into her drawer.
‘There’s a story on the Media Guardian about Alliance being sold.’
So the wheels were in motion, she thought, trying to keep her face impassive.
She’d had several meetings in the last few weeks with Girard-Lambert boss Pierre Desseau at his smart Neuilly townhouse. By necessity, they had met in complete cloak-and-dagger secrecy as this was nothing less than industrial espionage. Cassandra had fed Pierre everything she knew about her company: its plans to launch new magazines, its digital strategy, the planned and actual marketing spend, plus the holy grail for a competitor – their unmassaged sales figures. In return, Pierre had outlined his plans for the takeover. She had been aware therefore that he was about to buy up Alliance stock which was floating on the open market in preparation for his bid, but she wasn’t aware that he had yet approached Isaac Grey to make his offer. Cassandra felt adrenaline flood into her system: the game was afoot. A sales rumour probably meant the hostile bid might be imminent but it might also make the deal vulnerable to other media sharks smelling blood. She hoped against hope that it was the former because she only had a week. The deal had to be do
ne before Christmas or her moment of glory would be in jeopardy.
‘To my knowledge Isaac Grey doesn’t want to sell,’ said Cassandra evenly, meeting the anxious gaze of her team.
‘But is it possible? What about our jobs?’
‘What about our expense accounts?’ asked Francesca. ‘Isaac really understands our needs, but it’s a nightmare at some companies. They won’t let you take taxis, let alone helicopters.’
‘Everything is going to be fine,’ said Cassandra, smiling confidently. ‘Stop worrying about it. It’s Christmas! Why don’t you all help yourselves to something from the table?’
Jeremy took some champagne. David took the radio.
‘You know I have enough of this stuff myself,’ smiled Francesca politely.
‘Quite,’ replied Cassandra, pleasantly.
52
In the nick of bloody time, thought Cassandra, putting down her black coffee as she read the headline in the Financial Times. She buzzed Lianne.
‘Get me Eileen Donald, I don’t care where she is – just find her. And cancel the ten o’clock meeting.’
Cassandra hung up and read the story again, more slowly this time. So Girard-Lambert had managed to push the takeover through two days before Christmas, she smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. A ‘multi-billion dollar deal’ reported the FT excitedly, singling out Rive as ‘publishing’s crown jewels’. Well, in the nick of time it might be, thought Cassandra, but the timing couldn’t have been better.
She looked up at the magazine flat-plan which was pinned to the wall next to her desk. The February issue was due at the printers the following day. The magazine printed in sections but the cover was due to go to press that evening. Well, there was about to be a change of plan. If Glenda thought she was running simultaneous Georgia Kennedy covers with UK Rive, she could think again.
She saw her telephone flash red and Eileen Donald’s number flashed in the LCD reader. Eileen was Rive’s production manager, the person responsible for making sure everything went smoothly between the text and pictures leaving the Rive office and the magazines rolling out of the printers.
‘Cassandra. Your PA said it was urgent,’ said Eileen in her crisp, efficient voice.
‘It is,’ replied Cassandra, leaning back in her chair. ‘There’s been a change of plan with the February cover.’
‘You’re kidding?’ said Eileen. ‘Cassandra, we print tonight! Has something fallen through?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘We’ve got hold of something absolutely wonderful.’
There was a long silence down the phone. Eileen was a no-nonsense woman and one of the few people in the company who dared say what she thought to Cassandra.
‘If it’s a new cover, we haven’t a hope in hell of getting it retouched and over to the printers in time for this evening.’
Cassandra pulled the Georgia Kennedy cover from the locked drawer besides her.
‘Eileen, darling, it’s already been done.’
Cassandra smiled to herself. The Georgia Kennedy cover had been ready to go for a month. Every blemish, every line had been removed from Georgia’s face. Her skin tone had been warmed up, her already svelte image trimmed with the power of digital retouching. She looked like a goddess.
‘In that case, it shouldn’t be a problem. Shall I warn the printers there’s another file on the way?’
‘You do that. Oh, one other thing,’ purred Cassandra into the receiver. ‘I need you to arrange an increase in the print-run by one hundred thousand. The issue is going to sell out instantly with what we currently have out there.’
She heard a faint splutter down the phone.
‘I haven’t got time to organize a huge hike in the print-run. What about additional paper stock? Do you know how much extra paper is needed for one hundred thousand extra issues?’ said Eileen with panic in her voice.
‘Just do it,’ said Cassandra with steel in her voice. ‘Borrow from our allocation for next month’s issue if you have to, or take it from Rural Living magazine. They’ll thank you for it when they see this issue.’
‘Cassandra, I’m going to have to get authorization from Greg Barbera for this.’
‘Greg doesn’t need to know. These orders have come from Pierre Desseau, the chief executive of Girard-Lambert – our new boss in case you don’t read the papers. I’m reporting directly to him. If you can’t carry out his orders, then you’d better have a think about what corporate takeovers invariably mean; redundancies, sometimes even dismissals.’
‘I understand,’ said Eileen quietly.
‘And Eileen, Pierre wants absolute discretion on this one. We want to take the industry by surprise with our big splash. Tell no one about the new cover or the additional print-run. And I mean no one.’
She slammed down the phone and glanced into her still-open drawer to see the nasty passport holder sent by Glenda sitting there. She picked it up and threw it in the wastepaper bin next to her desk.
Choke on that, Glenda, she thought smiling, before turning her thoughts to what she was going to wear for the Christmas party.
53
The sprawling luxury hotel Panton House was only five miles away from Chilcot. Built from beautiful honey-coloured stone, it boasted architecture by Robert Adam, grounds by Capability Brown and a kitchen managed by a more modern-day genius, Raymond Sancerre, the irascible Michelin-starred French chef. Rich Londoners often made the journey to dine there, but for most Chilcot locals it was gener ally off limits due to its prohibitive prices. So when Emma had decided to throw a big Milford Christmas dinner dance as a thank you for the hard work put in by her employees, Panton House was a natural venue to make the whole evening feel like a real treat. It was two days before Christmas Eve and the huge restaurant looked fabulous; it had been decorated with pine boughs and holly from the Chilcot woods and the staff were aglow with the spirit of the season.
‘So, exactly how much is this setting the company back?’ asked Roger, dabbing the last of his date and pecan pudding from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Emma sighed inwardly; she had been expecting this all night. She had deliberately arranged the seating plan so she was seated next to Roger on the top table. It was a peace gesture and so far he had been polite, almost charming.
‘We got a good deal,’ she smiled. She explained how she had ruthlessly negotiated with Jocelyn Bentham, the owner of Panton House, by playing on his weakness for beautiful things. Emma had offered Jocelyn a brand new, entirely handmade bespoke set of luggage in return for an assurance that they could bring their own wine to the restaurant and not be charged corkage – a move that had saved them thousands of pounds.
‘I’ve also paid for a third of the catering charges myself,’ said Emma. ‘Julia is also in the process of selling several pieces of art from the Winterfold collection that I hope will pay for necessary corporate expenses like this party.’ Emma knew she was playing on Roger’s weakness: his reluctance to look at the company accounts, because despite the discounts, the party had still been incredibly expensive to host, especially for a company that was only just moving into the black.
Roger nodded slowly, swirling his claret around in its glass.
‘I know we’ve had our differences this year,’ he began awkwardly, ‘and I still don’t agree with some of your decisions. But…’ he hesitated, ‘we’re finally getting results. And as the head of the family I would like to thank you for that.’
Despite herself, Emma felt a warm glow course through her. She knew how painful that must have been for Roger to say, but she was grateful for his words.
‘Thanks Roger. I only ever wanted to do the best for everybody.’
‘Well, you know we all want you to come to Gstaad,’ he said referring to the annual Milford family trip to Switzerland. As Roger had been gifted the chalet in Saul’s will, the duty of being Christmas host had fallen to him. ‘Let’s think of it as a new start, eh?’
Emma smiled and nodded, but inside she wa
s groaning. While Emma was glad of the thaw between her and the family, the prospect of five days with Roger, Rebecca, her mother and God forbid, Cassandra, seemed too much to bear.
‘Well thanks so much for the invitation, Roger, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it. After all, it’s Christmas Eve the day after tomorrow and I haven’t booked a flight. Besides, I’ve already stocked the fridge for Christmas dinner.’
‘Rebecca has already looked into flights,’ replied Roger generously. ‘There’s still business class flights available from Heathrow to Geneva. We have a wonderful chef at the chalet and I know how much you like to ski. Surely that’s preferable to spending Christmas alone in the Stables?’
‘Oh don’t worry, I won’t be alone. I’ve been invited to lots of Christmas drinks and Len’s threatening to have a lock-in at the Feathers. Anyway, I’ve mentally prepared myself for staying at home,’ she smiled. She touched his hand. ‘Honestly Roger, thanks so much for thinking of me, but I think I’d better get to my feet and say a few words of thanks to the staff.’
After coffee, the Milford employees dispersed from their tables and filtered through into Panton House’s giant conservatory, where a jazz band had just begun a Cole Porter medley. Emma had been walking through to join the dancing herself when she’d spotted Rob Holland hovering by the door, conspicuous in his jeans and a navy sweater in the sea of suits and cocktail dresses.
He came over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Emma.’
‘Rob? What are you doing here?’ she asked, feeling unnaturally irritated. Since their showdown in the woods, she’d spent the last month determinedly avoiding him and trying to put him out of her mind. It had been easier than she’d expected. She hadn’t seen him around the village all month and the whole Somerset episode and his brush-off at the Winterfold lake had just left her feeling angry and used.
Guilty Pleasures Page 44
