Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  She didn’t need Rive, she didn’t need Pierre Desseau, she told herself. She was Cassandra Grand! Any magazine or fashion house would kill to have her on board. So why do I feel like I’m walking to the gallows?

  She snatched up her mobile phone.

  ‘Max, can you come?’

  She hadn’t seen him for two weeks or spoken to him for three days; she missed him so much it was like a physical pain. Right now she wanted him by her side more than she had ever wanted anything.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I need to see you about something. I’m at home. Come as soon as you can.’

  She poured a vodka and slimline-tonic and took it out onto the balcony. She stared out at the city, not really thinking, just being, watching the clouds and traffic. She had no idea how long she was out there but she had watched the grey afternoon fade and now it was getting dark. Her skin was ice cold; she liked that. She wanted to be numbed – it was her way of coping. Max came at five, letting himself in with the key she had given him weeks before. He put the key on the table and walked across to her. Cassandra lifted her fingers to touch his lips, cupping his face before kissing him.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘And you’re early,’ she smiled, pleased that he had rushed to her side.

  ‘I wanted to come early,’ said Max going over to sit in the Barcelona chair opposite her. Watching him, in the half light, almost made her forget about Rive. She wanted to climb into him, as if he was a suit. She decided not to mention her troubles straightaway – she wanted to enjoy a little time together first.

  ‘So how was New Year without me?’

  ‘St Barts was OK.’

  He seemed uneasy, distracted. Cassandra immediately felt nervous. The room felt charged like the air before a storm.

  ‘You were supposed to say how much you missed me,’ she said.

  There was a long uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Laura is pregnant. We found out two days ago.’

  She bit her bottom lip painfully.

  ‘You said you weren’t having sex.’

  ‘Cassandra, she’s my wife,’ he said fiercely.

  She tasted blood on her lip and licked it away, pulling herself up into her most majestic stance.

  ‘Well, let her have babies! That’s what trophy wives do, isn’t it?’ said Cassandra tartly.

  Max stood up and started pacing back and forth across the rug; the same rug they had made love on so many times, planning their future together.

  ‘Cassandra, it’s more than that. We are having a family,’ he said. ‘Another little me, I have to give it a go. I have to try and give it a go. At least for now. This child is the heir to Hildon.’

  Cassandra walked to the table and poured herself another vodka, ignoring the tonic. He looked at her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cass. You are a breathtakingly exciting woman. You are passionate and beautiful and sex is incredible. But…’ He hesitated.

  ‘That’s all I am to you,’ she said quietly, putting down the empty glass and walking towards him, ‘Sex? An easy fuck when your wife’s back is turned?’

  He grabbed her hands but kept his distance.

  ‘No. No. You and I, we are the same creatures. We enjoy the thrill, we want each other but we don’t need each other.’

  It was as if he’d punched her in the stomach. From that first night Cassandra had felt that she and Max were soul mates, that their similarities had linked them on a deep and intimate level, but Max had just managed to make their connection feel inconsequential, something he could take or leave whenever he felt like it.

  She nodded slowly, determined not to show her feelings. She was Cassandra Grand. She didn’t cry.

  ‘What about Clochiers?’ she asked, not daring to breathe.

  Max shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think we should see each other any more. You tempt me too much.’

  Their eyes met for a moment; then she looked away.

  ‘Just go,’ she said.

  He hung by her side for a moment, for once unsure of what to do.

  ‘I saw the Georgia cover,’ he said. ‘It looks incredible. You see, you really don’t need me, do you?’

  ‘Clearly not,’ she replied.

  He smiled sadly, looked at the key he had left on the table and walked out of the door. And for the first time in a very long time, she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.

  58

  The next two weeks seemed to pass in slow motion. To Cassandra, it was as if she were detached from her own life, watching it all unfold on a movie screen. Guillaume Riche was on the phone immediately after he heard of Cassandra’s ‘resignation’, insisting she recuperate at his chateau. She politely declined, knowing he was knee-deep in preparations for couture, but she was grateful for the support. Astrid Brinton also offered the use of Greywood, but the gesture was slightly undermined by Astrid’s insistence that Cassandra step down as chair of the Charles Worth exhibition and party at the V&A. ‘We don’t want to lose people because they feel awkward do we, darling?’ she had said. Cassandra soon found that this was a common feeling among many of her so-called friends. When she’d been appointed editor-in-chief of Rive, there had been fifty-seven bouquets of flowers waiting in her office from people in the fashion industry. On the news of her ‘resignation’ there were none; just a yawning, embarrassed silence and a couple of regretful texts from David Stern and Jeremy Pike. No magazine executives called, desperate to sign her as an editor, no fashion houses begged her to add her vision to their brand. She was, at least for the moment, a pariah.

  Cassandra wasn’t entirely surprised. You couldn’t spend your entire working life air-kissing and not be aware how shallow the industry was. What did shock her, though, was how hard it hit her. Her whole life had been built around fashion and now it seemed she was frozen out, with no one to lean on. But by far the worst thing was that she had to deal with the loss of Max completely alone. No one knew about their affair. Over the last six months the one person with whom she had shared all her problems was Max and now he was gone. Cassandra had always been self-reliant, happy in her own company, but now she felt more alone than she had ever been. Famed for going to three or four parties a night, she now sat at home in her cashmere joggers and socks, staring at the walls. She had never been depressed, there had never been time, there was always so much to do, so much to look forward to, but now she felt crushed by the weight of everything. What was the point? Who cared what happened to her, anyway? Deep down, she knew she was letting the waters pull her under and the old Cassandra reared up enough to finally get her out of the house, to visit the health club at the Berkeley hotel. She was sitting by its beautiful rooftop pool, staring at a magazine, when she took the next body blow: her phone rang.

  ‘Cassandra, it’s Guillaume.’

  ‘Oh, hello, darling,’ she said, vaguely. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Just wondered if you had heard the latest from Rive?’

  She stayed silent, not sure if she really wanted to hear.

  ‘Well, the big news is that Francesca Adams is the new editor-in-chief,’ said Guillaume, not waiting for an answer, ‘and the magazine is going to go weekly.’

  Cassandra sat and listened as Guillaume filled her in on the industry gossip. Glenda McMahon had been named editorial director over all international editions including UK Rive and, as they were planning a September relaunch, Glenda had been in the UK for the last twenty-four hours, presenting her vision to the team.

  ‘They all hate her, of course,’ said Guillaume kindly. ‘To be honest, it’s just not the same for anyone. I really missed you at couture, darling. Le Grand Palais was a less glamorous place without you.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ whispered Cassandra and hung up, her hands shaking.

  Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, her head was buzzing with thoughts.

  How could she have been so stupid? Francesca was more ambitious and reso
urceful than she had given her credit for. Francesca had been suspicious about an ‘off-flat-plan’ shoot at the Milan collections and she must have seen an opportunity and gone digging deeper. Cassandra had warned Laura to be discreet, but she was a stupid, naïve girl and Francesca had found out. Francesca must then have told Glenda and cut a deal for the editorship. Cassandra took a deep breath and looked out over the pool. It was as if the anger had burnt away a fog surrounding her. She was seeing clearly now. Very clearly. Suddenly it occurred to Cassandra that the Berkeley was one of the favoured London hotels for the international fashion community and it was where Glenda always stayed when she was over for the London shows. I’ll bet that bitch is here now! she thought, getting quickly dressed and marching down to the front desk.

  ‘Ms McMahon, please. I believe she’s staying in the Wellington Suite?’ said Cassandra in her ‘do-not-fuck-with-me’ voice.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the blonde clerk nervously, obediently turning to her computer.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a Miss McMahon in that suite.’

  ‘Well, can you try your other rooms? This is urgent.’

  ‘I’m afraid Miss McMahon isn’t staying with us at all at the present time,’ said the girl. ‘I’m sorry.’ The look on her face told Cassandra she was telling the truth.

  Retreating into the hotel’s Caramel Room, she ordered a mint tea to calm her, before ringing Lianne. Her old assistant sounded uneasy speaking to her but confirmed that Glenda had been in the office but had already left. Apparently, Lianne hadn’t been taken into her confidence over her sleeping arrangements.

  Cassandra rang every top hotel looking for her, but failed to track Glenda down. Frustrated, she pushed through the revolving doors and jumped into a black cab. Then suddenly she had a moment of clarity. Of course! She would be staying at the Alliance company flat. It was so typical of a brown-nosing company toadie like Glenda to stay there to show the new management how she was saving them money. She redirected the cab to the anonymous red-brick block behind Harrods and strode up to the door. Cassandra still had keys which admitted her to both the building and the flat. In the lift, however, Cassandra began to doubt her instincts – what if she walked in on some French family using the flat while their fat papa was out dealing with some paper crisis at the printers? With this scenario in mind, she knocked on the door several times but there was no reply. She was about to leave when she heard a muffled laugh coming from inside.

  Suddenly sure she had been correct about Glenda, she slid the key into the lock and opened the door. She immediately recognized Glenda’s fur cape hanging up in the hall. Her heart was pounding. She cautiously ventured farther into the flat, her ears searching for signs of life. There was a rustle coming from the living room doorway – then there she was, Glenda, dressed in a long silk kimono.

  ‘Cassandra!’ she almost squealed, then regained her composure, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Getting some answers,’ said Cassandra, taking a step forward, her voice dripping with loathing. ‘It was Francesca who told you about Georgia Kennedy, wasn’t it? Not Giles at all. You just blamed it on him so I would get rid of my best member of staff.’

  ‘Cassandra. You’re being emotional,’ said Glenda, backing up slowly, a look of real fear on her face. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you but you brought it on yourself. I’d love to talk about it more but I’m in a hurry, so I’d be grateful if you’d leave.’

  Cassandra advanced on her, stabbing the air with her finger.

  ‘What did you do to get Pierre Desseau on your side so quickly? Fuck him?’

  Her voice was low and uneven. Until now she had ignored the sound of a shower running in the background, her instincts blunted by anger. The sound of gushing water stopped and Cassandra kept silent, her nerve endings prickling, knowing now that Glenda was not alone. The bathroom door at the end of the corridor opened and out stepped Pierre wrapped in just a towel. Without conscious thought, Cassandra screamed and, all sense of control completely gone, she hurled herself on Glenda, her fingers like talons, grabbing at her silk kimono and tearing it open.

  ‘You scheming bitch!’ she yelled, her manicured nails sinking into Glenda’s face and neck, her hands clawing at her hair. Pierre leapt forward to separate the women.

  ‘Stop this!’ he shouted, struggling to restrain Cassandra who kicked and flailed, her whole chic façade completely gone. Pierre finally managed to grab Cassandra’s wrists and push her against the wall, manhandling her into a bear hug. Realizing she was beaten, Cassandra gave one last primal scream, then went limp in his arms. With glassy eyes, she looked at Glenda cowering in her torn kimono, the front of her body exposed. She did not look good naked, she thought in a detached way. The skin around her belly was crumpled like chamois leather and her nipples, clearly the result of a botched boob job, were terribly uneven.

  Cassandra laughed cruelly. ‘Your tits. They look cross-eyed!’ She giggled hysterically. Gasping, Glenda quickly pulled her kimono about her, fled into the bathroom and locked the door.

  ‘You’re mad, Cassandra, mad,’ said Pierre, releasing her from his hold.

  She straightened up and pushed her hair away from her eyes.

  ‘I was mad for ever getting involved with you,’ she replied as calmly as she could. ‘You two deserve each other. Your weekly “vision”’ – she spat the word – ‘will flop by the way. You clearly have no understanding of why women buy Rive. But I’ll let you learn that the hard way.’

  She turned her back on him and walked out of the front door without looking back. When she got out onto the cold street she sank onto the step feeling hollow, raw and completely and utterly betrayed and wondered how things could possibly get any worse.

  59

  Stella’s debut womenswear collection for Milford, held on the final day of London Fashion Week, was a sensation. She had channelled all her unsettled emotions into her work and the result was a clever yet sumptuous show that had made even the most jaded fashion editor sigh with joy. Reports of the show in the next day’s broadsheets talked of Stella’s spectacular use of colour and coined the phrase ‘stealth-wealth’ – Milford’s clothes, they gushed, needed no garish logos or labels to show they were the best. Milford, they said, had redefined the words ‘luxurious’ and ‘classic’. Stella’s vision had worked. She had taken her lead from the masters and it showed; the gowns were cut as beautifully as the best Schiaparelli and floated round the body as fluidly as fresh air. The bouclé day jacket had its seams weighted with fine chains, like the finest Chanel couture, to ensure that it hung perfectly. More importantly, the whole collection was wearable. The clean-line dresses, skinny trousers and scoop-neck sweaters were just what every woman wanted because they would flatter any figure. Stella had used the very best fabrics: the gossamer-fine cashmere tank needed the barest of design twists to look exquisite while the pencil skirt in the softest midnight-blue nappa leather looked and felt like the last word in super-luxury. When Stella took a bow and the whole audience of Covent Garden’s Paul Hamlyn Hall erupted, Stella felt as if her life was finally turning a corner. Emma launched herself backstage as soon as the show was finished. She hugged Stella tightly, the two women knowing that in years to come they would look back on this show as the defining moment in the company’s history.

  ‘We did it,’ laughed Emma feeling light-headed with relief and glee, her own troubles temporarily put to one side.

  ‘We’ve just got to get through tonight,’ replied Stella. ‘We get through tonight and then we know we’ve done it.’

  Cassandra sat in the back seat of Astrid Brinton’s Mercedes, biting on her thumbnail. She still couldn’t believe that Astrid and her mother had persuaded her to come. When she had first heard that Emma planned to host a huge party at Winterfold the night of Milford’s debut collection, she had scoffed. It was one thing for Valentino to persuade fashion’s great and good to attend his sumptuous Louis XVIII chateau on the outskirts of
Paris; it was quite another for a nonentity like Milford to expect people to make the 70-mile journey out of London. But Cassandra was out of the loop: Milford was no longer a nonentity. According to Astrid, it was the hottest ticket of London Fashion Week, with Clover Connor and Ste Donahue rumoured to be making their first party circuit appearance together following their stints in rehab. Kowalski were due to play an acoustic set and a fleet of Audis was bringing the guests from the fashion show to Winterfold. Cassandra checked her lipstick in her compact. She knew she looked stunning even if she didn’t feel it. Her oyster duchesse satin cocktail dress matched her colouring and tiny waist perfectly. Her dark, blow-dried hair bounced down her bare back and her five-inch heels would make her stand above almost anyone else at the party. For once, however, that thought sent a shiver through her.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ said Astrid as the car pulled through the gates.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Cassandra her mouth dry with apprehension.

  She looked at her friend, grateful that just being next to Astrid, the society giant, offered her some sort of protection.

  ‘You had to come, remember?’ continued Astrid sternly. ‘There’s absolutely no point slinking off into the shadows like a loser. You’re not a loser, you are fabulous and you have to remind everybody just how fabulous you are. Because everybody is going to be here tonight.’

  That last comment particularly irked Cassandra. Her own fall from UK Rive seemed to have been exaggerated by the apparently unstoppable ascent of Milford and she couldn’t help but wonder if she could have done things differently; if she had contested the will or joined forces with Roger, perhaps she would now be in charge of this thriving empire.

  ‘Actually, I’m surprised you two are coming tonight too,’ said Cassandra. It had only been a few weeks since the tabloids had gone crazy over Johnny and Stella’s dramatic split.

  ‘It wasn’t our bloody fault,’ said Blake from the front seat adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. ‘It’s our son. He’s a tart. As if everyone doesn’t know he’s shagging that old slag Lisa Ladro. He’s such an idiot; when her husband finds out, neither of them will ever work in Hollywood again.’