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Cassandra turned to see Jean-Paul Benoit, chief executive of the Pellemont luxury goods house. Major advertiser. Major sleazeball.
‘Jean-Paul!’ she cooed, ‘I was just telling Giles how we need to get fashion’s most glamorous tycoon inside the pages of Rive magazine.’ She took his arm and steered him away from Sadie. ‘How would you feel about doing an “At Home”? You do still have your adorable house in Ile de Re? It’s one of my favourite places in the world. I’ve found this new photographer. I think he could be the new Testino. Someone like that could really do it justice.’
‘Will you be coming along in person?’ asked Jean-Paul, a wolfish grin on his face.
Cassandra smiled sweetly.
‘I’m sure something could be arranged …’
Am I mad? thought Emma as she stepped out of the taxi. Paris; the city of lovers. It had magic. She and Mark had talked about coming together at New Year. That seemed so long ago now and here she was outside a glittering party alone. She looked at the paparazzi crowding around the entrance, their flashbulbs lighting up the red carpet leading into the Rive party and thought that the gates of hell themselves might not be quite so intimidating. In front of her, a long queue snaked down the street while two girls with stern expressions and clipboards either waved people through or condemned them to ridicule. She shivered. What had made her come without a ticket? Desperation, she thought, moving towards the entrance, holding her clutch bag in front of her like a shield. Emma was in trouble with Milford already. After a long and heated meeting with Roger she had agreed to create the new position of Director of Bespoke Services for him. If she’d truly had it her way, she’d have dispensed with him entirely but as she’d definitely rocked the boat enough since her arrival, she’d decided that a sideways move for Roger was the best solution in the short term. That left the glaring vacancy of head designer to re-vamp the collection and if she’d thought it would be an easy appointment she was very much mistaken. In the last week, she’d make clumsy attempts at poaching big design names from other fashion houses, but despite hitting the phones for hours on end, she’d rarely made it past the company switchboards. At the factory, staff morale was low and the atmosphere around the village wasn’t just icy, it was glacial. Only yesterday she had driven up to the Milford factory gates to see that someone had spray-painted ‘Bailey out’ on the wall outside. Emma knew she needed to make changes fast if she was to head off a meltdown within the company, but she seemed to be banging her head against a brick wall: Milford’s image as a luxury brand was far worse than she had ever imagined. But there was one person she knew who could penetrate fashion’s inner circle: Cassandra. But even she had proved elusive. Every phone call to her cousin’s office was politely but firmly rebuffed. Cassandra was unavailable. Thinking laterally, Emma had contacted her aunt, Julia, but she had merely sent a message that Cassandra was in Paris for the week and would contact her on her return. Emma didn’t have a week. Production of samples for the Autumn/Winter line had been halted and could not begin until a new designer was in place. With a press show scheduled for six weeks’ time, they’d have to show Roger’s designs if she didn’t take action immediately – and she didn’t think the company would survive that. So when Ruan heard through the grapevine there was a Rive party in Paris she had booked her Eurostar ticket at once, telling herself she would sort out the details when she got there.
Well, now I’m here, she thought. Emma took a deep breath and walked as confidently as she could up to the clipboard desk.
‘Emma Bailey,’ she said, smiling.
‘Sorry. No,’ said the girl, dismissing Emma instantly and looking down the line to the next poor sap.
‘But I’m Cassandra …’ began Emma, then stopped herself, immediately realizing that ‘I’m Cassandra Grand’s cousin’ sounded like the whine of a gate-crasher – they’d probably already had a dozen people claiming to be relatives tonight.
‘Can you look again?’ said Emma politely, reaching into her clutch bag and placing her freshly-printed Chief Executive business card on the clipboard.
‘Perhaps it’s under Milford Luxury Goods,’ said Emma with an air of authority. ‘I might be on the advertisers’ guest list.’
The girl looked at Emma for the first time and she saw a cloud of doubt cross her face.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Bailey,’ she said, lifting the velvet rope. ‘Enjoy the party.’
Emma felt a little thrill of triumph. Maybe I can pull this off after all, she thought.
She walked into the impressive atrium mentally running through the questions she needed to ask Cassandra. Emma had even mulled over the idea of Cassandra joining the board as a non-executive director, although she had a nagging reservation. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to invite a fox into her henhouse.
Emma had never been to a fashion party before. She was surprised to see food. Waiters drifted by with trays laden with delicate bites: savoury tartlets, crab claws and mini Fauchon éclairs, although for the most part the guests waved them away, as if taking a single one would show weakness. Emma felt as if she had crossed into another world.
It’s only a party. They’re only human, she said to herself, but it was hard to believe. Everywhere she looked there were impenetrable cliques of beautiful and powerful-looking people, talking, laughing and drinking champagne. Had Emma a better grasp of pop culture, she would have recognized that she was surrounded by actresses, models and big-name designers. Up close, many of them weren’t actually beautiful, she thought with detached interest. But they had something, a worldliness and polish, a superiority. These people had ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. And Emma most certainly did not. She felt a sudden sense of inadequacy she hadn’t felt since boarding school when she was known as Cassandra Grand’s geeky little cousin, a bookworm with mousy hair and clumpy shoes. That bookworm, of course, went on to get an MBA and work alongside the CEOs of multinational blue-chip companies. In Boston Emma had felt on a level pegging with even the most impressive businessmen because she knew her intellect and business skills matched theirs. But here! For a second, Emma felt so far out of her depth, she should just turn round and go back to America. ‘Bailey Out’ – that said it all. But she was not a quitter. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter and took a longer gulp than was polite. From a distance she could see Cassandra receiving guests like the Sun King granting an audience with the peasants.
‘You look a little lost, can I help you?’
Emma turned to see a tall man in a lavender woollen suit. He extended a hand with a genuine smile.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Emma, taking his hand gratefully.
‘Giles Banks. How nice to meet you.’
She smiled at his eccentric formality and relaxed. ‘Emma Bailey – very nice to meet you too. I was beginning to feel invisible.’
‘Oh, don’t worry!’ laughed Giles, leaning in as if to impart a secret, ‘I felt like that for years at fashion parties, then I realized that almost everyone feels the same way. They spend their whole time looking around for someone more important or famous than them, worried that everyone else is looking more fabulous or having a brilliant conversation with someone amazing on the other side of the room. No one ever is, they’re all talking about who else is here and who they’re talking to.’
‘So why does anyone come?’ asked Emma, fascinated.
‘Because you have to darling! This is the hottest party in town, if not the whole planet! Who wouldn’t want to be here?’
‘So it gets better?’
‘When you have the right friends. I’m a colleague of Cassandra Grand’s and she’s introduced me to everyone. Now I know who’s going to be fun and who’s going to be a crashing bore. Anyway, I always seem to find the most interesting person in the room.’
‘Cassandra’s my cousin.’
Giles raised his eyebrows.
‘How extraordinary. Are you that cousin?’
‘Which cousin?’ asked Emma suspiciously.
‘Oh, come now, Emma Bailey, don’t be coy. The new CEO of Milford?’
‘Did Cassandra tell you?’
Giles clapped his hands in delight. ‘You are that cousin, how wonderful!’ he cried. ‘No, Cassandra’s been very tight-lipped on the whole business, but fashion is a very small world, word gets around,’ he said with a small smile. ‘See? I’ve done it again.’
‘Done what?’ asked Emma.
‘Found the most interesting person in the room.’
What is she doing here? thought Cassandra, seeing Emma’s pale face move through the crowd towards her. And what’s she doing with Giles? She instantly felt furious with Giles, then checked herself when she remembered she hadn’t actually told him about Milford, Saul and Emma. Giles was a close friend and trusted confidant, but there were limits. To Cassandra, self-publicity was everything. She had to maintain an air of superconfidence and invulnerability at all times, even when she was cut up inside, even in front of friends. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d been passed over in favour of the geek who knew nothing about fashion. That would have been the ultimate humiliation.
Cassandra took a breath to compose herself. Ever since her mother had told her about the events of the Milford board meeting held earlier that week, how Emma had installed herself as CEO and deposed Roger in the process, Cassandra had been calculating her next step. She knew Emma had to be disposed of – and quickly-but she hadn’t imagined a confrontation with her cousin would come so soon. Nor did she welcome the distraction on such an important night.
‘Look who I found!’ smiled Giles, pushing Emma forward, then darting to the right and embracing Sonia Rykiel who treated him like a long-lost friend.
‘Emma. What a surprise.’
‘I’m a gate-crasher I’m afraid, before you ask, I’m sorry, but I needed to speak to you,’ garbled Emma, almost tripping over her words. There was something about Cassandra that had always unnerved Emma, though she had never been able to put her finger on it. The effect was magnified tonight: Cassandra was looking so otherworldly and glamorous in her amazing gown and everyone in the room was craning their necks just to look at her.
‘Listen, Cassandra, I won’t stay long,’ she continued quickly, ‘but there was something urgent I needed to ask you.’
‘Nothing serious I hope?’
‘It’s the company.’
‘Ah. Well, congratulations, if that’s appropriate. I was surprised to hear you’d given up that job in Boston. It’s one thing to be given a majority shareholding in a company; it’s quite another to give up your life to become its CEO.’
Cassandra began walking out towards the hotel’s courtyard. She didn’t know why Emma was here, but she had no intention of any of the industry overhearing it.
‘Yes, I surprised even myself. I never really saw myself being the sort to be in the fashion business,’ said Emma, trying to smile. ‘I’ve never really been bothered about clothes.’
Cassandra gave a hard, brittle laugh as they stopped in front of an ornate fountain.
‘Clothes?’ she said loftily. ‘This business isn’t about clothes, Emma. Clothes are just something to keep you warm. This business is about fashion, and fashion is a language, a lifestyle, a huge, billion-pound global phenomenon.’
She turned and pointed at a woman on the far side of the courtyard who was wearing a pair of high-waisted trousers. ‘Fashion is the genius of that Balenciaga tailoring. Fashion is the feeling it gives her when she dresses and the sense of taste and sophistication other people see in her when they watch her float by.’ Cassandra reached down and pulled up a piece of her gown. ‘Fashion is this dress, a dress that will be first seen commercially on a catwalk tomorrow and whose photograph will be seen on front pages around the world. This dress won’t even be in the stores until September and the copies of it won’t filter down into the high street until weeks, maybe months later. But this one dress will generate thousands, perhaps millions of pounds in revenue and in its watered-down version, it will change the lives of thousands of women. It will get them laid, make men propose, it will make them miss lunch for a month just so they can afford it. This dress will transform them, make them feel wonderful, take them to a different place. Fashion has that power – it is magic’
Cassandra took a breath, surprised by the passion of her speech, knowing that it would serve no purpose to vent the force of her anger on Emma. Not yet anyway.
‘Although, strictly speaking, Milford isn’t about fashion. It’s about luxury leather goods,’ stuttered Emma feeling completely out of her depth. ‘It only really makes handbags.’
Cassandra nearly laughed out loud. What did Emma Bailey know about any of this? Look at her in those navy trousers and sensible shoes! This was the most glamorous party being held in Paris over Fashion Week and she looked like an estate agent.
Cassandra gave a little superior laugh.
‘Oh, Emma, darling, handbags are the bedrock of the fashion industry. It’s where the most profit is made. They can account for 70, 80 per cent of a fashion company’s revenue. Do you think Louis Vuitton makes most of its money from ready-to-wear? They make it from Japanese girls spending half their salaries buying three handbags at a time. They make it from average Joe saving up for six months to afford a purse. Handbags are fashion’s golden goose.’
Cassandra looked at Emma’s clutch bag with barely concealed distain. ‘At least, sometimes.’
Emma bristled. She hated being bullied by Cassandra and her style knowledge; she’d always felt like a scarecrow in comparison.
‘We’re getting off the point.’
‘Which is?’ asked Cassandra.
‘I need a new designer.’
‘Yes. Poor Roger.’
Emma bit her tongue and refused to rise to the bait.
‘I wondered if you might be able to suggest someone?’
‘Why don’t you pencil in an appointment with my PA?’ Cassandra replied, looking a little bored.
‘Cassandra, I tried, but the soonest she could give me was in five weeks’ time!’
‘Well, I’m very busy as you can see. I’m off to Careyes next weekend. Have you ever been? You must. In the meantime, this is my party and I must go and attend to the guests. It’s been lovely to see you and maybe we can put in that lunch?’
Cassandra began to move away.
‘Please,’ said Emma more forcefully. ‘Even if you haven’t got time to help me, remember this is also your mother’s company.’
Clever bitch thought Cassandra. She exhaled heavily.
‘All right. Good accessories designers are hard to find,’ she said finally. ‘The best ones get poached to head up the womenswear of big houses like Frida Giannini at Gucci. The alternative is to recruit a big name stylist and team them with a technically competent designer.’
‘I want the biggest name we can get. Where do I begin?’
‘Unless you have personal contacts, which I suspect you do not, the big appointments are made through fashion and luxury head-hunters like Claude Lasner. He fixes up the right talent with the right company. Now I don’t wish to be impolite, Emma, but this is a working event. A very important night for me. I’m going to have to go.’ She looked down pointedly at the narrow gold watch on her wrist.
‘Can I tell Claude you told me to get in touch?’ asked Emma.
‘Of course. He’s a very dear friend. Now I really must go.’
As she turned, Cassandra walked straight into a body.
‘Do you mind if I join in?’ said a deep voice.
Jean-Paul Benoit handed Cassandra a glass of champagne and curled his fingers around her waist as he kissed her cheek. Cassandra pulled back from the strong scent of cologne.
‘Don’t worry, I was just leaving,’ said Emma.
‘And who was that?’ leered Jean-Paul, as he watched Emma’s behind disappear into the crowd. At the creative end, the world of fashion was largely homosexual. But the money men and the business brains were not. Jean-Paul had made it clear that he wanted sex with her. While sex, or the promise of sex, was a tool in Cassandra’s repertoire it was one that needed to be used with care.
‘That was my cousin needing advice on her little company,’ she said boastfully. ‘She fancies herself as the next Rose Marie Bravo.’
‘Really,’ replied Jean-Paul, looking after Emma with interest. ‘And what company would that be?’
‘Milford,’ she said quickly.
‘I didn’t realize that was in your family. A good heritage.’
She saw the interest on his face and felt a stab of panic.
‘A company in its death throes, I’m afraid.’
What was happening? This was supposed to be her perfect night, the pinnacle of her achievements so far and a springboard to the next stage, yet here she was, being ambushed by a mousy upstart, while the CEO of a major luxury goods conglomerate appeared to be interested in both Emma and the company. She felt like all her careful plans were coming unravelled.
Giles appeared and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm.
‘What?’ snapped Cassandra, not trying to hide her annoyance.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, flashing a look of disapproval in Jean-Paul’s direction, ‘you’re wanted at the door.’
‘Excuse me, Jean-Paul. Duty calls,’ she said, with a winning smile. ‘Perhaps we can take this up again later on?’
She walked towards the entrance and through the sea of faces she could make out her brother Tom, arguing with a security guard. Their eyes locked through the crowd. She saw him mouth something to her but she turned her head away from him. All people wanted to do was take, take, take, she thought bitterly. What had anybody ever given to her? Without a backward glance, she turned to Giles.
‘Make sure security throw him out onto the street. Publicly.’
Giles opened his mouth to object before he saw the fury in her eyes. He turned towards the door.
As Cassandra moved back in to the party, she saw Emma leaving the cloakroom with her coat. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Jean-Paul passed her without any sign of recognition. The last thing she needed was a major luxury goods conglomerate interested in Milford. Now Cassandra knew what needed to be done. She could not allow Milford to get off the starting blocks. It had to fail so she could rescue it and gain control of it herself. But how to begin?
Then she smiled; the answer was right in front of her. This room was packed with fashion’s power players: executives, agents, photographers, art directors, stylists, PRs, journalists. All people Emma needed, people who needed to know that Milford was in the hands of an amateur who wore ballet pumps to the hottest party in Paris. People who needed to know that Milford was on the edge of bankruptcy. Fashion was a fickle world; it couldn’t stand to be associated with failure. And she knew exactly where to start: in the distance she could see Claude Lasner. It was only fair to warn him, she reasoned. She thought of her mother’s small shareholding in the company and shrugged the idea away. She had things to do. She had to make the night count.
8 (#ulink_3d4486fb-54cc-5c6b-9b23-81e49a428252)
‘It’s useless,’ said Emma throwing down another portfolio on the oak kitchen table. ‘This one only left St Martin’s six months ago. How can I appoint someone like that to be the head designer of Milford?’
‘It doesn’t mean to say they’re not any good,’ said Ruan McCormack, pouring out coffee from the stove in the warm kitchen of Winterfold. Emma had invited Ruan and Abby Ferguson around for some supper, hoping to sift through the pile of applications for the job of head designer. Claude Lasner had politely but firmly told her that he only dealt with the ‘top end of the market’, while a contact of Emma’s friend Cameron, who had been deputy design director at Gucci, had turned them down flat.
‘I don’t understand how you can call this good,’ said Emma, holding up a photograph from one applicant’s graduate show. ‘This model is wearing a straight-jacket! She looks like she’s escaped from an asylum!’
