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A little late for that, darling, she thought.
‘Oh, really?’ said Cassandra, feigning surprise. ‘I heard it went well. Xavier is a genius. We were very lucky to get him in London when the New York shows were on. He makes women look so strong. So beautiful.’
‘Yes, I was wondering if we could talk about that. I’m nervous about the shots and the implications of the interview. I was wondering if I could …’
‘Darling, you know we never give copy approval. Once we start, everyone wants it and then the whole magazine grinds to a halt,’ replied Cassandra, cutting her short.
Phoebe paused again.
‘Yes, I realize that. There’s just a few things I’d like to explain. In private? I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel for lunch.’
‘I’d love to, Phoebe,’ said Cassandra, beginning to enjoy herself, ‘but it’s London Fashion Week now. I’ve got to see the Paul Smith show and I have crisis after crisis to deal with here.’
‘Cassandra,’ said Phoebe, failing to disguise the annoyance in her voice, ‘we go back a long way and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t want to get lawyers involved when we don’t have to.’
‘Lawyers?’ laughed Cassandra. ‘Why on earth would we need to involve lawyers?’
‘Can you come to the Met for one o’clock? I’m in the penthouse.’
In that case I don’t feel too sorry for you, thought Cassandra.
‘I have a lunch at Cipriani but I could drop by at 12.30.’
‘See you then.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
You have no idea how much, thought Cassandra, and hung up.
Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, Cassandra flipped open her compact and put on some lip gloss. She allowed herself a small smile at the face looking back at her. Many women would feel inferior meeting a supermodel for lunch but Cassandra honestly didn’t feel that way. She didn’t have their freakish symmetry or gangly frame, but she was undeniably a beauty, with high cheek bones and a feline slant to her vivid green eyes. Her nose was a touch too long, her chin a little too pointed and at five feet eight inches tall she tipped the scales at eight stone dead – to go a pound over might mean not fitting into the sample clothes. And as a modern style icon, that would be career suicide. Not that she didn’t have to work hard at it. Daily Pilates. Twice weekly tennis lessons. Three times a week Joel, the top session hairdresser, came to her Knightsbridge apartment at 6.30 a.m. to blow-dry her long dark glossy hair. Plus she visited the Mayr Clinic in Austria once a year to eat spelt bread and Epsom salts for ten days, returning with glowing skin, a flat stomach and an uncontrollable desire for ice cream. No, Cassandra Grand was not a drop-dead beauty, but she was the pinnacle of chic. Impeccably dressed in a simple, understated style, she wore no jewellery except for a large diamond stud in each ear lobe, a gift from a lover. In fact, except for the La Perla underwear, she had paid for nothing she was wearing; her entire outfit were gifts from fashion houses and luxury goods companies desperate for endorsement from one of the world’s most stylish women.
She snapped the compact shut as the car pulled up on Park Lane.
As Cassandra stepped out of the lift on the 10th floor into the penthouse of the Metropolitan, she could see the smudge of Hyde Park on the horizon through floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe was sitting on the cream couch wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. Long wavy hair the colour of coffee beans was tied in a ponytail. In her late thirties, Phoebe Fenton was still extremely beautiful, but her eyes looked tired and distracted.
‘Phoebe, darling! You look wonderful,’ said Cassandra, kissing her lightly on both cheeks.
‘Mineral water?’ asked Phoebe, reaching for a crystal tumbler.
Cassandra nodded. ‘Still.’
Cassandra sat carefully on the sofa opposite Phoebe and crossed her legs elegantly under her. I think I’m going to enjoy this she thought, accepting her drink with a smile. Phoebe no longer had an agent – in fact negotiations for the cover shoot had been done through her PA – and that instantly gave Cassandra the upper hand. A big Hollywood publicist could get you over a barrel. If you upset one star on their roster, they could and would refuse access to any of their charges. You wouldn’t even get photo approval for an ancient head-shot. But now Cassandra was in the driving seat.
‘So have you read the interview?’ asked Phoebe.
Cassandra gave a little deliberate laugh and shook her head.
‘Wasn’t the interview on Friday night?’ she asked, ‘Vicky won’t even have transcribed the tapes yet. You need to give these big-name journalists at least a fortnight to get their copy in.’
Phoebe ran a finger around the edge of her tumbler.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve been told already, but I was a little, well, manic at the shoot on Friday.’
Cassandra raised an eyebrow.
Phoebe looked down at her glass again.
‘You see, my friend Romilly popped by, she often comes to shoots with me. She dresses me for the red carpet and I feel comfortable with her, but she can be a bit … a bit wild. But she’s a good friend and I need all the ones I can get at the moment.’
Phoebe looked up at Cassandra and the look of sadness in her brown eyes almost melted Cassandra. Almost. Phoebe sighed and continued.
‘We had some drinks and I guess I was a little too loose-lipped.’ She leant forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘Cassandra, I’ve just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,’ she said quietly.
‘Manic depression?’ said Cassandra. Phoebe nodded.
‘I don’t know if the separation triggered it, but the doctors say it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a vicious circle. I’m depressed so I’ve been drinking, but drinking seems to bring on these extreme mood swings. I go a bit crazy. I say things I don’t mean. I’ve just been put on lithium to keep it under control but it doesn’t seem to have stabilized me yet.’
She stood up and walked over to the huge window.
‘I’ve never met Vicky, your journalist before. She seems a nice woman but you never know, right?’
‘Vicky is one of the best celebrity profilers in the UK,’ said Cassandra with a hint of reproach.
‘I’m just thinking she could paint an untrue picture.’
‘I’m sure Vicky will be fair.’
Phoebe went over and sat down next to Cassandra, so very close that Cassandra felt uncomfortable.
‘Cassandra, please,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Ethan is fighting for custody of Daisy and he’s fighting hard. Falling around in night-clubs, doing nude photo shoots. If I look like a bad mom his team of very expensive lawyers are going to tear me apart. I did this shoot as a favour to Rive. I don’t want it to make them take my baby away.’
Cassandra suppressed an internal snort. A favour! No one did anything in this industry without some ulterior motive. No doubt Phoebe wanted a set of sexy pictures to make her husband see what he was missing and come back to her. Well, the plan had backfired.
‘Phoebe honey, don’t worry,’ said Cassandra. ‘I haven’t seen the copy, but when I do, I’ll make sure it’s all completely complimentary. Our readers are going to love you.’
Phoebe huffed like a little girl denied her pony.
‘Well I hope so, because I don’t want to get difficult.’ She flashed Cassandra a look that betrayed her simpering, girl-next-door persona. After all, thought Cassandra, no one got to the top of the tree in modelling by being a walk-over.
‘I’m sure my attorney would go mad if he knew I was even talking to you. But I’ll get an injunction on the magazine if I have to,’ she said fiercely.
‘Listen, I think we’re all getting a little carried away,’ said Cassandra smoothly, putting out a placatory hand. ‘So you were a little drunk at the photo-shoot. Your friend may have been a little badly behaved. So what? Rive is a fashion magazine not the National Enquirer. We are here to celebrate people, darling, not destroy them.’
Phoebe looked a little more at ease.
‘If you like I can email over the shots when I get them.’
‘Is it all right if I look at the copy too?’
‘You know we don’t do that, Phoebe.’
‘Please. For me?’ she said, putting her head on one side.
Jesus, this woman is 38, thought Cassandra. She’ll be saying ‘Pretty please, with sugar on top’ next!
‘When are you back in New York?’
‘Saturday.’
‘We won’t have layouts for at least a fortnight. How about I Fed-Ex something over to you then. Just so you can have a look at it?’
‘I’m really grateful, Cassandra. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My shrink says Romilly’s not good for me. But it was tough being in that marriage. Claustrophobic’
Cassandra touched her on the knee gently.
‘He’ll be sorry when he sees these photographs. You’ll look amazing and everyone will be jealous. Trust me.’
In the back seat of her car Cassandra took out her phone. An alcoholic, drug-taking bisexual and she blames it on bipolar! The nerve of it! She punched in David Stern’s number.
‘David, I have a lunch and then the Paul Smith show so I won’t be back until at least 3 p.m. But in the meantime there are a couple of things I want you to do.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Talk to Jeremy, talk to the subs. Tell them to rush the Phoebe Fenton copy through as it is. Then I want you to work on the cover. Go with the bare breasts image. Main cover-line: “Phoebe Fenton Bares All”. I want “Bares All” in gold block foil across the cover; make sure it covers her nipples. I want this issue to fly off the shelves, not be taken off it.’
There was a silence at the other end of the line.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked David.
Cassandra had asked herself that very question. It was a gamble, certainly. Some advertisers wouldn’t be happy and some of her more conservative subscribers would be on the phone. But the fashion market was just the same as any other market: sex sells, and after a disappointing audit on last month’s issue she needed to pull something big out of the bag. For, despite her position of power and influence as editor of Rive, Cassandra knew her kingdom rested on shifting sands. Editors were expendable, pawns used by management to cover their failings. And more than anything, UK glossy editors had a shelf-life; after forty, maybe forty-five, they tended to mysteriously disappear. It was a little better in the States. So the US Rive boss Glenda McMahon was still wielding her power at 50, but a few dud issues and even she was instantly replaceable. What Cassandra was painfully aware of was that with the exception of perhaps Carmel Snow and Diane Vreeland, editors rarely left a legacy beyond their tenure. And it was a legacy she wanted.
‘What do you mean “is this a good idea”?’ snapped Cassandra.
David paused again, weighing his words carefully.
‘Is this not going to crucify Phoebe? The tabloids will take this and rip her to shreds. I didn’t think that was our agenda.’
‘For a queen, you’re very uptight, David,’ she sneered. ‘Our agenda is to set the agenda. To sell issues we have to be bold, we have to be provocative. We have to take chances.’
‘Well this is certainly that.’
‘Just do it, David,’ she barked and snapped the phone shut.
And finally, after one hell of a gruesome week, she allowed herself a laugh.
4 (#ulink_64f15bad-8f00-5b90-af39-e09a723d2742)
‘Good morning, Gretchen.’
It was 7.45 a.m. Although Price Donahue’s working hours did not officially start until 8 a.m., there was already a hum of activity around the office. Emma herself had been there since 7 a.m., trying to get through a backlog of work which had piled up since her trip to England.
‘Oh God, morning Emma,’ said Emma’s secretary breathlessly, rushing into her office and presenting her boss with a large bunch of red and yellow tulips. ‘Sorry, I wanted to get in before you this morning so I could get these in a vase.’
‘What’s all this for?’ she smiled, gathering the flowers up.
‘Your birthday, silly. You make me remember when half of corporate Boston is born so I think I can remember my own boss’s.’
Emma smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Gretchen was forgetful, disorganized and her time-keeping was atrocious, but she had a kind heart, a rare thing at any level in business, thought Emma as she watched the girl scuttle off to find a vase.
‘Who’s 21 again?’
Emma looked up to see her friend Cameron Moore, a manager in the retail division, pop her head around the door. Her perfectly blow-dried mane of dark hair hung to one side, like a shampoo advert.
‘Welcome back, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Here, a birthday gift.’
Cameron handed Emma a small orange box tied with a chocolate ribbon. She smiled. Emma usually bought clothes because they were smart, not because they were designer names, but she still recognized the famous bright orange of Hermès. She opened the box and a gorgeous silk scarf fluttered to the table.
‘Oh, Cam, how wonderful! Thank you,’ she said, getting up to give her friend a kiss on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you remembered.’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Cameron, rolling her eyes, ‘That secretary of yours has been bombarding everyone with emails for about a month! But enough of that, how was England?’
Emma sighed, looking down at the scarf, examining the stitching.
‘Eventful. I’ve been given a company.’
Cameron’s face lit up and Emma immediately regretted saying it. The news would be around the building in minutes and eyebrows would be raised. Total commitment had to be shown to Price Donahue at all times.
Cameron closed the door and hushed her voice.
‘The family company? Milford?’
Emma nodded. As Cameron’s area of expertise was luxury retailing she was interested to hear her friend’s thoughts on the company even though she personally had little interest in her new shareholding.
‘Your uncle gave it to you?’ said Cameron incredulously. ‘The whole thing?’
‘A controlling interest, yes. It was a bit awkward really,’ she shrugged. ‘Still, it was nice to see my family, even if the circumstances could have been better.’
‘Family?’ hissed Cameron. ‘Forget about the family! Jeez, Emma, you’ve got your own company! This is enormous!’
Cameron sat down on Emma’s desk, as if stunned by the news.
Emma laughed at her friend’s reaction, but it did make her think.
‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Do? You should go straight in to see Davies right now and resign!’
‘Resign? I have no intention of giving up work here, it’s …’
