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‘Since my arrival in England I’ve spent time getting up to speed with the company and where the luxury goods industry is, at large.’ She opened a folder and passed some charts around the table.
‘I’ve prepared these for you to look at. Milford’s market share in the luxury leather goods is now, well, negligible. In the early 1980s we were competing with Gucci. I hardly need to point out that they and many other companies have now eclipsed Milford by a country mile. We have to modernize quickly if we’re to survive but I really believe we can recapture some of our old glory.’
‘Perhaps we haven’t had the best couple of years,’ interrupted Roger, looking around for support. ‘But the new Autumn/Winter line is strong. At our last meeting Saul talked about increasing the marketing budget and we all agreed that that was the way forward.’
Emma noticed that Virginia and Julia were nodding, while Ruan and Abby looked less convinced.
‘Unfortunately I think the problem runs a little deeper than that,’ said Emma. She leant under the table and came up holding a handbag which she placed on the table top.
‘I think I’m right in saying this is the most popular bag from our current line. The “Rebecca”?’
‘That’s right,’ said Ruan.
‘It’s an elegant bag for our existing customer-base,’ said Emma as diplomatically as she could. ‘But that customer-base is ageing. We’re seen as a traditional company. Too traditional.’
‘You’re saying that people don’t want our merchandise?’ snapped Roger. His tone was sharp and defensive.
‘Roger, I respect your experience but we have to look at the figures ruthlessly,’ said Emma. ‘Milford’s sales and profits are on a steep downwards turn and yet the high-end accessories market is booming. You can blame marketing if you like, but the buck has to stop at the product.’
Roger barked out a hollow laugh.
‘Since when have you been an expert in accessories design?’ he said. ‘I thought Cassandra was the style guru in our family.’
‘I’m not an expert on fashion, no,’ she said candidly. ‘But I do know about business and I know about the people who can afford super-luxury products. They’re a cash-rich, time-poor demographic. Women who can afford £2,000 handbags have busy lives. They want bags that are beautiful and functional, not stiff and formal. They want bags that make them feel sexy. Lifestyle statements. We need sleek, discreet luggage that can go from the airport to the boardroom. We need to update our products for the new millennium.’
She moved the Rebecca bag to one side and opened her laptop which was connected to one of the video screens in the wall. She pressed a key and a huge image of a Hermès ‘Birkin’ bag appeared.
‘We sold 55 Rebecca bags last year,’ said Emma. ‘Hermès on the other hand has a waiting list of up to five years for Birkins and Kelly bags.’
‘We’re well aware of the competition,’ said Roger dismissively.
‘And why does everyone want to buy into Hermès?’ she asked, turning her gaze from Roger to Abby. She needed support, she needed confirmation that what she was saying was right.
‘Well, um, they’re beautiful bags. They’re entirely hand-crafted using the highest quality of workmanship,’ said Abby cautiously.
‘And they’re pitched higher than other companies in the sector,’ added Ruan. ‘More expensive, more elite. They manage to be both classic and fashionable at the same time and, well, they just have a magic that everyone wants to buy into.’
Emma smiled and nodded. At least she had managed to get two people to understand what she was saying, even if they were only kowtowing to their new boss.
‘And that’s exactly where we should be aiming Milford,’ said Emma firmly.
Roger laughed.
‘Well, if our problem is a lack of sales, shouldn’t we be pursuing a policy of more inclusive luxury to increase sales?’ he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Emma took out another pile of papers from her leather folder.
‘I have had this faxed through from a ex-colleague of mine at Price Donahue. She’s an expert in the luxury sector.’
Emma began passing the crisp white documents down the table. Thank goodness for Cameron, she thought.
‘Her analysis of the luxury goods market is that the sector is becoming devalued. When so many designer goods are now made in China, the very top end of the market, the growing numbers of high-net worth individuals, want a return to traditional craftsmanship. With that in mind I believe we need to be more exclusive, we need to be right at the very top end, the most luxurious on the market. We don’t want to be in the business of churning out ‘it-bags’. We want to make heirlooms for fashionable women.’
Emma stood and walked over to the video screen which was now showing a black and white photograph of a white-coated artisan bent over a work-bench, making tiny holes in the leather enabling a bag to be hand-stitched.
‘We need to get back to this. Gorgeous design and beautiful craftsmanship. Ruan, after this meeting can we discuss reverting production to hand-stitching?’
Her mother was laughing gently.
‘Darling, I know you’re only trying to help but you really don’t know anything at all about the company. We’ve just spent thousands putting in the new machines to increase productivity.’
Emma stared back at her mother, her lips pursed.
‘As it happens, I do know about the factory machines and every other part of the company,’ she said, her anger making her rush her words. ‘I have been over every inch of the company books and I know that money has been wasted on poor decisions in every area. That doesn’t mean we should continue to do so.’
‘This is preposterous,’ said Roger slamming his hand on the table. ‘Anthony?’ he said looking over to the lawyer. ‘Must we endure this, this … piffle?’
‘Roger, please. Calm down,’ interrupted Emma. ‘This is not personal, it is simply what needs to be done to save this company from going under.’
‘Emma, show some respect to your uncle!’ said Virginia sternly. ‘How dare you speak to him like that!’
‘I think perhaps we need a short break?’ said Anthony, quickly fiddling with his glasses.
‘Fine,’ said Emma, gathering her papers. ‘I will be in Saul’s office. Sorry, my office.’ And she walked out, her head held high, but her heart sinking.
‘This is totally outrageous,’ shouted Roger storming into the office, just as Emma was sitting down. ‘Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me in front of everybody?’ he said, leaning over the desk and glaring at her.
Emma was taken aback by the force of his fury, but she felt protected by Saul’s desk between them and she was tired of being bullied, especially by Roger.
‘I don’t mean any of this as a personal attack, Roger,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘But the business is on its knees. I saw the designs for the Autumn/Winter line and my gut feeling is that we’re going to have to go again with them.’
‘Go again! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with them,’ he spluttered. ‘What exactly do you propose we do instead?’
Emma looked at him, her eyes narrow. She had made the decision about what she was about to say the moment she had left the Milford shop.
‘I propose we get a new creative director.’
‘But, but – I am in charge of design,’ he said, panic in his voice.
‘Roger, we can discuss this later.’
‘We can discuss this in court!’ he bellowed, marching towards the door.
‘Roger, please.’
‘Please? Please? That’s all you can say?’ he shouted, turning back, the fury blazing in his eyes. ‘You come in here with your prissy little business school theories with zero experience in the real world and start telling us that a business we’ve been running for decades is worthless. How dare you!’ he hissed. ‘You’re playing with people’s lives!’
Emma began to feel the situation spiral out of control before her. Suddenly she could hear Mark’s words in her head. You’re too nice. You’re an academic, not a corporate player.
‘I dare, because I have to!’ shouted Emma, stopping Roger in his tracks. She grabbed a thick file and threw it down on the desk between them. ‘You look at the figures, Roger: they’re all there in black and white. If we don’t do something pretty radical, Milford is dead before the end of the year. How’s that for the real world?’
Roger’s face drained of colour and his mouth worked without sound.
‘I am still a large shareholder of this company, young lady,’ he finally managed. ‘I know what the figures say and with a marketing budget…’
‘Roger, you have a 20 per cent shareholding,’ said Emma, stabbing a finger onto the spreadsheets. ‘And 20 per cent of nothing is nothing.’
She stood up and inhaled deeply. There was no going back now.
‘I give you my word, Roger, that by the time I have finished, your stake will be worth fifty times what it is now. Twenty years ago Gucci was almost bankrupt, now it’s a multi-billion dollar company. A great designer turned Bottega Veneta around in months, not years. Chanel was once in the doldrums, so was Burberry, the precedents are all there. But we need to be brave, we need to try. Give me a chance, Roger. I can do this, I know I can.’
‘And what makes you think we can trust you?’ said Roger slowly.
Emma almost smiled.
‘Saul did,’ she said. ‘That’s a start, isn’t it?’
7 (#ulink_b30f430e-27e7-5ae8-911b-0db7882c7319)
The showroom of designer Guillaume Riche’s Parisian atelier was alive with colour. Stork-thin models strutted down the makeshift catwalk with smoky eyes and hair so straight it swung in time to the music. Each girl brought out a look which was more beautiful than the last: a cashmere wrap coat in cyclamen pink, a bone white chiffon blouse with a graphite wool pencil skirt, a voluminous evening dress in amethyst. This was ready-to-wear at its most bold and luxurious. Finally Alexia Dark, one of the industry’s hottest models, walked past in a gown sculpted in layers of primrose tulle so delicate it looked like the ripples of water on a tropical beach. Tomorrow, the unveiling of Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection would be the hottest show in town, but tonight it was a dress rehearsal and a private view for the luckiest, most talented fashion magazine editor in Paris: Cassandra Grand.
Standing at the end of the catwalk was a small man in tight charcoal jodhpurs. From the back he looked like a jockey except for the long grey hair that fell down between his shoulder blades. As the music died, he spun around dramatically to face the woman sitting in the front row and threw his hands into the air.
‘Cassandra!’ he cried. ‘You are not clapping! Tell me why you are not clapping? You hate it! You hate the show!’
Cassandra laughed. She stood up and pulled on the little mink shrug that had been sitting on her lap.
‘The beauty of the dress rehearsal, Guillaume,’ she said, linking her arm through his, ‘is that I don’t have to clap. I’ve spent the last four weeks of shows clapping. I can’t stop clapping because some devious design houses such as yourself have been known to film the audience to make sure they are clapping and withhold advertising if you do not show sufficient ardour. I’m sick of clapping. I practically have RSI.’
‘So you hate the show?’ Guillaume said nervously.
‘As we both know, clapping is really no indication of the quality of a collection.’ She paused dramatically and gave him a playful smile. ‘But in this case I think the show is absolutely sensational.’
Guillaume stopped in his tracks and collapsed to his knees, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the god of fashion.
‘Sensational. Do you mean that?’ he said, slinking into a Louis Ghost chair next to the catwalk. ‘I am not sure the hair is absolutely right. I think maybe the girls need white lips. Merde. I wish the venue would be ready so we could have a full dress rehearsal. But the sets aren’t ready. They are imbeciles. Useless.’
Cassandra sat down and put her hand on his knee to reassure him. Guillaume Riche, one of the world’s most beloved designers, really did not need overblown sets or white lipstick to show off the brilliance of his latest collection – it was amazing. Although he was nearly sixty, Guillaume was a designer at the peak of the game. In 24 hours’ time, celebrities, editors and buyers from all the top retail stores in the world would throw themselves at his feet and scratch each other’s eyes out to get hold of their favourite pieces. But tonight, Guillaume’s genius was for Cassandra’s eyes only – as his collection always was in the final hours before it was unveiled. Her position as editor-in-chief of Rive meant she could not be Guillaume’s official muse – other advertisers would not be happy – but she would always be called upon to make final suggestions, perhaps a change of shoes or accessories, or change the running order. Occasionally Cassandra actually recommended the axing of a look entirely and although Guillaume would naturally throw a hissy-fit to register on the Richter scale, he trusted her implicitly. And why wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it Cassandra who, almost single-handedly, had resurrected his career? The Nineties minimal aesthetic had very nearly killed off the flamboyant Guillaume Riche brand entirely, until Cassandra, then a junior stylist, had championed him on every shoot she styled. But much more significantly, when Cassandra had graduated to dressing up-and-coming starlets, she had used Guillaume’s designs to dress them for the red carpet – and Hollywood needed little encouragement to fall back in love with Guillaume; his luscious clothes were old-school, movie-star glamour that flattered the legends and made the younger generation look sophisticated and worldly. And where the A-listers led, the rest of the fashion industry followed. Today Guillaume was now one of the most important designers in the world, a flamboyant foil to Lagerfeld’s commercial brilliance and this show, Cassandra was sure, would be his biggest triumph yet.
‘But how can we improve it?’ said Guillaume, getting up and pacing around.
Cassandra flipped open her Moleskine notebook and reviewed her scribbled comments. Even in a mediocre collection she could pick out the one gem that could make a woman beautiful and elegant.
‘I adored the inverted pleating, the volume of the skirts. However … the penultimate exit…’
‘What is wrong?’ said Guillaume, his eyes blazing. ‘What?’
‘The obi-belt on the amethyst dress, perhaps you should try it in pumpkin rather than black? It’s just a little too predictable.’
For a moment, it looked as if Guillaume would explode. Then he reached out and pinched Cassandra’s cheek affectionately.
‘Ma cherie, you are always right.’
He clicked his fingers in the air and an assistant came running with two cups of espresso. Cassandra glanced at her watch. It was time to go back to her suite at the Plaza Athénée and prepare.
‘You are coming to the party?’ she said, downing the coffee in one.
‘Of course, but only for a short time, I’m afraid. Your timing before my show is very bad and then …’ he threw his hands in the air again, ‘… you request pumpkin obi-belts! But don’t worry, the rest of Paris will be there.’
‘Not all of them. Only those who are lucky enough to have been invited,’ she smiled.
‘Is Glenda coming?’ he asked. Glenda McMahon was the editor-in-chief of US Rive and therefore one of Cassandra’s most bitter rivals, despite the fact that she was Cassandra’s former boss and mentor.
‘Darling Glenda!’ she exclaimed, without a hint of irony. ‘I know she’s in Paris. I saw her at Lanvin yesterday. Whether that means she will turn up tonight is anyone’s guess.’
Her offhand comment switched Guillaume into a playful mood.
‘I see she was only one place above you in Time’s“Most Powerful Women in Fashion” …’
‘Will people stop mentioning that silly list?’ replied Cassandra, standing up and handing her coffee cup to a make-up artist.
‘One place,’ said Guillaume gleefully. ‘She is surely going to feel the breath on the back of her neck.’
‘Guillaume …’
‘My prediction is that in twelve months’ time that job will be yours.’
‘Guillaume, stop it! Glenda is a very gifted editor.’ But not as good as she was, added Cassandra silently. As close a friend to Guillaume as she was, she simply couldn’t admit that she wanted Glenda’s job – Guillaume was as indiscreet as he was gifted. US Rive was where Cassandra had started her magazine career and it only seemed right that she should finish it there because New York was undeniably the centre of the media world, where money men, models and insiders collided and formed alliances. That was where she would make her next move, she was sure of it. She’d been at UK Rive for three years and knew it was already too long. She often lay awake at night thinking ahead to the day when she would be given the US Rive job, planning how she would finally take it beyond US Vogue to become the greatest fashion magazine on earth – and how she would make herself a legend at the same time.
‘Well, if you are not interested in that job,’ said Guillaume slyly, ‘what about another one I hear of in New York?’
Cassandra looked at him curiously. She thought she knew every magazine move that was being made or plotted. She thrived on gossip, it was the lifeblood of the industry, running up and down the front row, crackling between the tiny tables of the fashionistas’ favourite Parisian restaurant Chez George, at art previews and society weddings. For Cassandra it was not just idle tittle-tattle, it was professional ammunition.
‘And what job would this be?’ she asked.
‘The launch of the AtlanticCorp’s US fashion weekly,’ said Guillaume, ‘they have an editor-in-chief already but…’
‘Carrie Barker – I know. She was drafted in from their newspaper division.’
‘Yes. But they are not happy at all with the dummy and frankly my darling, I’m not surprised. The publishers presented it to me last week and it was … How do you say, shit.’
Cassandra caught her breath. This was gossip of the highest quality.
‘So they are firing her?’
Guillaume nodded. ‘I told them they could do better.’
He clapped his hands as if he was already bored with the conversation and an assistant appeared carrying a long plastic bundle.
