Guilty Pleasures (13 page)

‘Some of this season’s Cate Glazer bags,’ she explained. ‘No doubt you’ve seen all these …’

Emma picked one up and examined it. It was lovely. A perfect balance between the formal and the avant-garde, you could take it into the boardroom then out to a club without a worry. This girl was good.

Stella straightened up, holding out a taupe leather tote bag. ‘This one, however, is my own. I make them for friends mostly, although Fred Segal might carry them in the Fall.’

‘This is beautiful,’ said Emma honestly. It was made from luxurious butter-soft leather and she had used the material as the starting point – it was somehow structured but relaxed. The bag seemed to mould itself around Emma’s hands.

‘But this is what I really wanted to show you,’ said Stella, opening a cupboard.

‘Vintage Milford bags,’ she said, handing Emma a snakeskin clutch.

‘Some used to belong to my mum, a couple were even my grandmother’s, I think. This one …’ she held up an amazing crocodile-skin day-bag, like a mini-Gladstone bag, ‘… I found this in Decades, a super-cool retro shop on Melrose. It cost me half my wage packet
but I had to have it.’ Stella talked quickly – the words bubbling from her mouth as if she was unable to stop them. She ran her hand over the bag as if it was a precious jewel.

‘Can you see? The craftsmanship is amazing. Handbags were tiny in the 1950’s. Women didn’t carry their entire life around inside them as they do now. Look, there’s an inside pocket for a compact. That could be adapted to hold a mobile phone, don’t you think? And the curve of this buckle here is like a Barbara Hepworth sculpture. It’s stunning – it’s actually been die-cast. That sort of thing doesn’t happen now, but I think it would be so great to reinstate it.’

Stella realized she had been babbling. She looked up at Emma and Emma was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Honestly Emma,’ she said, smiling back, ‘you don’t need me. Just look in Milford’s archives or hunt down every single vintage bag you can get your hands on; private collections, vintage shops, even jumble sales. You don’t need a star designer – everything you need is here.’

Emma held up Stella’s own tote bag. ‘No, what I need is this,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m no expert on design – God knows, look at the state of me,’ she laughed, indicating her travel-crumpled suit, ‘but even I can tell that what you have done with your own bags is special. Yes, the vintage bags are wonderful, but as you say, they were designed for their time. Women today want something that is right for now, something that in fifty years people will be looking at and saying “Wow, they were so stylish back then”. I want you to take the Milford heritage as a framework and add this,’ she waved Stella’s bag again, ‘the Stella Chase magic’

Stella laughed out loud. ‘You actually want me to do this?’

‘Absolutely.’

Stella’s head was reeling.

‘But how can I … ?’

‘Listen to me, Stella,’ said Emma, her face deadly serious, ‘I came here because I was desperate. I couldn’t get anyone to design Milford’s collection and the bank is breathing down my neck. You were my last option. But since the moment I pressed that buzzer, I have been convinced that, given the choice of every top designer from Hermès to Vuitton, I would still choose you.’

Stella gaped. ‘Are you on drugs?’

Emma laughed. ‘Not quite, but it’s how I feel. Call it a gut-feeling
if you like, but I just know no one else could do the job better than you.’

‘But I have my whole life here …’ said Stella lamely, suddenly frightened by the sudden notion that she might actually want the job. Emma put her tea down.

‘OK, let me tell you why you should do this,’ she said, ticking the points off on her fingers. ‘One, you’ll have complete control over the designs – complete control. No ifs, no buts, you’re in charge. Two, I’ll get you all the support staff you need – no more late nights, well, not so many anyway,’ she smiled.

‘Three, I’m guessing you’re on a salary at Cate Glazer? I’ll beat it by 50 per cent and if it all works out we can talk about taking a shareholding. And four, you’ll get 100 per cent credit for your designs, and I do mean 100 per cent. I want people to know you’re behind the creative rebirth of Milford.’

Stella frowned, trying to take it all in, her little nose wrinkling up. She thought back to the CFDA awards when the name Cate Glazer had been called out for Accessories Designer of the Year. Stella had only been invited at the last minute when one of Cate’s Hollywood friends had dropped out and she had almost been sick when Cate went up to accept the award alone. Behind every designer was a team of design assistants, pattern cutters, seamstresses, stylists and money men who all made it come together. But in the creative process, Cate hadn’t so much as lifted a pencil.

‘All I want to know is if you’d be interested in the job,’ said Emma.

‘Can I just check this?’ asked Stella, a goofy smile on her face, ‘You want me to work for Milford?’

‘Yes.’

‘As head designer?’ she said, suddenly coughing

‘Yes. And of course you’d get to work in a beautiful green English village. No smog, no traffic, and not one mugging since they caught Dick Turpin.’

Stella snorted. Emma was a clever woman. She seemed to understand how Stella was feeling. She could see she wanted to get out of the trap she’d built for herself, to show the world exactly what she could do. But still…

She looked around her flat; the cheap white furnishings, paper lampshades and bamboo blinds, and wondered if it really was time to go back to England. She looked out of the window, where Santa
Monica was disappearing into the dusk. Of all the places in LA, it was the place she loved best; there were English pubs, a large expat British community, it was close to the sea. But was that simply because it reminded her of home? Emma seemed to read her thoughts.

‘Do you have a notice period on your contract?’ she asked.

Stella laughed. ‘A week, I think. When Cate took me on I think she wanted me to be quickly dispensable and the contract has never been changed.’

Emma stood up. ‘Stella, I need you to help me do this. Together I really think we can turn Milford around. Make it the exclusive luxury brand it once was.’

Stella listened to Emma with an almost eerie detachment. She was talking a good game and she was clearly confident in her abilities, but there was a tiny flicker of fear in Emma’s voice. For Stella, this was something new. Cate Glazer’s self-belief had never wavered for a second. She shouted and ranted and demanded the very best, never for a moment contemplating failure. But Emma was different. She was honest and forthright and she was painfully aware that the whole thing could go tits up at any time. I like her, she thought, reaching out to shake Emma’s hand.

‘OK, boss, see you in a week.’

It was Emma’s turn to gape.

‘Really?’ she replied.

‘Really!’ said Stella. ‘Only, can I ask for one thing?’

‘Name it.’

‘Can I have my own phone?’

Sitting in the meeting room of the book publisher Leighton Best, Cassandra Grand was having trouble keeping her temper. She did her best to ignore the plate of cheap biscuits and ugly mug of milky tea that had been pushed in front of her, she could even overlook the IKEA furniture and magnolia walls. But what was driving her to distraction was listening to the company’s art director Paula Mayle run through her so-called vision for the design of her new book
Cassandra Grand: On Style.

‘I hope you like it,’ said Paula, putting down her mock-up board. ‘We think the pillar-box red jacket is very strong.’

Cassandra just stared at her.
Who are these people?
she thought.
What do they do with their lives?

‘You’re obviously not aware that red was something of a signature colour for Diana Vreeland.’

‘Erm, Diana Vreeland?’ asked Jenny Barber, the book’s commissioning editor.

Cassandra rolled her eyes heavenward.

‘US
Vogue
editor 1963 to 71. One of the most influential magazine editors of the twentieth century. She was at least twenty years ahead of her time, completely understood the concept of brand – just as we must grasp it now. This book is a brand statement.
My
brand statement. Consequently, red is unacceptable. I would suggest lucite.’ She turned a wintery smile towards Paula. ‘It’s a platinum, Pantone number 1032.’

‘Paula, maybe you can look into that,’ said Jenny to her assistant, quavering under Cassandra’s gaze.

‘I’ve also been making a few notes as we go along,’ continued
Cassandra taking a sip of water. She winced. It was semi-flat, sparkling mineral water.

‘Fonts. Helvetica is an absolute no. My readers are going to be extremely design-conscious and I think they would appreciate something more unusual. I will send you the number of David Sellers, one of the country’s best typographers, to create something new. We can use Tahoma or Trebuchet as a template.’

‘So are you happy otherwi…’

Cassandra cut Jenny Barber off mid-sentence.

‘My name Cassandra Grand should be bigger than the title,’ she continued as if the interruption had never occurred. ‘Lift it several point sizes. Also when I said coffee-table book, that’s what I meant. Something of size. This has to be a book in people’s libraries, a gift for people to treasure.’ She held her hands apart to indicate the size of the book she had in mind. ‘Roughly the size of a large picnic basket.’

‘Well, I’m glad we’ve made progress here,’ said Jenny when she was completely sure Cassandra had finished. ‘One final thing though, Cassandra? When do you think we’ll be seeing any copy? For a September publication date we’re getting a
little
tight.’

Cassandra dismissed it with a wave.

‘Don’t worry about that. You’ll have it within the fortnight.’

She glanced at her mobile which was suddenly glowing an elegant emerald green. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me,’ she said politely, stepping outside the meeting room to collective sighs of relief from the Leighton Best editorial team. It was Lianne.

‘Can you come back to the office immediately?’

‘What is it? I’m at Linda Meredith for my facial in forty minutes.’

‘I think it’s important: Jason Tostvig and Greg Barbera.’

Cassandra caught her breath.
Greg Barbera? What did the Managing Director of the company want? He was on the international board.

‘Did they give any clues?’

‘I’m just guessing, but there was a letter from a London solicitor acting for Phoebe Fenton in today’s post. It’s quite angry.’

Cassandra gave a long hard sigh.

‘Fine. Tell Toxic and Greg I will meet them at twelve. But first, I need you to do something for me …’

Cassandra stood in front of the mirror, touching up her make-up. She had made a detour from the lift to the bathroom before she
went into the
Rive
office. A sweep of mascara and a slick of gloss was all she needed to look like a model who had just stepped off the catwalk. There was a light smell of vomit coming from the cubicle behind her. It was a familiar smell at noon; there were at least half a dozen bulimics in the office. She took a little vial of her bespoke scent out of her purse and dabbed it on her pulse points. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

‘Cassandra. Busy day?’ said Jason obsequiously as she joined the two men in Greg’s corner office. It was a wonderful space – B&B Italia furniture, walls painted a delicate shade of cornflower and fabulous views over the Thames, views Greg rarely got to enjoy as he spent 90 per cent of his time in New York.

‘How are you, Cassandra?’ said Greg, neglecting to rise. Greg was a tall man and even sitting down he looked powerful and capable, a grey three-piece suit matching his swept-back hair and implacable eyes. He seemed very serious.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Cassandra, giving him the full wattage of her smile. ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?’

‘Don’t screw around, Cassandra,’ said Greg, an edge to his voice. ‘You know what I’m here for. Jason has been good enough to bring me up to speed on the Phoebe Fenton situation …’

The snake,
thought Cassandra, noting his smug smile.

‘It’s a wonderful issue, isn’t it,’ she replied evenly. ‘Looks very strong on the news-stand and every major newspaper has carried at least part of the interview on their front page. It’s too soon for EPOS figures,’ she continued, referring to the weekly electronic sales figures the magazine received from newsagents using barcode-readers, ‘but with this sort of publicity, I feel we have a chance of breaking
Rive’s
previous sales record.’

Greg laid one hand carefully on the table.

‘That may be so, Cassandra,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘The problem is that we have Phoebe lawyers crawling all over us.’

‘But, why …’

He lifted the hand briefly to silence her objections.

‘Phoebe is claiming that we’ve “sexed up” the interview. They say that the journalist was creative with the facts and that any reference to Ms Fenton’s depression was made to you in passing conversation and has been taken completely out of context.’

‘I would dispute that,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘If Phoebe’s people …’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of phoning Phoebe’s people already,’ interrupted Jason leaning forward in his chair, ‘and they have made a proposal, a rather generous proposal in the circumstances, I would say. They say they won’t pursue us for damages if we pulp the issue.’

‘I don’t need to remind you of the financial implication of pulping the issue,’ said Greg. ‘Not to mention the impact on the next circulation figures.’

Cassandra let them speak, determined not to lose her cool and intrigued to see how far Toxic was prepared to push it.
I can’t believe he’s actually using the magazine as a sacrificial lamb, undermining his own sales figures, just to twist the knife in me!
Cassandra knew she had underestimated the extent of his ambition. She looked across at him; despite his stern face she could tell he was enjoying it, enjoying having blind-sided her, enjoying being teacher’s pet.

‘Pulp the issue?’ said Cassandra calmly. ‘How can you call that a generous proposal? It is simply not an option.’

Greg brought his hand down on the desk, making both Jason and Cassandra jump. ‘I will decide what is and is not an option for this company, Cassandra,’ he said in a low voice. If nothing else, Greg Barbera was clearly pissed off at having been dragged to London to sort this mess out. ‘Our legal department thinks it might be the best way forward and Jason seems inclined to agree. I, however, am keen to hear what you have to say on the matter.’

Cassandra paused, nodding slightly, before picking up the yellow Tanner Krolle handbag she had left next to her chair.

‘I’m sure you are both aware of the libel laws in this country?’ she asked, reaching into the bag. ‘It’s rather like the conundrum of the tree falling over in the woods: if no one is there to see her take cocaine, did it really happen? The burden of proof, therefore, is on the publisher, i.e. Phoebe Fenton may well have a mental illness, but if we can’t prove it, we are libelling her. If we can, however …’

Cassandra placed a small silver Dictaphone on the table and turned it on.

The voice was tinny but unmistakably the New York drawl of Phoebe Fenton.

‘… I have bipolar disorder. It’s been making me a little crazy.’

Greg’s face softened with the smallest of smiles as she let the tape run.

‘You make sure your back is covered,’ he said approvingly.

Cassandra merely smiled. She had found the tiny buttonhole micro phone she’d used to tape her conversation with Phoebe useful on numerous occasions. Greg Barbera’s smile might not have been quite so wide if he’d been aware that Cassandra also had numerous tapes of her conversations with him: his promises of pay-rises and career advancement, his bitter attacks on his own company and indiscretions about his colleagues. It was all just ammunition – for now.

‘But that’s not all,’ blustered Jason, trying to dig himself out of his hole. ‘I called the head of media planning at the Emerald agency, just to see what they thought of the issue. She’s not very happy either.’

‘You
called
her
?’ asked Cassandra incredulously, unable to keep herself in check any longer. ‘Whose side are you on?’

Greg looked at Jason, his expression suggesting that he too might like an answer.

‘I was just gauging opinion,’ said Jason weakly.

‘Greg,’ said Cassandra, turning her back on Jason, ‘running the interview in exactly the way in which it was told to us was a calculated decision. I knew some of the more conservative advertisers wouldn’t be happy but I suspect that when they see the circulation figure for that issue, they will applaud our bravery. Now is not the time to be “gauging opinion”, it’s a time to press our advantage, to go to the advertisers and guarantee them that
Rive’s
year-on-year circulation will rise by at least 5 per cent.’

‘Guarantee?’ spluttered Jason, ‘But we don’t even know how the issue is doing yet! April is never the strongest selling issue of the year.’

Cassandra turned and stared at him levelly.

‘I predict by this time next week we’ll be reprinting.’

‘But our legal team says …’

‘Fuck our legal department,’ said Cassandra mildly.

Greg held up a hand to bring the sparring match to an end.

‘OK. So how do you suggest we proceed?’ He was pointedly asking Cassandra. Jason had already been dispensed with.

‘Let me with deal with it,’ she said confidently. ‘I have already phoned my friend at Schillings to fire off a letter to “Phoebe’s people”,’ she mocked Jason’s words. ‘And I will personally call all the major advertisers once we have the EPOS figures for the first week of sales.’

Greg seemed to be satisfied.

‘Cassandra,’ said Greg, his eyes unreadable. ‘Just be careful.’

Cassandra smiled politely, knowing she was back in control, then looked at Jason who had the look of a wounded animal.

‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have a magazine to edit.’

She closed the glass door behind her and walked down the corridor, imagining with relish the pain Jason Tostvig was about to be put through.
That bastard!
She had been wrong to think he was harmless; it had almost been a costly slip. She had been right about one thing though; he was stupid – stupid enough to cross her. Cassandra stalked back into the same bathroom she had left only twenty minutes before and leant on the sink, taking in deep breaths. She reached up to curl her eyelashes and saw that her hands were shaking.
Pulp the issue indeed!
For all her reputation, Cassandra knew something like that wouldn’t just be a black mark; it could be the loose thread which might start the whole thing unravelling. Even Diana Vreeland for all her brilliance and international reputation was ultimately dispensed with. That’s what fashion was all about – dispensability.

For a second she felt a wave of profound doubt: the person on top of the mountain was on the thinnest ridge and had the longest way to fall. She suddenly turned and ran into the nearest stall and threw up. When the spasms had passed, she wiped her mouth carefully and, checking no one had been in the bathroom to see her shame, walked back towards her office, her head held high.

There was no turning back. She had so many balls up in the air, so much at stake; she couldn’t afford to let up for a moment. Fashion was a game of poker: all about bluff and re-bluff, not who had the strongest hand. Cassandra had all her chips in the middle of the table, she couldn’t back out now. As she turned the corner to her office, she saw Jason Tostvig coming out of Greg Barbera’s office, his head bowed, his tie undone. Cassandra smiled. She would deal with him later.