Christmas at Tiffany's (10 page)

Cassie grew hot with anger at his patronizing tone. So much for the pliable little brother she and Suzy and Kelly and Anouk had tortured for years. He was acting more like her father right now.

‘You’re cross with me,’ he said.

‘Yes, I am,’ she said huffily, her cheeks pinking up. ‘I thought you were my friend. Instead you’re just . . .
attacking
me for trying to move on with my life. I wasn’t the one who threw away my marriage, you know.’

‘I just know the real Cassie, that’s all. I don’t want to see you get lost in this city. This place is more of a jungle than any I’ve ever been to.’

Cassie stared at him hotly, trying to find a way to regain her ground. ‘Well, I think you’re wrong. I don’t think you do know the real me. You were a teenager when we saw each other last. What makes you such an authority on who I am?’ She drew herself up taller. ‘And you know what? I don’t think I am going to get lost here. I think this city suits me. I think that the person I was
before
was the wrong Cassie. And now I’m just putting everything right.’

He stared at her for a long while before finally shrugging and looking away. ‘You’re probably right. What do I know? It was all a long time ago.’

As he said this, a slim hand suddenly slid around his waist and between the button placket of his shirt, tweaking his chest hair slightly. A beautiful face appeared, resting on his shoulder – like the sun rising above the horizon – and the girl gave a dazzling smile. Her light brown hair had been lifted with sunny streaks around her face, highlighting her hazel eyes, and she eclipsed everyone there. Cassie felt her heart dive to the floor.

‘You must be Lacey,’ she said, taking a deep breath and managing to smile back.

Three hours later, Cassie had the hiccups. ‘Well, you’ve just single-handedly proved Henry wrong,’ she hic’d, as Kelly looped her arm through hers and walked her slowly along Park Avenue.

‘Henry? What’s he been saying?’

‘Tch!’ Cassie tutted drunkenly. ‘He was
so
annoying. When did he get so bossy? He’s absolutely convinced you and Anouk and Suzy are going to get me engaged or pregnant within the month.’ She hiccupped and stopped suddenly. ‘No, let me rephrase that. He doesn’t think
you’re
going to get me pregnant,’ she said, doubling over with laughter.

Kelly giggled along. She was half-cut, unlike Cassie, who, unaccustomed to nineteen-hour days and take-your-eyebrows-off cocktails on an empty stomach, was completely slaughtered.

‘He thinks your
plan
is going to get me pregnant,’ she slurred, straightening up again. ‘Because I’m a man-magnet now, did you know that?’ She giggled again, swishing her hair around her shoulders.

Kelly nodded. ‘That was patently clear tonight. I must have intercepted – what? Eleven business cards?’

Cassie squeezed her arm fondly. ‘See, that’s what he underestimated. The protection of old friends. You were better than any bouncer tonight.’

‘It’s too early for you to date yet,’ Kelly said, patting her arm.

‘It
is
too early for me to date yet,’ Cassie agreed happily. She sighed and rested her head on Kelly’s shoulder. Her feet had broken through the pain barrier and were now numb, and the alcohol had done a great job of numbing the rest of her pain. Already her life in Scotland seemed to belong to another person. She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever lain alone in that horrid four-poster (she’d never liked it. It was too ornate, and having been built four hundred years ago, also too short) counting down the days until Gil returned home for the weekend. Edinburgh was only sixty-eight miles away, but it was too far to commute to during the week, and although he was always home by six on a Friday, it was usually with a rowdy shooting party in tow.

Look at me now, though, she thought, taking in the scene around her. It could have been two in the afternoon, there were so many people around still – some eating in burger joints, others talking in groups outside clubs, the restaurants still full, the roads still jammed. And the lights, so many lights. It was as though the sun was giving Manhattan Island a special extra-late bedtime, like an indulgent mother in the holidays.

‘I think I’m going to like it here,’ she mumbled.

‘Hmm? What was that?’ Kelly asked, putting her phone back into her bag. She’d been quickly checking her texts. No doubt Bebe was working through the night.

‘I said I like it here. I mean, I don’t know exactly where I am right now,’ she said, looking around blankly at the wall of glass skyscrapers. ‘Or what I’m officially supposed to do during my days as a Senior Account Executive –’ she enunciated her title with a particularly posh voice – ‘and I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared of anyone as I am of Bebe, and I’ve certainly never been so tired in all my life. But I am still just so happy not to be back
there
, sitting down like an adult and discussing things rationally.’ She shook her head vehemently, and her hair swung half a beat behind her. ‘He’d have found a way to make it be my fault, you know.’

‘I know,’ Kelly said, squeezing her arm. ‘Which is why we need to get you a divorce lawyer.’

‘I know.’

‘Suzy says she knows a good one – one of her former grooms. We can’t have the bastard cheating you out of what’s rightfully yours. He’s cheated you enough already.’

‘There’s not going to be much coming to me, I can tell you that now. I signed a pre-nup. Everything’s tied up in trusts,’ Cassie said wearily as they reached the red awning.

‘Thanks, Bailey,’ Kelly said as the night porter opened the doors for them and called the elevator.

‘Thanks, Bailey,’ Cassie echoed drunkenly.

They stepped inside and the doors closed. Cassie felt vaguely unhappy about the way the elevator seemed to be rocketing up the lift shaft.

The doors opened and Kelly let them in to her apartment.

‘I’d offer to make you a coffee, but . . .’

‘You don’t have a kettle,’ Cassie intoned, sitting down on the sofa to unzip her boots. The sensation of her bones spreading out in her feet was so good it was almost painful.

Kelly did the same, closing her eyes for a moment as her stockinged feet made full contact with the floor for the first time in nineteen hours. ‘Men – if they only knew what women have to go through . . .’

Cassie got up and wove her way over to the bathroom, using the walls – because the floor seemed to be swaying – for support.

‘You okay?’ Kelly asked, as Cassie paused for a moment at the doorway before lurching in and slamming the door shut with her foot.

The sounds coming from behind the door suggested not.

Kelly was at Bebe’s – having already taken a spinning class, held an updates meeting with her staff and hosted a press brunch for the Maddy Foxton/Oscar de la Renta partnership – when Cassie finally made it in. Five minutes before noon.

She looked as bad as she’d sounded last night.

‘Did you even try to get a brush through your hair?’ Kelly whispered, grabbing her by the elbow and steering her down to the loos before Bebe saw her.

‘I don’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t think this Argentinian perm thingy has read its job description,’ she moaned feebly as Kelly grabbed a brush from her bag. ‘I mean, I did try to get it flat and untangly but – ow! –
that
kept happening. Ow!’

‘Stop complaining,’ Kelly said brusquely. ‘You’ll be saying more than “ow” if Bebe catches sight of you looking like this. Have you eaten?’

Cassie shook her head.

‘Right. I’ll get an egg-white omelette sent up.’

At the thought of it Cassie instantly slapped a hand across her mouth and shook her head vigorously.

‘No?’ Getting some blusher and brushes out of her bag, Kelly quickly dusted over Cassie’s pallid complexion. ‘Hold out your finger.’

Cassie obeyed. Kelly squeezed a small stream of sparkling coloured goo on it. Cassie looked at her. ‘Don’t say I have to
eat
that?’

Kelly rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Cassie. It’s Juicy Tube. You put it on your lips.’ She put her hands on her hips, exasperated. ‘Jeez-us.’

‘There’s no need to shout,’ Cassie said, one eyebrow raised.

‘I’m not sh –’ Kelly stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let me see you.’ Kelly appraised her. ‘Well, you look half-alive, at least. Though God only knows what you’re wearing.’ She took in the outfit, arms crossed. ‘That is wrong on
so
many levels.’

Cassie looked down at her black pleated leather midi skirt, fairisle jumper and red Converse. Her feet had gone into spasm just thinking about sliding into a pair of heels. ‘I wasn’t joking when I said I couldn’t remember what went with what,’ she said petulantly. Suddenly she gasped in horror. ‘Is it okay that I’m wearing a bra? Didn’t you say it’s too straight?’

‘That was for the V-neck.’ Kelly bit her lip. Toddlers could dress themselves better. There was a frustrated silence. ‘Okay, look – I told Bee you were leading the brunch at the Hudson this morning, so just lie low, okay? Don’t bring attention to yourself. I’ll give you some paperwork to get on with.’

Cassie tipped her head to the side gratefully. ‘You’re such a good friend,’ she said emotionally as Kelly steered her back towards the studio. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to put me up, make up a job for m—’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Kelly muttered, rolling her eyes. ‘Keep it for the Christmas card.’

Bebe was back in the room and back in full strop as the girls reappeared.

‘Kelly, there you are,’ she boomed. ‘Tell me what you think. Don’t you agree that the sequins are just
wrong
on this dress,’ she demanded rhetorically as she held a barely-there model by the shoulders and swung the poor girl round to face them. Her red tartan dress – asymmetric and ragged – was embellished with black ‘tattoo’ embroidery and a heavy spattering of gold paillettes
.
‘I mean, she’s at a traditional Orthodox wedding. She’s supposed to look like she’s been showered with coins. Instead – look at her! She looks like she’s the love-child of Aladdin Sane and Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

Cassie’s head ached at the nebulous metaphor. It was a journey too far for her mind today. She wished to goodness she’d stayed asleep – fully-clothed – on the sofa and hadn’t bothered trying to be brave. But she hadn’t wanted to let Kelly down. It was only her second day on the job.

Kelly’s mobile rang. She held up a finger. ‘I’ve got to take this, Bee. I’ve got a call in with W. I’ll just be a moment,’ she said, turning away.

Bebe stared at her, then at Cassie, as if she wasn’t sure she was the girl she’d seen yesterday. ‘What’s that you’re working?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.

Cassie looked down at her hands to see what they were doing. She felt
that
bad, she couldn’t be entirely sure that she had full control over her body. She looked back up, confused. ‘I’m sorry – what’s what I’m working?’

‘Your look. What is it? Slutty librarian?’

Cassie’s eyes widened. ‘Uh . . . uh . . . I . . . don’t really have a
title
for it,’ she said slowly. ‘I just thought it looked . . . nice?’

Kelly came back from her phone call, the smile sliding off her face as she saw Cassie in the full glare of Bebe’s attention.

‘Nice?’ Bebe repeated, looking over at Kelly. ‘And you get her to write press releases?’ Bebe hauled the model round to face Kelly, tipping her head disdainfully back towards Cassie. ‘Olivia Palermo she ain’t,’ she drawled. ‘Now, what’s your opinion on this?’

‘Cassie, I’ve left some urgent paperwork on your desk,’ Kelly said briskly, sending Cassie running for cover before turning her attention to the trembling model. ‘And I think you’re right about the sequins, Bee. Too harem. They’re the wrong gold, don’t you think?’

Wrong gold? Cassie wondered. Was there such a thing?

‘That’s the problem. They’re too brassy. They should be lighter. I’ve got a contact in Tribeca. They owe me – I’ll make a call. Oh, and that was Bazaar. They want to call in the leopard-print . . .’

‘Jaguar print,’ Bebe corrected sternly, as though the difference between the prints was as big as the difference between spots and stripes.

‘Yes, you’re right, sorry – the
jaguar
print – for a cover try with Scarlett . . .’

Cassie nodded slowly, a gleam of encouragement in her eyes as the girl came towards her. A week in and she was beginning to get the hang of this now. It wasn’t personal. It was just about the story, the mood, the
journey
Bebe was taking them on through her clothes.

Bebe leant towards her slightly, a question mark implicit in the gesture.

‘Well,’ Cassie said slowly. ‘She’s got great hair, and her shoulders and hips are so narrow, she’d definitely look like a teenage bride.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Bebe scrutinized the model critically. She was startlingly pretty and had probably sailed through life thus far, fawned over since birth, the most popular girl at school and the living incarnation of every male’s fantasies. But in this huge, echoing, whitewashed studio, she was merely the sum of her parts and easy pickings to a seasoned fashion veteran like Bebe Washington.