‘These are the sorts of covermounts which could run. Sunglasses, postcards, spa slippers,’ he said holding up some flimsy towelling flip-flops that were given out free by the pool. ‘The ladies love this sort of crap.’
He carried on for the full five minutes, boasting about his contacts in Taiwan and how he was confident he could source
Rive
sarongs for thirty pence a unit. ‘And, Isaac, if you want a free flight offer, look no further. I can sort it out in a heartbeat.’
As he sat down and poured himself a glass of iced tea, Tostvig didn’t seem to notice the silence in the room. Cassandra rose to her feet.
‘Well, while I think that Jason is well-meaning with his, ahem, supermarket sweep for the front cover, I believe that if we start acting like a company under siege, the advertising community will start believing it,’ she said. ‘Project Diamond is a weekly but they don’t intend to be direct competitors with
Rive,’
stated Cassandra boldly. ‘The feel will be very middle market. You only have to look at their personnel: the features team is good but the fashion is very weak. I suspect they will struggle to get anyone decent to shoot for them and without the photographers, the model agencies will be nervous. No photographers and no models equals no fashion advertising.’
Cassandra was enjoying her moment, particularly when she saw
Glenda’s face pale as she filled in the blanks from the information Charles had given her, without actually admitting she had seen the dummy.
‘The point is,’ said Cassandra, ‘that people come to
Rive
for certain things. They come to us for luxury, for authority, for a badge of identity. They come to us for escapism. Far from price-cutting, free gifts and diluting our quality and size by going weekly, I propose we
increase
investment and we increase price. We make
Rive
magazine a luxury product in its own right, a beautiful accessory every woman has to buy every month. We add select brand extensions to extend our reach as a global multi-platformed media brand and here’s how we start to make more profit…’
As Cassandra went into details, Isaac Grey felt his cock go hard.
Cassandra Grand,
he thought,
is a sensation.
‘That was a very impressive performance today, Cassandra,’ said Isaac from the comfort of the Master Suite on the top floor of the house. Cassandra stood by the shutters enjoying the breeze on her face but kept out of direct view of the window: it wouldn’t do to be seen in the chairman’s bedroom. She had first met Isaac Grey at a party in the National Portrait Gallery in London, eleven years earlier. She was 24 and one of the most respected young stylists in the country. He was 56, in a long, unhappy marriage and he had been knocked out by Cassandra’s confidence, beauty and cut-glass English accent. He had offered her a lift back to her Notting Hill apartment and she had asked him in for a nightcap, both of them fully aware exactly where the evening was heading.
As soon as they had entered the hallway he had ripped off her silk slip-dress pushing her against the wall so she had burned the back of her legs on the radiator. She had made him pay for that. Leading him into the shower, she’d stripped him and soaped up his body, being meticulously careful not to kiss him or touch his erect manhood. When she knew he could take no more, she had lowered her lips onto his, letting his hands explore her soft tanned skin. Finally she had sunk to her knees, scarcely able to breathe as she let him come in her mouth with the shower water surging all over them. Back in the bedroom, they had fucked for two hours solid and Cassandra had enjoyed every second of the power she knew she had over one of the wealthiest media moguls in the world.
She knew she had been as skilled as any of his lovers – from the budding starlets wanting to appear in his magazines to the high-class hookers he used on business trips around the world. Cassandra was good: she had to be.
‘When am I going to see you again?’ he had whispered at six o’clock the next morning as he pulled on his Brioni suit.
Cassandra had shrugged, feigning indifference.
‘As you’re going back to New York tomorrow, that’s up to you.’
‘I have to see you again,’ he had pleaded.
‘Things could be so much easier if I lived in New York,’ she had replied.
A month later Cassandra Grand was senior fashion editor of US
Rive.
I hope he’s grateful for all I’ve done for him, thought Cassandra with a smile as she turned away from her view of the ocean.
‘I take it the rumours are true then?’ said Isaac, fixing his vivid blue eyes on Cassandra.
‘And which rumours would they be?’
‘The rumours about AtlanticCorp trying to poach you.’
‘Wherever did you hear that?’ she replied, pretending to be shocked. She had, of course, begun the rumours herself. After her meeting with Charles Dyer, she had made sure that all the New York gossips had got to hear about her meeting with him. It was like the government ‘leaking’ sensitive documents. Not only had it got the industry buzzing, it had the side effect of prompting Charles Dyer to come back with an improved financial offer to come across to AtlanticCorp. Charles had, however, politely refused her demand to be made editorial director. Cassandra hadn’t been surprised; she had known it was a long shot, and now it looked like she was going to get what she wanted out of her conversation with Charles anyway: leverage with Alliance.
‘I knew it!’ said Isaac through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll fucking kill Charles! You refused them obviously?’
Cassandra did her best to look shamefaced.
‘Well, you might as well know that we have been in discussions about an editorial director’s position at AtlanticCorp,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘It was mooted as a board position. But no, for the minute we haven’t taken it further. The door is still open, but I thought that we should have a conversation first before I did anything drastic’
Isaac walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large bourbon.
‘You know how much I want to keep you within the company.’
‘No. How much, Isaac?’
‘What will it take to make you stay?’
She could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted her, but she vowed she’d never allow that to happen again. Their affair had ended years ago, twelve months after she had arrived in New York, in fact. By that stage Cassandra had convinced herself she could marry him; he would have been the perfect father-figure for Ruby. But Isaac had said that it would be too costly to leave his wife Miranda, so Cassandra had ended the relationship. Twelve months later, Isaac was having an affair with Geri Bergman, a 23-year-old PR girl from Los Angeles. Six months after that he filed for divorce from Miranda. Another six months after that and Geri Bergman was Mrs Grey number two. Cassandra had to hand it to the girl: that was some ambush.
Wrapped up in her thoughts, Cassandra hadn’t heard Isaac walk over. He reached out and touched her cheek. She stepped back.
‘You’re a terrible tease,’ he said, grinning.
‘How much do you want me to stay with the company, Isaac?’ said Cassandra.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, sipping his bourbon.
‘I want the American issue.’
Isaac looked at her.
‘Does Glenda know that?’
‘She’d be a fool not to suspect.’
‘What about France? I can get rid of Françoise at the end of the conference.’
Cassandra tried to hide her frustration.
‘I don’t want the French edition.’
‘Why not? It is the most influential fashion title in the world. Fashion is in your blood.’
‘But it is not the company’s biggest money-making and flagship title. That’s where I want to be.’
Isaac swirled the bourbon around in his glass, looking troubled.
‘Glenda is doing a good job,’ he said flatly. ‘Circulation is up 5 per cent. She is popular with the staff. There is no reason to get rid of her. Not yet anyway.’
Cassandra paused for one moment, letting the whirring sound of the ceiling fan fill the silence.
‘But I do mean what I say,’ said Isaac, ‘I don’t want to lose you. What will it take?’
‘I want a written assurance that I will be the next editor-in-chief of American
Rive
when you finally
do
come up with a reason to get rid of Glenda. In the meantime, I want a one hundred-thousand pound pay rise.’
Isaac almost choked on his bourbon.
‘I thought we were already very generous with your salary!’ he spluttered.
Cassandra stared at him.
‘I’ve got a call to Charles pencilled in on Wednesday.’
‘Cassandra, you are impossible,’ said Isaac, slamming down his glass.
‘Oh, and there’s one other thing,’ said Cassandra. ‘Jason Tostvig. I find him very difficult to work with. I think you saw today that we’re not exactly on the same wavelength.’
Isaac nodded slowly.
‘I’d agree with you there. What
was
he talking about? All those horrible free gifts, phone-lines and cheap flights. This is Alliance Inc he is working for, for heaven’s sake!’
‘And I suppose you heard what happened with Phoebe Fenton?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I hear it caused a bit of a furore. What was the upshot?’
‘All positive, of course,’ she smiled. ‘Sales up 30 per cent year on year, advertisers all happy when they heard it was our biggest selling April issue since launch.’ Cassandra paused, deliberately failing to mention the 250 reader complaints.
‘The problem was that Jason panicked,’ she continued. ‘He frightened the advertisers, then recommended we pulp the issue before he’d even spoken to me. I just don’t think he’s cut out for magazines, let alone
Rive.’
‘Perhaps we move him onto
Smile,’
said Isaac thoughtfully.
Smile
was Alliance Inc’s big-selling young women’s magazine. A successful title. A prestigious title.
Cassandra shuddered. ‘Great. Put the wolf in the henhouse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s just say he makes me uncomfortable. Leering at women, making off-colour comments. In fact earlier he said I should
wear shorts more often to the office. Just think of him at
Smile
with all those vulnerable girls.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Isaac, rubbing his chin. ‘Maybe he’d be better off at
Rural Living.
The staff there are mainly over 50 and male.’
He will hate it!
thought Cassandra with well-disguised glee. Urbane Jason, with his Gucci suits and love of London’s nightlife, talking to the hunting set about fly-tying and carriage clocks!
Cassandra smiled and touched Isaac’s shoulder.
‘Let’s get the ball rolling with all of this, then I’ll put the call in to Charles and let him down gently.’
The gardens were dark when Cassandra came down the fire escape of the main house so she wouldn’t be noticed. She could hear the rhythmic croak of frogs in the undergrowth and the background swoosh of the sea lapping onto the beach.
As she turned the corner of the path towards her cottage, she bumped into a tall elegant woman carrying a cocktail glass. It was Françoise Caron,
Rive’s
French editor. Cassandra smiled, thinking how close the woman had come to losing her job only minutes ago.
‘Going to bed so early?’ asked Françoise.
‘I’m tired,’ smiled Cassandra. ‘It’s been an exciting day.’
‘Oh, we are all going to Glenda’s for drinks. Did she not invite you?’
She had, but Cassandra had declined, having no desire to listen to a group of women compare salaries. But now she looked at Françoise and felt something. What was it?
Pity.
Isaac had clearly marked the French editor’s card; he had axed editors in the most brutal and public ways in the past, and this time next year Françoise would probably not be coming to the conference. Still, she was well-connected and would probably go on to a job with a fashion house, but…
it never did any harm to network,
thought Cassandra.
You never knew when they might kick the chair out from under you.
Silvia Totti, Charlize and Sheri were already on the veranda of Glenda’s vanilla-coloured cottage when Françoise and Cassandra arrived. Glenda’s accommodation had a jacuzzi and a long deck that looked out to the darkness of the ocean. They all sat around a table and helped themselves to Glenda’s generous spread of drinks
and canapés as they talked. Five of the most important women in fashion. They dictated to millions of other women what to wear, they had the power to make or break designers, fashion houses, whole brands. They were the focal point for an entire industry.
Throughout their conversation, Cassandra had noticed Glenda pouring herself generous measures of vodka. She had also filled her guests’ glasses and put two bottles of champagne in buckets next to the table. Then Sheri had asked Glenda about Armani’s latest collection and she had smiled thinly.
‘Who cares?’ she said, tossing back her drink.
Cassandra flinched. She knew that Glenda liked to drink, but only ever in private. Glenda was a master of image and Cassandra had never seen her mask slip once. At lunchtime meetings with PRs or advertisers she was strictly teetotal, even at parties in front of industry figures or staff, she stuck to Perrier. But safe in her inner circle, away from prying eyes, Glenda would let her hair down, usually via vodka and tonic. Cassandra had asked her about it once and she had shrugged. ‘I’m from a big drinking family.’ It was the only time she had ever referred to her past, a past that she had wiped away like a smudge on a piece of French linen.
But now, in front of the international editors, this was a serious slip. If she was showing weakness, that meant she didn’t care.
What’s going on here?
thought Cassandra.
‘Come on ladies, drink and be merry!’ said Glenda, a slight slur in her words. ‘For tomorrow we die.’
The other women exchanged looks.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Silvia Totti.
‘Haven’t you heard? Alliance is up for sale,’ said Glenda. ‘Or will be soon. My husband works on Wall Street. Rumour has it that the company is looking for a buyer. Seems like Uncle Isaac wants to cash his chips in. So if we get bought by another company, little perks like this may well stop.’