Cassandra Grand was not a woman to take chances, not unless she had no choice. She knew she had to make
Rive
as talked-about as Pierre wanted but she had little faith in her staff to pull a world-class exclusive out of the bag. Which was why she was sitting in a velvet booth in a quiet bar in St James’s, facing a man who did not look as if he belonged in SW1. Nick Bowen was a retired New York cop who had married a Brit and left the States – and the force – for better-paid work in the private sector. He specialized in divorce cases: following the billionaire husbands of stay-at-home wives who were hungry for fat divorce settlements. He had strong international connections and a reputation for delivering whatever you wanted at any cost. She had called him the day after her editorial meeting and given him two weeks and an unlimited expense account.
‘Please tell me you have something of interest,’ said Cassandra, waving away the waiter.
‘If you’re looking for dirt on Georgia Kennedy then you’re going to be disappointed. She’s as clean as a whistle,’ said Bowen, trying hard to avert his eyes from Cassandra’s cleavage. One thing he liked about high-level divorce work was the good-looking women. The wives of rich men were almost always gorgeous. Too skinny for his liking, of course and they had the sort of attitude he could only stand in ten-minute, well-paid bursts but
damn,
it sure beat pulling stiffs outta the Hudson.
‘There must be something,’ frowned Cassandra. ‘You don’t get to be big in Hollywood without doing something underhand or illegal to get there. Casting couch? Drug parties?’
Bowen shook his head.
‘Two weeks isn’t a long time for a comprehensive report, Ms Grand.’
‘Well, it should be, the money I’m paying you,’ snapped Cassandra.
Bowen’s face was impassive. He’d taken abuse from professionals; another pissed-off broad didn’t dent his armour.
‘Ms Grand,’ he began patiently. ‘One of the reasons Sayed Jalid took her as a wife is because her closet is skeleton-free. She was an honours student in Missouri. Worked her way up through adverts and bit parts in films. No reputation of the casting coach. No scantily-clad magazine shoots. Very professional, very focused. Two long-term boyfriends, both respectable, both drug-free. Then she married Jalid and since then, no playing around and by all accounts they have a very happy marriage.’
‘Shit,’ said Cassandra quietly, tapping her fingers on the table. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s a decent guy. Oxford scholar, Sandhurst. Georgia is the second wife, his first died in childbirth. Besides, even if we had something we can’t touch him. He’s super-protected 24/7 and surrounded by the sort of powerful friends and associates who could make any scandal disappear before you typed the first word.’
‘So you’re saying I’ve wasted my money?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Bowen with a crooked smile, placing a brown envelope on the table. He pulled out a large black and white photograph of a handsome young man. ‘Sayed has a daughter and a younger son from his first marriage. This is Alex Jalid, the son. He’s 20, an English student at Brown University. A good scholar, but lazy, bit of a party boy. And very extravagant, he flies student friends to New York on nights out in his father’s private jet.’
He put another photograph on the table in front of Cassandra. It was a girl with exquisite features and a long tumble of pale hair.
‘This is Tania, Alex’s girlfriend. She’s a model in New York with a small agency called Mode.’
Cassandra tutted suggesting her patience was wearing thin. ‘A playboy prince with a model? That’s hardly the most scandalous story I’ve ever heard of.’
Bower smiled slowly. He took another photograph out of his briefcase and put it on the table.
‘And who’s this?’ asked Cassandra curiously.
‘This,’ replied Nick Bowen, ‘is where it starts to get interesting.’
She smiled as he began explaining the photograph’s significance to her.
‘I’m sorry that’s all I could get in two weeks,’ he said, after he’d finished, looking at her face for approval.
Cassandra touched his calf with her bare foot under the table, smiling as she saw his eyes widen.
‘It’s enough, Nicholas. It’s more than enough,’ she said with a surge of excitement. Her plan was about to come together.
It was the hottest summer in a decade and with the heat came a wave of positivity at Milford. The company’s advertising campaign was everywhere and Clover Connor was papped carrying a 100 Bag in Ibiza. The refurbishment of the Bond Street store finished on time, a crack sales team was headhunted from other designer stores and the Milford Autumn/Winter line was delivered. It looked fantastic.
For Stella that meant twice the pleasure. Satisfaction of a job well done and the opportunity to start the creative process all over again, dreaming up new designs that women would be clamouring to buy in six months’ time. Of course, her earlier designs would live on; Emma wanted the 100 Bag and the Milford clutch as perennial pieces to be repeated in each collection in new leather and colourways. However each season there were to be six new designs to underline Milford as a fashion house and to increase profit potential as women wanted to add to their collection of bags.
That summer Stella had found the perfect place to dream up new ideas: the roof terrace at Byron House. Strictly speaking, it was just a flat expanse of roof reached by a fire exit door that led off from her studio, but it was a sun-trap, a perfect place to take vintage magazines, source books and a cold lemonade to enjoy the weather, especially when Emma wasn’t due in the office all week.
Lying out on a towel she had found in a store cupboard, Stella was enjoying the uninterrupted quiet and sun on her face when she heard Emma’s voice echo round the studio.
‘Stella?’
‘Out here,’ she called, surprised.
Emma poked her head out onto the roof.
‘Can I have a word?’
‘Sure.’
‘Inside,’ said Emma. ‘It’s a deathtrap out there.’
Stella climbed back into the studio and joined Emma at a round table in front of Stella’s mood board, an enormous expanse of cork tiles onto which she had pinned magazine tears, postcards of old films, photographs and swatches of fabric.
‘I thought you were supposed to be in Costa Rica this week,’ said Stella, dabbing at her forehead with her towel.
‘Cancelled. But I’ve been in London all morning.’
‘Hardly Central America,’ grinned Emma.
‘I’ve been down to the store,’ said Emma, frowning.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing. In fact, quite the opposite.’
Emma took a spreadsheet from her briefcase and handed it to Stella.
‘Sales from the Bond Street store in one week.’
To Stella it was just a jumble of tiny numbers in little boxes.
‘Is this good?’
Emma took a drink of water from the bottle on the table.
‘It’s 400 per cent up on what we were projected to be doing and we haven’t even officially launched yet. Bond Street has already called in with a stock order for more products.’
She took a breath.
‘Which is why I want to launch a collection of womenswear next season.’
Stella just gaped at her.
‘You’re not serious? You want to launch a ready-to-wear line in six months?’ she said, feeling a spike of fear. ‘That’s crazy!’
Emma looked at her determinedly. ‘There’s a real momentum building here, I can feel it. A year is a long time in fashion and I don’t think we can leave it another couple of seasons. I always saw Milford as a fashion and luxury goods company like Hermès or Louis Vuitton, rather than one that simply makes handbags and luggage. If results are this good, then I think it makes sense to expand quickly.’
‘How big a collection were you thinking?’ asked Stella with a sinking feeling. It didn’t take much to work out that Emma’s new plans had direct implications for her.
‘Small and exclusive,’ she said firmly. ‘It has to be in line with our brand message for the bags which are practically made to order. There seems to me to be a gap between haute couture and ready-to-wear and that’s where we should fit in.’
Stella smiled thinking how far Emma had come in the literacy of fashion. Six months ago she didn’t know a Tod’s from a Toblerone; now she was proposing to break the mould and create an entirely new fashion market. Now Emma even looked the part in her camel Armani shift dress and Louboutin heels, her hair like a flaxen horse’s tail, swinging elegantly with every move of her head.
‘So you’re thinking sort of limited edition pieces,’ said Stella, beginning to get excited about the idea, despite herself.
‘Absolutely; an artesian line if you like,’ said Emma. ‘I’m thinking a 20-piece capsule wardrobe with a cap on the number of pieces in production. We do this for three or four seasons then we can think about a full ready-to-wear line at a slightly more accessible price point.’
‘You want womenswear for next season,’ said Stella, still shaking her head in disbelief.
Emma nodded.
‘You do think it’s possible?’ she asked, with a note of reservation in her voice. ‘If we’re going to do it, we have to do it properly.’
Stella remembered a similar conversation with Cate Glazer, who had also been in a hurry to expand her empire after a couple of hit bags. Cate had had much bigger resources at her disposal than Milford and even more bullish confidence. The fashion press had doubted such a fast expansion at the time but Cate had pulled it off and their first show during New York Fashion Week had graduated them from a bag company to a lifestyle empire.
‘Well, anything’s possible,’ said Stella. ‘But who’s going to design it?’
Emma pulled a face.
‘Me? Come on, Em, I’m flattered but how can I do both? I’m flat out as it is.’
Emma smiled and looked towards the roof. ‘Looked like it.’
‘OK, OK, but I want a team. I know a guy from St Martin’s who’s worked at Donna Karan and another girl who has experience on Savile Row. Although strictly speaking, design isn’t the problem,’ she said, now thinking out loud. ‘Fabric’s the big hitch. It’s one thing turning up at Premiere Vision – that’s the big textile trade fair in September – but the very best suppliers will have exclusive contracts with the top fashion houses.’
‘Can we cut a deal?’
Stella tapped a thoughtful finger on her lips.
‘I know an excellent textile mill in Bologna who might do something with us, but we’ll have to go out to Italy for some heavyweight schmoozing. Then there’s manufacturing – we won’t be able to do it here. Gosh, there’s so much to think about! Where were you thinking of showing?’
‘Paris would be incredible, but that’s unlikely given our lack of track record and the time span. Anyway, I think we should show in London. Given the heritage of the brand it feels only right. I’ve already spoken to the British Fashion Council. We’ll get a professional show-producer, top models …’
Stella listened to Emma’s words, but had already begun to drift off into her own thoughts. What Emma was suggesting … it was every designer’s dream, but did she really have what it took to pull it off? Tom Ford had transformed Gucci in practically one season with his legendary 1995 collection of sexy velvet hip-huggers and satin shirts but he had both a gargantuan talent and a steely commercial brain. There were days when Stella thought she was just playing at the fashion business. Before Emma came along she never had anyone to cheerlead her ambitions. Her talks with her mother never got beyond lightweight chit-chat and the only time her father had ever pushed her to do anything was when he was trying to get her to follow him into sculpture. As if reading her thoughts Emma looked her directly in the eye.
‘I know what a great job you can do with it. Look what you did with the accessories line in a matter of weeks.’
‘No pressure then,’ said Stella a touch sulkily.
‘I’ve had a lawyer looking into the share structure of the company. I want to give you stock in Milford, Stella,’ said Emma firmly. ‘Ruan too, actually. You both deserve it more than I can say.’
Stella wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Wow. That’s great news,’ was the best she could manage.
‘I believe in you, Stella,’ said Emma simply.
Stella walked over to the office coffee pot and poured two black coffees.
‘So. When do we start?’ she asked, handing Emma a cup.
‘Straight away.’
‘Well, as soon as I get back from holiday,’ corrected Stella. ‘Johnny’s parents have this house in Cap Ferrat and I thought I’d go for a couple of weeks. We’re going to drive down. Stay in some
chateaux along the way. Johnny starts filming in Wales for two months soon so we wanted to spend some quality time together.’
‘Stella, you can’t just go away for two weeks whenever the mood takes you,’ said Emma, a note of warning in her voice. ‘I don’t want to sound like your boss, but you had five days off last month.’
‘Johnny had a photo shoot for
Tatler
in the Maldives! He paid for me to go out there.’
Emma leaned towards her, her eyes steely.
‘Stella. We – no,
you
– have a real opportunity here. You’re on the verge of being the next big thing. Don’t squander it chasing after a man.’
Stella felt like screaming.
How dare Emma say such a thing!
Yes, of course she’d been spending as much time as she could with Johnny, but why shouldn’t she? She didn’t want to end up an old spinster like Emma, too cynical and angry for a relationship with anything other than her career.
‘Take a look at the press cuttings,
boss,’
she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I think I’m doing fine.’
‘That all depends on whether you want to be known as a great designer or as half of an It-couple.’
Stella slammed her coffee cup on the table, all the excitement of launching her own womenswear line and becoming a Milford shareholder completely forgotten.
‘Jesus, Emma!’ she cried, ‘all I’m asking for is two measly weeks off. I’ve been working my arse off for this company and I think I deserve a break.’
Emma looked intently down at her coffee mug before speaking.