Cassandra set about finding Giles’s replacement immediately, even though she knew the task would be a difficult one. After all, it was hardly the sort of job she could advertise in the Media
Guardian. Rive’s
editor-at-large needed incredible natural flair and an enormous Rolodex of contacts. More importantly they needed to understand what made Cassandra Grand tick.
Well, let’s see what this one is made of, she thought as she strode through San Lorenzo towards one of the best tables in the house. Jessica West was already waiting for her. Cassandra’s eyes darted over her, inspecting the cut of her shirt, the brand of her bag, noting her manicured nails, freshly blow-dried hair and discreet make-up. Cassandra smiled inwardly. Jessica West had passed the first test. The stylist had only recently come to Cassandra’s attention. She had already met her of course – at the Versace party during Milan Fashion Week – and Cassandra remembered thinking that Jessica was bright and confident. She had been making a name for herself dressing celebrities; so much so that several big names had been requesting that she style them when they were being shot for
Rive
magazine. She was very beautiful, extremely thin – even slimmer than Cassandra – which she both admired and resented. It was a fine line.
‘As you know there is the possibility of an editor-at-large position at
Rive,’
said Cassandra, cutting straight to the chase. ‘I’m looking for someone with excellent social contacts and an unparalleled knowledge of fashion. It is a job traditionally held by a talented writer, editor and features visionary, shall we say. But I am willing to change the job description for the right person.’
‘Would it involve any styling?’ asked Jessica. She had deliberately sought out Cassandra at the Versace party and was glad her hard work was paying dividends. And to think she almost hadn’t gone.
Cassandra arched an eyebrow. Jessica was no Giles. She doubted whether the girl could string a sentence together but it wouldn’t do any harm to have an additional member of staff on board who had a knack of charming celebrities; after all, Deborah Kane was hardly coming up with the goods these days.
‘We could be flexible. Tell me about yourself.’
‘I’ve dressed loads of stars for all the big red carpet events this year. I’ve been in New York a lot since the summer so I have great contacts with the East Coast publicists. Plus I have excellent music contacts – I went out with Rob Holland the CEO of Hollander for a long time.’
‘Rob Holland?’ asked Cassandra, suddenly curious. ‘Rob rents our family home Winterfold.’
‘What a coincidence,’ smiled Jessica. ‘I adore Winterfold.’
‘Funny I never saw you in the village. When did you split up?’
‘Oh, it petered off a couple of months ago,’ said Jessica vaguely. ‘We’re still friends though,’ she added quickly.
This was the other reason Cassandra had wanted to meet Jessica apart from her growing reputation as a celebrity stylist. When she had met Jessica at the Versace party she knew she had seen the striking red-head somewhere before. It eventually dawned on her that it had been at Laura Hildon’s wedding; she had been sitting next to Rob in church and had danced cheek-to-cheek with him at the black tie dinner.
‘Rob is quite close to my cousin, Emma,’ said Cassandra with a small smile. ‘I never could work out what was going on between them.’
‘Emma?’ She searched Cassandra’s face, and seeing she had found an ally began to talk more openly.
‘She’s just his landlady. I’m sure she fancied Rob, probably still does but he wasn’t interested.’
‘And how do you know that?’ asked Cassandra.
She saw a split second look of distaste cross Jessica’s face.
‘Aside from the fact that she’s hardly his type,’ she said, her mouth turned downwards, ‘I don’t think anyone will ever get a look in with Rob’s ex-girlfriend Madeline and child hovering in
the background. I mean, Rob even spent Thanksgiving with them. Plus I saw him and Madeline together in New York at Sant Ambroeus and they looked very cosy. I’d say they were definitely back together.’
‘That
is
interesting,’ purred Cassandra. ‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’
‘Disappointed? Of course not,’ said Jessica quickly. ‘We’re just good friends.’
‘Just like Rob and Emma,’ replied Cassandra, smiling. ‘Just like Rob and Emma.’
Tom was in love. He realized it on the M4 heading out of London towards Oxfordshire. The clues were all there: the Kensington town-house he was house-sitting was luxurious – silk sheets, basement pool, home cinema – yet here he was, making the journey out to Chilcot for the weekend in the slim hope of bumping into Stella in the Feathers.
Stella
he thought with a ridiculous grin on his face as he pressed down the accelerator of his ancient Mini. Just her name was enough to get his heart leaping. She felt so good for him, so right and now she was single. And it didn’t help that she was gorgeous, of course. He had fallen in lust with her the minute he’d first laid eyes on her at the Milford shoot. Not that he’d been silly about it; he’d still slept with at least a dozen stunning women in Ibiza, but the point was that he’d found it difficult to shake Stella from his mind. Yes, her luminous beauty beguiled him, but having got to know her and spend time with her through her recent traumas, it was her strength and kindness that had really won him over. After the smoky journey to Cornwall, Stella had presented him with a gift-wrapped box of nicotine patches. It was an affectionate joke, but he had not smoked in two weeks. He’d been off the drugs too – all right, so he could barely afford them – but it was more than that, it was because Stella had given him something else to look forward to.
Tom flexed his frozen fingers; they were nearly numb and the Mini’s heating couldn’t have picked a colder night to give up the ghost. Despite the weather he was in a good mood as the car chugged off the motorway, onto the A-roads and finally down the winding country lanes towards Chilcot. The night before he had
seen a fantastic band, Red Comet, play at one of his favourite pubs in Camden. He’d chatted to the band at the bar and after a number of drinks had convinced himself they were the next big thing. Now Tom was keen to catch up with Rob Holland to pass on their CD and see if he was as excited by them as he was. Suddenly Tom’s smile faded.
I’ve got to find some way of hitting the big time,
he thought.
Rain was now spitting on the windscreen and visibility was poor.
His mother’s house was on the edge of the village and as he approached, he ducked his head to peer through the smeared windscreen. Dammit! Her car was already on her drive and there wasn’t another parking space within a hundred yards of her house; by the looks of it there was some function going on at the Feathers. He drove past the house and turned into a lane that led off towards the common. He got out quickly, zipping his jacket up to his chin and started walking briskly back towards the house.
Tom barely felt the blow; it all happened too quickly. Something solid cracked hard against the back of his head and his body simply slumped to the ground. Instinct told him to raise his hands to his face, and between his fingers he could make out the shape of a boot coming towards him again and again. His nose cracked and he could feel the blood pour down his face. Blows were raining down all over his body, pain everywhere. Finally he was jerked upwards and a strong hand lifted him by the collar of his jacket.
‘You know why we’re here, doncha, sunshine?’ growled a voice, close to his face. ‘If we don’t get what we want, we will be back. And next time, we’ll cut your balls off.’
The man released Tom, letting him drop, his skull banging against the pavement.
Tom curled into a ball, expecting more kicks, feeling the raw pain all over his body but he didn’t dare cry out in case he provoked more violence. He only began to moan when he heard a car engine gun and roar away. Wincing, he reached into his pocket but realized he’d left his mobile in the car. He rolled over and dragged himself off the ground but was only able to walk doubled-over in a crouch. It was only fifty yards to Julia’s house, but it might as well have been a thousand. He could feel blood dripping down his cheek onto the pavement. Vomit was rising in his throat.
Not much further,
he told himself, willing his body to move forward. He fell
against his mother’s front door. Time seemed to stretch out as he pushed the doorbell.
‘Tom!’ screamed Julia as she opened the door and watched her son fall towards her. ‘Darling, what’s happened?’ She knelt on the ground and rested his head in her lap, blood smearing over her skirt.
‘Who did this?’ she asked, weeping.
It was a minute before Tom could even open his bruised mouth to speak.
‘I owe some people money, from Ibiza. A
lot
of money, Mum. And now they want it back.’
Christmas was one of Cassandra’s favourite times of the year, in spite of being a hectic time in the office. Production of
Rive
shut down for ten days over the holiday season which meant that not only did they have to have the February issue finished and at the printers, but they also had to have completed most of the March issue as well. The pill was, however, sweetened by the glut of presents that came flooding in from grateful advertisers and fashion houses all thanking her for a ‘wonderful year’. The cream B&B Italia sofa in Cassandra’s office was already piled high with gifts: a set of Prada skis, a large monogrammed suitcase from Louis Vuitton, an Alberta Ferretti cashmere coat, fourteen handbags and a beautiful card from Dolce & Gabbana instructing her to go into the shop and pick anything she wanted.
These were what Cassandra called her A-division presents, gifts she would keep for herself or possibly put in Ruby’s Christmas stocking. On another pile on the Perspex table were the B-division presents: bottles of champagne, leather purses, a Tiffany key-ring, an assortment of kitchen appliances, three Smythson diaries, a Roberts radio and a certificate for a course for six micro-dermabrasion sessions. These were presents destined for her mother, favoured members of staff or to be ‘re-gifted’ to friends not in the fashion industry who wouldn’t suspect that they were free. Perched on an office chair by her desk were offerings so gross that Cassandra could barely comprehend how they could come from anyone working in the fashion industry: cheap chocolates or low-grade scented candles. Cassandra snatched up a nasty-looking red passport holder and smelt it.
Not even leather!
‘Who the hell is this from?’ she said, thrusting it at Lianne who was cataloguing the gifts ready for thank you notes. Her assistant pulled a face.
‘That’s from Glenda McMahon.’
Cassandra was about to give her opinion on the kind gift when she saw Jeremy Pike, Francesca Reeve and David Stern at the door.
‘What’s this? A military coup?’ said Cassandra, sitting back in her chair.
‘We hate to disturb you,’ said Jeremy, eyeing the gifts with undisguised envy, ‘but the whole office is really worried.’
‘What is it?’ asked Cassandra, tossing the wallet into her drawer.
‘There’s a story on the Media Guardian about Alliance being sold.’
So the wheels were in motion,
she thought, trying to keep her face impassive.
She’d had several meetings in the last few weeks with Girard-Lambert boss Pierre Desseau at his smart Neuilly townhouse. By necessity, they had met in complete cloak-and-dagger secrecy as this was nothing less than industrial espionage. Cassandra had fed Pierre everything she knew about her company: its plans to launch new magazines, its digital strategy, the planned and actual marketing spend, plus the holy grail for a competitor – their unmassaged sales figures. In return, Pierre had outlined his plans for the takeover. She had been aware therefore that he was about to buy up Alliance stock which was floating on the open market in preparation for his bid, but she wasn’t aware that he had yet approached Isaac Grey to make his offer. Cassandra felt adrenaline flood into her system: the game was afoot. A sales rumour probably meant the hostile bid might be imminent but it might also make the deal vulnerable to other media sharks smelling blood. She hoped against hope that it was the former because she only had a week. The deal had to be done before Christmas or her moment of glory would be in jeopardy.
‘To my knowledge Isaac Grey doesn’t want to sell,’ said Cassandra evenly, meeting the anxious gaze of her team.
‘But is it possible? What about our jobs?’
‘What about our
expense accounts?’
asked Francesca. ‘Isaac really understands our needs, but it’s a nightmare at some companies. They won’t let you take taxis, let alone helicopters.’
‘Everything is going to be fine,’ said Cassandra, smiling confidently.
‘Stop worrying about it. It’s Christmas! Why don’t you all help yourselves to something from the table?’
Jeremy took some champagne. David took the radio.
‘You know I have enough of this stuff myself,’ smiled Francesca politely.
‘Quite,’ replied Cassandra, pleasantly.
In the nick of bloody time,
thought Cassandra, putting down her black coffee as she read the headline in the
Financial Times.
She buzzed Lianne.
‘Get me Eileen Donald, I don’t care where she is – just find her. And cancel the ten o’clock meeting.’
Cassandra hung up and read the story again, more slowly this time. So Girard-Lambert had managed to push the takeover through two days before Christmas, she smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. A
‘multi-billion dollar deal’
reported the
FT
excitedly, singling out
Rive
as
‘publishing’s crown jewels’.
Well, in the nick of time it might be, thought Cassandra, but the timing couldn’t have been better.
She looked up at the magazine flat-plan which was pinned to the wall next to her desk. The February issue was due at the printers the following day. The magazine printed in sections but the cover was due to go to press that evening. Well, there was about to be a change of plan. If Glenda thought she was running simultaneous Georgia Kennedy covers with UK
Rive,
she could think again.
She saw her telephone flash red and Eileen Donald’s number flashed in the LCD reader. Eileen was
Rive’s
production manager, the person responsible for making sure everything went smoothly between the text and pictures leaving the
Rive
office and the magazines rolling out of the printers.
‘Cassandra. Your PA said it was urgent,’ said Eileen in her crisp, efficient voice.
‘It is,’ replied Cassandra, leaning back in her chair. ‘There’s been a change of plan with the February cover.’
‘You’re kidding?’ said Eileen. ‘Cassandra, we print tonight! Has something fallen through?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘We’ve got hold of something absolutely wonderful.’
There was a long silence down the phone. Eileen was a no-nonsense woman and one of the few people in the company who dared say what she thought to Cassandra.
‘If it’s a new cover, we haven’t a hope in hell of getting it retouched and over to the printers in time for this evening.’
Cassandra pulled the Georgia Kennedy cover from the locked drawer besides her.
‘Eileen, darling, it’s already been done.’
Cassandra smiled to herself. The Georgia Kennedy cover had been ready to go for a month. Every blemish, every line had been removed from Georgia’s face. Her skin tone had been warmed up, her already svelte image trimmed with the power of digital retouching. She looked like a goddess.
‘In that case, it shouldn’t be a problem. Shall I warn the printers there’s another file on the way?’
‘You do that. Oh, one other thing,’ purred Cassandra into the receiver. ‘I need you to arrange an increase in the print-run by one hundred thousand. The issue is going to sell out instantly with what we currently have out there.’
She heard a faint splutter down the phone.
‘I haven’t got time to organize a huge hike in the print-run. What about additional paper stock? Do you know how much extra paper is needed for one hundred thousand extra issues?’ said Eileen with panic in her voice.
‘Just do it,’ said Cassandra with steel in her voice. ‘Borrow from our allocation for next month’s issue if you have to, or take it from
Rural Living
magazine. They’ll thank you for it when they see this issue.’
‘Cassandra, I’m going to have to get authorization from Greg Barbera for this.’
‘Greg doesn’t need to know. These orders have come from Pierre Desseau, the chief executive of Girard-Lambert – our new boss in case you don’t read the papers. I’m reporting directly to him. If you can’t carry out his orders, then you’d better have a think about what corporate takeovers invariably mean; redundancies, sometimes even dismissals.’
‘I understand,’ said Eileen quietly.
‘And Eileen, Pierre wants absolute discretion on this one. We want to take the industry by surprise with our big splash. Tell no one about the new cover or the additional print-run. And I mean
no one.’
She slammed down the phone and glanced into her still-open drawer to see the nasty passport holder sent by Glenda sitting there. She picked it up and threw it in the wastepaper bin next to her desk.
Choke on that, Glenda,
she thought smiling, before turning her thoughts to what she was going to wear for the Christmas party.