TASMINA PERRY

Guilty Pleasures

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishersLtd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Tasmina Perry 2008

Tasmina Perry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007264957

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007292950

Version: 2017-09-14

Dedication

To Fin with love

Epigraph

Whenever you confront an unbridled desire you are surely in the presence of a tragedy in the making.

Quentin Crisp

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

Also by Tasmina Perry

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Sometime in the 1980s

The residents of the South of France are too chic to consider themselves socially competitive, but in the villas that pepper the Côte D’Azur, one-upmanship was rife. Saul Milford, a man of not inconsiderable self-assurance, liked to think that he had the best villa in the whole area. An old mas in the foothills of Provence, Les Fleurs was not the biggest house but with its turrets and bright blue shutters, it was certainly the prettiest. Already that summer he’d had Princess Margaret, Mick Jagger and various other members of London’s beau monde round the kidney-shaped swimming pool. They’d all seemed to enjoy themselves and it was easy to see why. The grounds were studded with fabulous bronzes, sculpted by his dear friend Christopher Chase, one of England’s most prominent artists. There were olive groves, an abundance of poppies on the hillside, and in the sunshine, the Mediterranean sparkled like a sapphire in the distance. This evening, as dusk was settling on the grounds with a honey glow, it looked even more spectacular. It was excellent timing: tonight there was to be another party. Staff in white suits scurried around the pool plumping up cushions and filling silver ice buckets with champagne. The smell of spices from the kitchen mingled with the strong scent of lavender and the air crackled with anticipation of a fabulous evening ahead.

Saul smiled to himself, sipping lemonade freshly made from fruit in his orchard, silently congratulating himself that his purchase of the villa the previous summer had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. He could certainly afford it. His company, the luxury goods house Milford, was doing well. For years the company’s sumptuous leather products had been the preserve of the upper classes who ordered bespoke luggage for their exotic holidays. But the Eighties had seen the rise of a new, more democratic wave of millionaires riding on stock market killings. The City was awash with money and it was making Saul rich. Very rich. And what was the point of taking money to your grave?

Saul looked down from the terrace to where his two nieces Emma Bailey and Cassandra Grand were playing. From this distance, he could just about make out the dialogue between the two cousins. It was funny how personalities were set at such a young age. While the girls were similar in many ways, their differences were equally marked. So marked in fact, that Saul felt confident he could predict how their lives would unfold and the direction in which their desires and ambitions would take them.

Dangling her feet in the swimming pool Emma put a bookmark in her copy of Jane Eyre. At seven she was tall for her age, with clever, grey eyes that posed questions without the need to open her mouth.

‘Do you want to play chess?’ she asked her cousin.

‘No,’ replied Cassandra, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘What about hide-and-seek?’ Emma persisted.

‘No,’ snapped Cassandra impatiently.

‘Why?’

‘It’s for babies,’ said Cassandra painting a coat of red polish on her stubby square fingernails. The twelve-year-old had been excited about the holiday for months. She loved hearing Saul’s stories about rock stars and princesses and wanted to look perfect if she happened to meet any of them that evening.

‘Why don’t you go and ask Tom,’ she added coldly, pointing to her three-year-old brother who was busily rummaging in a flower bed getting soil in his hair.

‘Tom’s too young to play,’ replied Emma, refusing to be fobbed off.

Cassandra looked up at her cousin, her eyes squinting up in the sun.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘Come on, Cass,’ Emma persisted. ‘There’s loads of places to explore. We could go and look for butterflies. I bet there are millions in this garden. I’ve got a book in the villa that tells you how to identify them.’

‘You are such a swot,’ tutted Cassandra, smoothing down her long dark hair. ‘We’re on holiday. Can’t you just relax by the pool like a normal person? Listen, I’ll paint your nails if you give me fifty pence.’

‘I haven’t got fifty pence.’

‘Well, you’d better go and find something else to do then,’ said Cassandra, ‘on your own.’

‘OK then. I will,’ said Emma. Above her on the terrace, Saul Milford smiled and then walked back into the house to get ready for the party.

She hadn’t been able to sleep. How was she expected to with the music and turquoise light reflected from the swimming pool seeping through the shutters? She had crept out of bed and gone to watch the party from the safety of the terrace. In the glow of a thousand tea-lights the whole scene looked spectacular as hundreds of impossibly glamorous people were laughing, drinking and dancing under an umbrella of moonlight.

Minutes earlier she’d been on the verge of going down to find her parents when Saul, taking a break from the action, had caught her.

‘What are you doing here, I thought you went to bed hours ago,’ he’d said sitting on the terrace next to her.

‘How can I sleep with all this going on? It all looks so beautiful,’ she had explained.

‘There’ll be time to enjoy all this when you’re older,’ he’d smiled putting his arm round her. ‘One day all this is going to be yours.’

‘Really Uncle Saul?’

‘Really,’ he’d laughed, draining the last of his champagne and standing up. ‘Now come on, off to bed! You know I can’t protect you if your father finds out you’re still up.’

What a wonderful holiday it had been! As it was the last night of the trip she had no desire to go back to bed. She waited until Saul had returned to the party and then wandered away from the house, walking deeper into the grounds, wanting to make the night last as long as she could.

The further she walked moving away from the candles around the pool and the buttery light spilling from the villa, the darker it became, only flecks of starlight peppered the tarry sheet of sky above her. The high rasp of frogs in the trees replaced the chirp of crickets and the air began to lose its floral scent. Still she carried on walking, the damp grass tickling her bare feet, drawn by a faint light in the distance. As she approached the light, she saw it was coming from the little wooden house she had explored with her cousin earlier in the week. She had wondered then what might be inside it, but it had been locked tight. She was not easily scared but for a moment her steps slowed as she wondered whether to turn back to Les Fleurs, now so far behind her that it was nothing more than a black shape in the distance. Suddenly she caught sight of a dim outline of a figure through the dusty glass of the outbuilding. Curious, she edged closer, freezing when she heard a low moan from inside. She was now just below the shed’s dirty window. Holding her breath, she slowly raised her head and peered inside. The glass was so filthy it was like looking through smoke. At first, she was unable to make out what or who was inside. But as she pushed her face closer she let out a gasp – at first in puzzlement and disbelief and then in horror, as she realized what was happening in front of her. Stumbling back, she fell and scraped her arm on a rock. She looked up at the window, then back to the villa. She knew she should leave – run back to her bed as fast as she could – but as if pulled by a force she could not control she looked through the window again, hoping against hope that what she had seen was just her imagination. But no: the vile image was still there. Shaking her head to rid it from her mind, tears streaming down her face, she turned and ran back to the villa, not yet aware that what she had just seen would change her life forever.

1

Twenty-three years later

Sitting in the passenger seat of an ink-black Mercedes, Emma Bailey turned round and watched the white Federal-style mansion fade from view, bringing to a close one of the most stressful days of her life. She blew out her cheeks, smiling to herself at a job well done. Emma had spent the last twenty-four hours charming and cajoling industrialist PJ Frost, attempting to persuade him that her company Price Donahue was the right one to advise him on a billion-dollar mergers and acquisition strategy. Emma’s head was swimming. Not just from the pressure, but from dinner last night; a seven-course tasting menu with free-flowing vintage champagne that she had been in no position to refuse. Frost was from the old school where deals were brokered over food, liquor and preferably blood-sports, which she was glad to have been spared.

‘We did it!’ laughed Emma, sinking back into the leather and watching the frosty white landscape speed by.

‘You did it,’ said her colleague Mark Eisner, one of the partners at the firm as he turned up the heated seats. ‘You were the one that got us the invite up here. You were the one who impressed him with the pitch. Price Donahue has been after the Frost business for years. You do realize that this is about twenty million dollars worth of fees?’

Emma smiled. She knew she had done well and it was good to hear her boss acknowledge it, but she had to admit a little bit of luck had helped; her chance meeting with PJ Frost at a business seminar had come at exactly the right time. PJ Frost had a vast industrial empire that took in everything from paper mills to food production. He was a billionaire, owned one of the finest homes in New England, a fleet of vintage sports cars and two Gulfstream jets, but when Emma had met him, he had just slipped out of the Forbes 400 and he was hell bent on re-igniting his business. Emma knew Price Donahue, one of the most prestigious management consultancy firms in Boston, were the firm to do it: they just had to convince Frost. Emma and Mark had made the long drive up to Vermont a day earlier and even if she did say so herself, they had done an amazing job presenting their ideas. The deal had been sealed on the Friday night. Unfortunately, then Frost had insisted they return to his mansion the next day and celebrate with a brunch of kedgeree, eggs Benedict and even more champagne.

‘My blood feels like pure Dom Perignon,’ groaned Emma, putting on a pair of sunglasses to ease her headache.

‘I could think of worse things,’ said Mark who’d had to stay sober to drive.

‘It’s not funny,’ she said in a croaky laugh. ‘I haven’t had a hangover since college.’

‘That was six years ago!’ teased Mark.

‘University not grad school,’ she smiled, feeling herself flush. ‘Eight years ago.’

‘Well, I particularly enjoyed it when you climbed on the grand piano to serenade Frost. I had no idea you were a gifted singer as well as a first-class brain.’

‘I didn’t!’ she said sitting up and snatching off the shades.

‘You did,’ said Mark Eisner, a slow, lazy smile curling at his lips. ‘You sang “Begin the Beguine”. I like you like that. Less wound up. Less serious.’

Emma stared at him, a look of horror on her face, until her foggy brain realized he was joking.

‘Ow!’ cried Mark, laughing, as she punched him on the arm. ‘I could have you up on a discipline charge for that!’

He looked back at the frost-dusted road again and smiled.

‘Hey, so you got a bit drunk. Don’t look at it as over-indulgence, look at it as a necessarily evil, Em. When you’re a partner you’ll soon realize that hollow legs are a pre-requisite of the job.’

Emma’s buoyant mood softened.

‘This weekend has got to have helped my chances, hasn’t it?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Of what?’

‘Partnership, of course.’

Although Emma had only been a Price Donahue manager for two years she felt sure she was in with a chance of being selected for partner. Yes, she was still not quite thirty, but she had brought in millions for the firm and her reputation alone had brought in a considerable amount of new business.

‘Well, don’t ask me, I don’t know anything,’ said Mark playfully. ‘You’re in the running but then you already know that.’

‘You don’t think they’ll say I’m too young, do you?’

‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ he said seriously. ‘Anyway, there’s a partners’ meeting on Tuesday before the final vote. I’ll tell them what a fine job you did of reeling in that old buzzard PJ Frost with your sharp mind and fine singing voice,’ he laughed.

It was getting dark as the soft-top SLK roared south, the trees and fields a blur.

‘Hey, where are we going?’ asked Emma, as Mark turned off the highway.

‘To celebrate,’ he smiled, reaching over and taking her cold hand. He pulled onto a side road through a thick forest of sugar maple and beech. Emma would have loved to have seen the glorious scarlet and orange of Fall, but the February frost, lying in a lacy veil on the trees, was just as beautiful. As they turned a corner, Emma could see that their destination was a log cabin by the shores of a small lake. Pulling up outside it, Mark got out of the car, went round to Emma’s side and opened the door, taking her hand to help her out. As she stood, he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the lips. She responded greedily, pushing her body up against his.

‘What is this place?’ she asked when they finally came up for air.

‘A hideaway for honeymooners and rich recluses.’

‘Which category do we fall in?’ she grinned.

‘A little of both,’ he winked. ‘And wait until you see inside.’

The cabin was everything you’d want from a luxury bolt hole in the wilderness. There were skis and Wellingtons in a rack by the door, while the main room was filled with big leather sofas draped with cashmere blankets. Velvet drapes hung at the windows and a stag’s head hung over the stone fireplace. It was cosy and romantic, just perfect. Emma turned to look at Mark and felt herself blush: perfect for an affair with the boss, she thought.

Emma had always considered herself too cautious, too sensible for anything so clichéd as a workplace fling, especially with her own boss, but Mark Eisner was the most handsome, not to mention brilliant partner at Price Donahue. But it was more than that, thought Emma, looking at him, carrying in their bags: Mark was good for her. They had been dating for three months; getting together at a mutual friend’s Thanksgiving drinks, and she still thought he was the most sexy man she had ever seen. With his dark brown hair and his smooth tanned skin, he looked more like a male model in a coffee advert than a city high-flyer. For the first time in a long time, Emma felt as if she was where she wanted to be. She loved her job, her life in Boston, being with Mark. And the cabin, she loved the cabin.

While Mark went to put their overnight bags in the bedroom Emma took off her coat and went to stand by the window to look out onto the lake.

The only thing that would have made it any more perfect would have been if they had spent a couple days up here. She’d have loved to have wrapped up in scarves and boots and gone for long walks together, plus there was some excellent skiing in Stowe, not too far from where they were now. But most of all, she wished she could stay here in bed, curled against Mark’s strong back and sleep. She was frazzled, wound-up and anxious. It wasn’t just the high-pressure sales pitch at PJ Frost’s mansion, it was the constant demands of her job and the 18-hour days were finally catching up with her. The irony was that she did have the next three days booked off work but that was for another reason.

Mark came over with two glasses of chilled white wine and handed one to her.

‘If the weather turns tonight we might get snowed in,’ she said looking up at the ominous white sky.

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said snaking her arm around her waist.

‘You do remember I have to be at the airport at four tomorrow afternoon.’

Mark reassured her with a smile.

‘We’ll make it even if I have to dig us out with my bare hands.’

‘I wish you were coming with me,’ she said stroking her finger across his cheek.

‘You know it will look odd if we both have time off at the same time,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure my PA suspects us as it is. We don’t want to rock the boat before partnerships are announced.’

Emma smiled.

‘Well, I don’t want anyone accusing me of sleeping my way to the top,’ she joked, privately in complete agreement that she didn’t want their relationship to become public. Not yet anyway. While office romances weren’t expressly forbidden at Price Donahue, she didn’t want to do anything that might harm her chances of promotion; wanting to minimize the recklessness of being with Mark in any way she could.

‘Anyway, I don’t exactly blame you for not wanting to come all the way to England for a funeral.’

‘You sure know how to show a guy a good time.’

Mark saw her face fall and regretted the joke.

‘Hey, Em, I’m sorry. I know how upset you were about your Uncle.’

She nodded absently.

‘After my dad died, Uncle Saul was more like a father to me than an uncle,’ she said. ‘He was the one who paid for my college fees. He was the only one to encourage me to go to university in the States. I spent a couple of summers working with him at his company and I think that helped me get into business school.’

‘So why do I get the feeling you’re not looking forward to going?’ asked Mark.

Emma sighed.

‘It’s not Saul. It’s the rest of the family …’

Mark waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.

‘You never talk about them. Your family,’ he prompted.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said turning away from him, but he pulled her back.

‘Hey, save it for when you get back from England,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘I want to know about them. I want to know more about you.’

Emma felt herself tense at the intimate gesture.

‘You will call me if you hear anything about the partnership?’ she asked.

‘Honey, please just relax and try and forget about it, huh? For today, we’re on holiday.’

As he held her she caught their reflection in the glass.

It had taken Emma time to grow into her looks but at 29 even her own natural modesty could not deny that she looked good. At work, she always downplayed her attractiveness by wearing little or no make-up, but then she had a naturalness that suited it. Wavy, dark-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, her cheekbones were high, her mouth naturally full, and when she smiled it warmed up her intelligent grey eyes.

Moving closer, Mark slipped his fingers between two buttons of her shirt and under the lacy fold of her bra until his fingertips brushed her nipple.

Mark said, ‘You’re so beautiful.’

Emma would usually deflect compliments, deny them, or make them into a joke, but his touch seemed to sear her skin.

‘I love you,’ he whispered suddenly, looking into her eyes. Emma felt her stomach gallop.

‘You mean it?’ she said not knowing of any other way to respond.

He nodded pushing back a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

She let her body sink into his, and for the first time in weeks she felt such a sense of calm and belonging that she welled up with emotion.

‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

Mark moved his lips towards her neck running them down her skin.

‘I’m sure I saw a bed somewhere around here,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. ‘I think it’s about time we went and checked it out.’

She kissed him on the mouth, then started unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his navel.

‘Who needs a bed?’ she asked, looking up and smiling wickedly.

2

Nothing as dramatic – or enjoyable – as getting snowed into a luxurious Vermont log cabin made Emma late for her uncle’s funeral.

Her Sunday evening flight had been sitting on the runway for three hours and it was this that had thrown her entire schedule off kilter. That was the way Emma functioned; with order and precision and just a little margin left over as a safety net. But this time even her careful approach had let her down; by the time the taxi had made the fifty-mile journey from Heathrow to the tiny Oxfordshire village of Chilcot where the funeral was being held, she could already hear the rousing sound of hymns coming from inside the church.

‘Shit, shit, shit, it’s started,’ she mumbled, making a dash for the church. Wincing as the double doors groaned loudly she squeezed inside and slipped into the end of the nearest pew.

‘I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me though he were dead yet shall he live.’

As she listened to the hollow sound of the vicar’s voice echoing around the small church, Emma felt a pang of regret wash over her.

It had been three years since she had seen her Uncle Saul. Working at Price Donahue had meant that her holiday time was cut to a miserly two weeks a year. There was barely enough time to get to Martha’s Vineyard let alone make the long journey to her family home. She should have made the time but she hadn’t and now it was too late. Saul was dead, his coffin festooned with roses at the front of the altar. The life-force of the family, the bon viveur, the glue that had seemed to hold everyone together, was gone.

Emma’s own father was buried in Chilcot church’s grounds and it made the day seem even more poignant. She shut her eyes and for a split second she pictured herself running around Saul’s villa as a little girl the summer before her father died. She could still almost smell Les Fleurs; the riot of scent from pine to jasmine, lavender to thyme. She remembered the wonder of seeing hilltop medieval villages for the first time and the illicit swigs of rosé smuggled from the kitchens by Cassandra. It had been the last perfect summer.

The service ended with ‘Jerusalem’, after which the coffin was carried down the aisle and the congregation streamed out into the grounds. Emma estimated there were over 200 people crammed into the narrow aisles; it was no wonder. Saul had been the patriarch of the village and Milford was still the main employer of most of its residents. It explained why so many of them were here, spilling out of the church, some of them in tears. Searching the crowd she vaguely recognized senior managers from the company. There was also a peppering of the London crowd that Saul had hung around with for four decades: elegant women with smart hats and impressive-looking husbands, well-known businessmen, politicians. She recognized Soraya, the Sixties supermodel, Terry O’Neill, even a handful of ageing rock stars.

‘Finally,’ said a disapproving voice behind her accompanied by a tap on the shoulder. ‘Please tell me you were at the back of the church.’

‘Yes, Mother, I was at the back of the church,’ said Emma with a sigh, leaning in to kiss her mother Virginia. She was exquisitely dressed in a charcoal suit, her silver blonde hair swung in an elegant bob around her pinched disapproving face. At almost sixty, she was still beautiful in a way Emma was not, finely boned, elegant, regal.

‘My plane was three hours late. You did get my message?’

‘Your mother was worried sick,’ snapped the man standing next to Emma’s mother. Jonathon Bond was her mother’s second husband. A stockbroker with pewter hair combed back in a slightly sinister style and a perpetually anxious expression, he had married Virginia within three years of Emma’s father’s death when she was still only ten. It was approximately at that point that Emma had begun to feel as if she were surplus to requirements within her own family. Emma liked to tell herself that she hadn’t intentionally drifted apart from them, but the truth was she had wanted to leave England to escape from a mother who seemed to have no interest in anything outside her new marriage. But if she had subconsciously tried to punish her mother by moving to another continent, Virginia hadn’t seemed to have been particularly bothered.

Today was the first time she had seen her mother in six months. She had invited her mother and Jonathon over to Boston for New Year, but Virginia had declined, saying Jonathon had to be at the office over the holiday. She’d since learnt from her cousin Tom that they’d actually spent New Year staying at the Four Seasons in Manhattan instead. Emma had thought she had stopped feeling disappointed with her mother but it seemed as if this was something she would never get over.

‘Cassandra was here early,’ said Virginia shortly, ‘She had to come all the way from some fashion show in New York.’

‘And I thought you had a boyfriend coming over?’ said Jonathon looking around.

‘Who told you that?’ said Emma with surprise.

‘Your mother said there was some chap at work.’

‘Mum, please. It’s nothing serious,’ said Emma, suddenly feeling like a teenager.

‘It never is serious, is it?’ said Virginia, ‘unless it’s work.’

Seemingly tiring of the conversation, Jonathon grabbed Virginia’s arm.

‘Come along,’ he said briskly, ushering them after the crowd, ‘they’ll be burying the poor sod.’

The mourners had collected around the grave with the family standing in a row behind the vicar. At the end of the line, Emma watched them. The head of the family, of the Milford dynasty, was now her Uncle Roger. Still a handsome man she thought, looking at his well-toned frame wrapped in a long black coat. His blond hair was well-trimmed, and just lightly flecked with grey even though he was in his mid-fifties. His beautiful wife Rebecca, a local girl who had tamed the company playboy stood behind him, tall, slender and blonde with wide feline eyes; the perfect accessory for the new Lord of the Manor. Tom, Cassandra’s brother – all grown up now, she noted – was dressed in something that only loosely qualified as a suit. Tom’s mother Julia, an art dealer whose company Emma had always enjoyed, was at his side. And then there was Cassandra. Her eyes were obscured by the rim of an enormous black hat but that exquisite bone structure was still visible. She lifted her head and caught Emma looking over towards her; she gave Emma the hint of a smile. Moving to America had meant that Emma had got out from beneath the shadow of her charmed, more glamorous older cousin. But Emma had never been able to quite escape the voices. ‘Cassandra is dating a rock star.’ ‘Did you see Cassandra on television?’ ‘Oh, Cassandra makes us all so proud.’

After Saul’s body had been laid to rest, Emma went back inside the church to find the case she had stowed in the pew. As she walked out, the leafy grounds were almost empty as most of the crowd had taken advantage of the fleet of cars laid on to ferry the mourners to Saul’s home Winterfold for the wake. But one striking figure was standing on the path. Cassandra.

Emma’s heart sank. Cassandra’s love of pretty skirts and beads when they had played together as children had translated into a career as one of the top editors in the world. Her magazine, Rive, was the most respected fashion publication on the planet and Cassandra was the living embodiment of it: elegant, poised and, to Emma’s eyes, snooty and pretentious. Not much had changed there, she thought. Twenty-odd years on from Saul’s villa and Cassandra still had the power to make Emma feel awkward and ungainly.

‘Oh. Has everybody gone?’ said Cassandra as Emma approached. ‘I was just talking to the vicar about doing a Gothic shoot in the church grounds. Some of those over-grown tombs are stunning.’

Emma smiled nervously and motioned towards one of the Mercedes cars.

‘Fancy jumping in this one?’

‘This is actually my driver,’ said Cassandra quickly. ‘But feel free to join me.’

‘Donna Karan?’

‘Sorry?’ asked Emma as she struggled to get her case onto the seat next to her.

‘Your suit. Donna Karan last season.’

‘Er, yes. I think so,’ replied Emma remembering how she had bought the trouser suit because it was smart and black and for no other reason beyond that.

‘Beautiful service, though,’ said Cassandra. Her mind had already moved on: ‘I got Robbie Van Helden to do the flowers. He does Elton’s parties.’

Emma nodded nervously.

‘How long are you staying?’ she asked, filling the silence.

‘Oh, I have to get back to London tonight,’ said Cassandra. ‘It’s all rather inconvenient, slap bang in the middle of the collections. Never mind. When duty calls …’

She smiled and Emma thought how unusual it was that Cassandra seemed to be in such a buoyant mood. Emma found her spiky and was usually walking on egg-shells whenever she spoke to her. The slightest thing could send her into a hissy-fit.

‘I’d leave now but I can’t miss the big family powwow,’ continued Cassandra ordering her driver to take them to Winterfold.

‘Pow-wow? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, didn’t you hear? Apparently Saul wanted his will to be read, so it’s happening tonight while everyone is still here.’

Emma frowned. ‘How odd. I thought that the reading of the will died out about fifty years ago.’

‘You know Saul, the old queen. He loved a bit of drama. Anyway, you shouldn’t complain about it happening tonight. It saves you coming back from Boston,’ smiled Cassandra.

‘I suppose Uncle Roger will finally get his hands on the company then,’ said Emma, wondering for the first time what would happen to Saul’s extensive assets. Cassandra dipped her hat, so Emma couldn’t see her face.

‘Don’t be so sure.’

They fell into silence as the car sped through the lanes of the village. Past the Feathers pub where Emma had bought her first drink, past the park where her father had chased her and pushed her on the swings. There were many happy memories but some were still too painful to think about. She looked away.

The car swung into the avenue of lime trees that ran up to the manor house. A grand Georgian mansion, set in 800 acres of grounds, Winterfold had a haughty, almost severe beauty. Emma knew the story well of how the house came to be in her family; as a child it had been told to her at bedtime like a fairy tale of the beautiful aristocracy and their fantasy lives. The house had once belonged to the Greystone family, who had built the house from the proceeds of their merchant banking fortune. Merrick Milford, Emma’s great-grandfather, was a local saddler’s apprentice who had developed a reputation for being exceptionally skilled. The lady of the house, Lady Eleanor Greystone, was a keen horsewoman and had admired Merrick’s work on her own saddles, so had asked to meet this young talent. Visiting the house, Merrick had been fascinated by a beautiful collection of trunks in the hall which Lady Greystone informed him were made by Goyard, the Parisian luggage house who supplied everyone from Indian maharajas to French aristocracy.

Buoyed by his mistress’s praise and full of the arrogance of youth, the handsome young artisan had boasted: ‘If you provide the materials, m’lady, I will make you a set of luggage even finer than this one.’

Taking him at his word, Lady Greystone delivered the finest leather, wood, brass pellets and canvas to Merrick’s cottage on the outskirts of the village the following week. Six weeks later Merrick delivered six trunks that all neatly fitted inside one another like Russian dolls. The leather had been hand-stitched and coated with beeswax to seal it. Each trunk had a fine brass lock, forged by himself. The influential Lady Eleanor told her friends and the young saddler was in business. When the First World War had passed and the upper classes resumed their travels, it was to the small Oxfordshire company Milford that they turned for exquisite bespoke luggage, not Goyard and Vuitton.

Twenty years and one good marriage later, Merrick Milford had elevated his position in society. The fortunes of the Greystone family, however, had not been so fortunate, so when Lady Eleanor’s son Nathaniel gambled away the family fortune, the Greystones found a wealthy and eager buyer in the form of Edward Milford, Merrick’s son. And in the Milford family, Winterfold had grown and thrived.

As Cassandra’s car pulled up at Winterfold it was obvious, even now, that it was a well-tended and much-loved home. Flanking the pillars either side of the whitewashed steps were clipped bay trees and the black and white tiles on the pathway positively gleamed. The dove-grey brickwork and vast, sash windows looked well-kept, while spirals of smoke ascended from the four chimneys dotted around the roof.

‘It really is a beautiful place, isn’t it?’ said Emma, almost as if voicing her own thoughts.

‘Do you think?’ asked Cassandra. ‘It rather gives me the creeps.’

As they were shown inside, Emma had to admit Winterfold was an acquired taste, a unique house that was part home, part museum, adorned with an eclectic mixture of antiques, art and objets d’art from Saul’s travels around the world. Crossed Maori war-clubs and grinning masks looked down disapprovingly over an exquisite Louis-Quinze writing desk; a stuffed lion’s head shot on the Serengeti plains loomed over a roughly-carved French medieval fireplace that Saul claimed had once belonged to Gallic royalty itself. The owner’s living environment reflected the man and Saul Milford had been an adventurer. So much so, that when Emma had heard about her uncle’s death, she had been surprised that it had been something as ordinary as a heart attack, and that he hadn’t been lost as he ballooned over the Pacific or been savaged by wild jackals in Tanzania. Emma smiled at the scene: amid all this chaos, this eclectic clash of cultures, tea and cake was being quietly, reverently served. Saul would have roared. Nevertheless Emma accepted an elegant bone-china cup from Morton, Saul’s butler, and watched as visitors quietly stepped forwards to offer condolences to the family, the only note of drama being the swelling sound of Wagner in a background. The wake lasted barely an hour; the mourners seeming to disperse almost as quickly as they had arrived at Winterfold. Slowly the mourners left and Roger began ushering the family into Saul’s study to the left of the grand staircase. Emma rubbed her red eyes; her jet-lag was kicking in and she would be grateful when the whole thing was over and she could get back to Boston.

‘Em! How are you? I haven’t managed to talk to you all day.’

A handsome young man in his mid-twenties nudged Emma’s arm.

‘Hello Tom,’ she smiled, grateful for the first genuinely warm welcome she’d had since she’d arrived in England.

‘How’s the mistress of the universe? That’s what they call you people, isn’t it?’

Emma laughed. ‘I’m a management consultant, not some Wall Street banker.’

‘Oh yes, Mum did tell me,’ grinned Tom, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Sounds like a right old racket to me. You’re brought in and paid millions of quid to tell the management team they’re not good enough at their job?’

She tapped him playfully on the arm.

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

She liked Tom. He was funny, sweet and handsome, with a scrub of dirty blonde hair and a square chin that stopped him being pretty. She heard from him through emails full of smiley faces and barely legible missives about his latest line of work. Expelled from practically every public school that would have him, he had spent the time since he’d ‘mucked up’ his A-levels drifting round Europe and the US doing bar work in Amsterdam, photography in New York and some ill-defined ‘business’ or other in Dublin.

‘Ah, but you would say it’s complicated wouldn’t you?’ teased Tom. ‘Can’t have us cheeky little boys pointing at the Emperor’s New Clothes, now can we?’

Emma tried to look severe, but just ended up giggling.

‘So where are you working at the minute?’ she asked.

‘I’m considering my options,’ shrugged Tom. ‘Hey, maybe I need a management consultant to sort me out?’

‘Maybe,’ laughed Emma taking a cup of coffee from a waiter. ‘Or maybe you just need to get up before noon!’

‘Actually,’ whispered Tom theatrically, ‘I think I might be getting my big break at any moment. I’m sure Saul recognized my work ethic and business genius and is going to give me Milford lock, stock and barrel.’

‘You too?’ smiled Emma. ‘He used to promise it to me whenever he was drunk,’ she said remembering her uncle’s words, One day it will all be yours.‘You know what Saul was like. He probably told Morton he was going to leave it all to him every time he made him a decent martini.’

She paused as she noticed her Uncle Roger beckoning them into Winterfold’s study. Walking into the room with Tom she glanced around. It was a small room for a house of such size. There was barely enough space for the wide desk by the bay window and the two Chesterfield sofas on either side of the marble fireplace, but it certainly had all the trappings of the gentleman’s retreat: there were leather-bound books lined up neatly along oak shelves, heavy midnight-blue velvet swags hung at the windows, and a creaky red wing-back club chair completed the picture. Outside it was gloomy and the wind made a whirling racket though the lime trees.

Tom nudged Emma as Roger walked in, taking his place in Saul’s old club chair with an air of natural authority.

‘I think someone else fancies his chances of getting his paws on Milford,’ he whispered.

Anthony Collins, Saul’s solicitor, had made the journey from Pimlico especially for the reading and was rather flustered. Sitting at Saul’s desk and taking a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase, he fussed for a while, laying them in complicated piles and arranging his notes. Finally he looked up at Roger who inclined his head as if to indicate his permission to begin.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for taking the time to come to this meeting,’ began Collins. ‘I know it’s not ideal having this meeting straight after the funeral, but Roger seemed to suggest it was the only time that we could guarantee everyone being here.’

Emma looked around at the family. Cassandra was perched on the arm of a Chesterfield, a high black stiletto dangling off one foot. Her mother was poised and dignified; Roger, regal and in control. They all had neutral, interested expressions, but she knew they must all be churning inside. And much as they tried to hide it, the buzz of expectation charged the air. Like vultures circling. The thought made Emma feel a little sick.

‘Well, I’ll keep it as brief as possible,’ said Collins, shuffling his papers again and putting on a pair of reading glasses.

‘The will is fairly straightforward. Of course I will answer any questions you have afterwards or you can always pop along to my office in London.’

Emma saw Cassandra give an impatient sigh, prompting Collins to clear his throat and peer intently at his notes. ‘There are a few small bequests of watches, cuff-links, and smaller financial gifts. I needn’t bother you with those. I will inform the beneficiaries first thing in the morning. Now. To the main part of the will …’

Collins paused, then began.

‘My 1967 Aston Martin DB7, 1956 Mercedes gull-wing coupé, 1983 Alfa Romeo Spider, 1966 E-type Jaguar and 1963 Ferrari 250 have all brought me immense pleasure in life and I give them to someone who I know will experience the same sense of joy. I therefore bequest them to my nephew Tom, to be held in trust by his aunt Virginia until Tom reaches the age of 30.’

‘Thirty!’ cried Tom, unable to contain himself. ‘What’s supposed to happen until them?’

Anthony cleared his throat. ‘Well, they are to be held by your aunt,’ he said simply.

‘Is that legal?’ he asked, dismayed.

‘Tom, please,’ said Roger sternly. ‘We’d all like to get this over as soon as possible.’

I bet you would, smiled Emma to herself. Whoever was the majority shareholder was invariably the chief executive of Milford, and as Winterfold was officially a company asset, whoever was CEO of the company would be its de facto owner and resident. She could see Roger’s wife Rebecca looking at the walls and carpets, no doubt planning what she was going to say to her interior decorators first thing in the morning.

‘To my darling niece Cassandra,’ continued Collins, ‘I give Les Fleurs, my Provence villa, knowing how stylish she will keep it and that she will continue the tradition of throwing the most fabulous parties in Europe.’

Emma saw Cassandra smile and nod, but she was sure she had also gone a shade whiter.

‘To my brother Roger, now head of the family, I bequest the chalet in Gstaad in the hope he will continue the tradition of a family Christmas in the snow.’

Roger looked straight at Collins, a frown on his brow. He looked as if he was about to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded. A hush had now fallen over the room, as if everyone was holding their breath. The hiss and pop of the fire seemed unnaturally loud and Emma could hear Roger breathing through his nose.

‘To my niece Emma, I give all my shareholding in Milford Industries. Over the years I have quietly watched her mature into a businesswoman of such force and reputation I feel safe in the knowledge that she will take the company to even greater heights than I have dared to dream. The wine cellar and art I also give to her in the hope that she will also find time to stop work once in a while and enjoy life.’

Emma felt stunned, then embarrassed and then a horrible creeping sense of guilt. She looked around to see the room shell-shocked. They were all staring at the fire, out of the window, at the floor; everyone was avoiding Roger’s gaze. Roger, meanwhile, had turned pink.

‘The residue of my estate, I give to my sisters Julia and Virginia,’ concluded Collins. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my client’s last will and testament.’

‘And you are absolutely sure this is the most up-to-date will in existence?’ asked Roger, his brows compressed anxiously.

‘Quite sure,’ said Collins decisively, averting his eyes momentarily when he saw the fury in Roger’s face.

‘And what about this place?’ asked Tom.

‘Winterfold is officially a company asset,’ said Collins. ‘The CEO of the company has traditionally lived here.’ He looked over at Emma encouragingly who just looked at the ground and shook her head. Suddenly, everyone started talking at once. The family had started breaking into small splinter groups, whispering intently. To Emma they were deafening.

‘He can’t be serious, can he … ?’

‘I can’t believe he would’

‘What on earth was he thinking… ?’

‘I felt sure he would have’

Roger was standing over Collins, his eyes scanning the will keenly. Cassandra walked over to the window, pulled out her mobile phone and pressed it to her ear. Emma walked to Saul’s club chair and sat down heavily.

‘Wow, Em! Well done to you!’ said Tom. ‘I mean, I have to say I’m surprised, but hey, it’s his money. So when’s the party begin?’

Emma laughed nervously. ‘I’m not sure everyone’s in the mood to party,’ she said quietly. She looked down and saw her hands were trembling.

‘So?’ Emma looked up to see Roger had moved over to her. He was a big man and his physical presence would have been enough to intimidate most people on a good day, but today he was bristling with barely-checked emotion, a little boy who has not been given the train set he had been promised. When she had been a little girl, Emma had always seen her Uncle Roger as a grown-up, as a rather strict figure of authority. But she was not a little girl now. Over the last few years, Emma had faced some of the world’s most powerful men, telling them in so many words why their companies were failing, listing their shortcomings and weaknesses. She was not easily scared.

‘Roger, please,’ she said, ‘I am as surprised as you. I can tell you that this certainly was not in my five-year plan.’

‘So you’re not interested in the shareholding?’

She bristled. Did he expect her to give it to him?

‘Not in so much that I have time to run the company,’ she said diplomatically, not denying to herself the prickle of excitement. ‘I have my life in Boston, as you know.’

‘So how much is it going to cost us?’ chimed Rebecca, attempting a smile, but baring her teeth instead.

Emma shook her head and put her hands out in front of her.

‘Roger, Rebecca. This is all a bit much for me to take in at the moment.’

‘But you can’t just sit there and …’ began Rebecca, before being cut off by Tom.

‘Exactly how much is “in remainder”?’ he asked Collins.

The solicitor suppressed a smile. He could always predict the questions and from whom they would come; funny how the feckless son should be asking how much his doting mother would be getting. He sighed. There was nothing like money to break up even the most harmonious families.

‘The remainder is what’s left of the estate,’ he said patiently. ‘It will take some time to quantify, of course. Obviously death duties and fees and so on have to be paid.’

‘What about the art at the Milford offices? There’s a couple of Matisse sketches, a small Miro …’ Julia added hopefully, looking up at a colourful abstract above the fireplace.

‘I suspect they are Saul’s own, in which case they pass to Emma.’

Julia’s face said it all: ashen and tight-lipped. She had always coveted the eclectic art in Saul’s home and had assumed he would send it her way, but not even the pieces in his office were destined to be hers. She looked as if she had been slapped. Cassandra, meanwhile, was sitting silently in the corner. Her face was expressionless. But she did not seem to be rejoicing in the gift of the villa in Provence.

Emma turned to see her mother. ‘You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping the shares,’ said Virginia slowly. ‘Roger has been Milford’s creative director for over twenty years.’

Emma gaped at her. She had never been very supportive as a mother, but this seemed a low blow even for Virginia. Saul’s bequest had – presumably – made Emma a rich woman, but even now she could not be happy for her, in fact she was thinking of her brother and his position.

‘I haven’t made any decisions about anything, Mother,’ said Emma shortly. ‘But when I do, you and Roger will be the first to know.’

She moved away and walked up to Cassandra, who was looking ready to leave.

‘You’ve got Les Fleurs,’ said Emma softly. ‘How wonderful!’

Cassandra smiled thinly. ‘I couldn’t have asked for better, could I?’ she said. Emma noticed that her eyes were not shining. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make an urgent call to the office.’

Emma flinched as Roger put his hand on her shoulder.

‘To the victor the spoils, eh?’ he said, with a forced jovial manner. ‘I know you have business experience, so I know you’ll weigh up the options and do what’s right for Milford. I know you’ll make the right decision. You take your time.’

He squeezed her shoulder and walked towards the door, leading Rebecca who was shooting daggers.

But Emma did not need to take her time. If Saul’s will had just made her a rich woman, then that was something to be thankful for. But had Saul expected her to come back to Milford and run the company? The whole afternoon had been ghastly and she could only imagine what a lifetime back here would be like. She wanted to go back to Boston, to Mark and her own life as quickly as she could.

3

Cassandra Grand had a dream, a dream that she had been nurturing since the age of thirteen. She wanted to be the greatest fashion legend since Coco Chanel, a style maven whose name was a billion dollar brand. She wanted to be fashion’s Martha Stewart, a female Tom Ford. She wanted it all and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in her way. Magazines were just the very start for Cassandra; she was already recognized as one of the top editors in the world and now she was ready to expand her empire. Some of the top luxury brands in the world had already come knocking, begging her to take on a consultation role, while her talent as a stylist meant she was still greatly in demand to style the hottest fashion advertising campaigns in the world. But there was one fly in the ointment: Emma Bailey. That bitch. Taking control of Milford had been a major part of Cassandra’s carefully laid plans. She’d known for years that the company was ripe for re-invention and had planned to rebrand it Cassandra Grand by Milford. Obviously, after a few years she would drop the fusty Milford label entirely, but by then, Cassandra Grand would be the hottest name in fashion. But of course, it hadn’t happened that way. Silly, foolish Saul had put a stop to that and it made her almost physically sick with fury; all the time, energy and expense she had wasted playing the dutiful niece! All those lunches at Claridge’s, the gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, the bottle of Petrus she had been sent by a French importer which had gone directly to Saul. And those dull family Christmas days spent with the family at Saul’s chalet in Gstaad when she could have been on a lover’s yacht in St Barts or at a friend’s villa in Mustique.

And hadn’t Saul promised the company to her? She remembered his words vividly.

‘One day, all this will be yours.’

He had promised her. He couldn’t just have meant the villa. Saul’s treachery, for that is how she viewed it, was like a body blow so hard it made her muscles ache. It was she, Cassandra, who was in fashion! She was the one with the contacts, the vision! She could have made Milford into a global force. The new Dior – bigger! And now it was over.

The lift pinged, the light flicked to ‘Floor 25’ and Cassandra was brought back to the present. This isn’t over, she thought, as the doors whooshed open and she strode into the Rive office. This is just a setback. Her spike heels clacked along as she looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the north side of the office. At least she had her job; it would see her through while she regrouped and planned how she would seize Milford back. And no jumped-up, middle-management nobody like Emma Bailey was going to stand in her way. Yes, she thought smiling, there was always another way.

‘Morning, Cassandra!’ said a voice to her left. The smile dropped from her face and she glared back, annoyed by the interruption to her thoughts. She was unusually late for a Monday morning and the office was already buzzing. Normally she would have been first in, usually before 8 a.m., but she had been obliged to start the day with a breakfast with the MD of Cartier. She enjoyed beginning the day alone, free from disturbances to collect her thoughts. To plan, to strategize. Cassandra was not a team player; she rated her talent and vision so far beyond the rest of her staff that she would gladly have crafted the whole magazine herself if time allowed. But even though she had cherry-picked her staff, she still sometimes felt as if she was dealing with amateurs and halfwits. As she passed through the glass doors into her plush office, her senior assistant Lianne met her halfway.

‘Art need to see you immediately,’ she said handing her a coffee; black, filter, scalding hot. Cassandra nodded and moved into her corner office to take her seat. It was a beautiful space, painted Dior grey and interior-designed to her specification, minimalist and chic. She sat down at her Perspex desk, uncluttered except for a white orchid, one in-tray full of layouts, another stuffed with party invitations and a pile of daily newspapers. Lianne had helpfully put the Time cutting announcing Cassandra as ‘twelfth most important woman in fashion’ in the centre of the glass. She picked it up and dropped it into the wastepaper bin without looking at it. Twelfth, she thought with annoyance.

Cassandra picked up the phone and punched Lianne’s extension.

‘Can you get Laura and Jeremy to step through as well. I want an update on the Friday’s cover-shoot.’

She was behind and it was a feeling Cassandra hated. She loved doing the shows; she never believed those editors who said the collections were a chore that needed to be suffered, but it kept her out of the office for days at a time. Cassandra was a control freak, she hated even the smallest detail of Rive being passed to the printers without her express permission and she didn’t let a minute go by when she didn’t know exactly where the magazine was up to. She looked up at the wall in front of her where miniature pages from next month’s issue had been pinned up: pages of glorious fashion by some of the world’s best photographers, opinion pieces by some of London’s most celebrated columnists. But there was one glaring hole: the cover story. She glanced at her calendar. It was down to the wire.

David Stern, Rive’s art director, came in first, wearing a black polo neck and holding a thick stack of photo paper.

‘I hope that’s the Phoebe shoot you have in your hands,’ said Cassandra.

Stern nodded.

‘I got Xavier to send over what he had. Awkward bastard. Said he wanted to retouch his selection before he would send anything.’

‘To which you replied …’ asked Cassandra.

‘Send over everything you have tout suite before Cassandra makes sure you never work for any magazine in the company ever again.’

‘Good answer,’ she said with a thin smile. She hated the power which photographers seemed to bestow upon themselves. If it wasn’t enough dealing with stroppy publicists, managers and agents, now she had photographers throwing diva hissy-fits. Well, Cassandra employed a zero-tolerance policy. If they wouldn’t play ball – her ball – then they would be dropped without a backward look. Rive was bigger than the sum of its parts; they could get a pensioner with a Brownie camera to shoot a fashion story and he’d be hailed as ‘the next big thing’.

David reverently laid three A4 prints on Cassandra’s desk, the pick of the shots from the Phoebe Fenton shoot. She stood up, and rested the palms of her hands on the Perspex to examine them. They were sensational. All shot three-quarter length, with Phoebe wearing just a pair of high-waisted cream jodhpurs so tight that they looked as if they’d been painted on.

In two of the frames, her long chestnut hair was covering her breasts, with just a cream triangle of navel visible. In the final image her hair had been blown away from her, fanning out like some Greek goddess. Christ she looks good, thought Cassandra. Phoebe Fenton had been the supermodel of the moment a decade earlier, but that was then and twelve months ago Cassandra would have laughed if she had been mooted to appear in British Rive. After Phoebe’s surprise marriage to Ethan Krantz, a New York property billionaire seven years ago, Phoebe had retreated into a world of Upper East Side gallery openings and benefit dinners for land-mine victims. Far too conservative, far too worthy and way, way past it. Phoebe belonged to the US edition of Rive with their airbrushed fantasy versions of big Hollywood stars and wholesome celebrities. But things had changed. Choosing who to put on your cover was not just about who but when. Timing was everything and a sudden scandal in a cover model’s private life could add 50,000 to a magazine’s sales; much more if your timing made it an exclusive. And Phoebe Fenton’s private life had suddenly gone into meltdown; her husband Ethan had run off with a Ukrainian model thirty years his junior. Phoebe and Ethan were now in the throes of a nasty divorce and Ethan was fighting hard for the custody of their three-year-old little girl, Daisy. Rumours were everywhere of Phoebe’s behaviour: drink, bisexuality, orgies, drugs. In the space of weeks, Phoebe had gone from all-American girl to all-American fuck-up. But up until now there hadn’t been anything solid beyond one grainy long-lens paparazzo photograph taken in St Barts of someone who may, or may not have been Phoebe Fenton kissing a mystery brunette and thus Phoebe’s public persona was as beautiful and gracious as it had always been.

Cassandra smiled. The images in front of her were the sexiest pictures she had ever seen of Phoebe. She congratulated herself for having picked Xavier to shoot her because these photos were fresh and fierce, erotic even. Shot by another photographer, Phoebe’s naked breasts might have looked salacious, but in the hands of the man the fashion industry was calling the new Helmut Newton they looked delicate, exquisite, artistic. Pure fashion.

At that moment Laura Hildon, Rive’s pretty blonde fashion editor, ran through the door, already talking.

‘What do you think?’ she gabbled. ‘It was the best we could do, she hated everything except the jodhpurs.’ She looked anxiously at Cassandra who was now holding the bare-breasted shot aloft.

‘What happened to the Vuitton waistcoat?’ she said icily. ‘I told you we needed to get Vuitton on the cover this issue. They haven’t had a cover credit in nine months and they are beginning to get tetchy.’

Laura looked stricken.

‘Actually, I don’t know what happened to the Vuitton top. I came into work to collect the clothes for the shoot on Friday morning and it had gone.’

‘Gone?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I think someone took it from the rail on Thursday night,’ said Laura, embarrassed. ‘I should probably bring this up another time but I think Francesca has been taking things from my selection for her shoots.’

Cassandra flashed a look at David, back to Laura and then waved a hand to dismiss it. ‘We’ll sort this out later. In the meantime, what are the inside shots like?’

It was Laura’s turn to shoot a look to David.

‘Haven’t you told her?’ she asked breathlessly.

David cleared his throat before taking a seat on Cassandra’s sofa.

‘It started off normally enough. Laura managed to get her in a couple of dresses, then after lunch the stylist turns up. Her stylist, I should add. Someone called Romilly, I’ve never heard of. They kept disappearing into the loos and they were glugging champagne like it was water. Phoebe went… well, she went a little weird after that. By five o’clock Romilly was saying that Phoebe wanted to show off her body. That she wanted to do her last great set of nudes.’

‘I think she was drunk,’ whispered Laura.

Cassandra couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

‘What’s the copy like?’ she asked, snapping back into business mode. ‘Jeremy?’

Jeremy Pike, her features editor, was tall, slender and effeminate, dressed as always in a slim-cut suit and a neckscarf.

‘Sorry I’m late, Cassandra,’ he said deferentially. ‘But I don’t think you’ll mind when you see this.’ He waved a sheaf of typed paper in the air. ‘I’ve just been waiting for Vicky’s copy to come in. She called me up over the weekend to tell me how the interview had gone and she was beside herself. Anyway – she’s just filed. Have a read of that.’

Cassandra read in silence, occasionally lifting her head to look at Jeremy, her eyes wide. Vicky Thomas had outdone herself this time. Vicky was one of the country’s best celebrity interviewers. Over fifty and overweight, she was the antithesis of everything Cassandra usually demanded in a Rive reporter. But an appearance that suggested a jolly cuddly aunt was just a ruse she’d use to get celebrities to let their guard down. Many stars who should have known better had fallen into her honey-trap and admitted to things they had never told their own partners. Publicists hated her; it could take years to undo the damage she caused. And now it appeared that nice Auntie Vicky had weaved her magic once again.

‘She interviewed her in Claridge’s before the shoot on Thursday,’ said Jeremy grinning. ‘Apparently it was so dull, Vicky said she might as well have handed her a press release. Luckily Vicky was at the shoot and suggested they go for a drink afterwards. That’s when it got interesting.’

Cassandra looked up from the copy. ‘I’ll say it did. She asked her about the mystery brunette photo.’

Jeremy nodded.

‘Yes, Phoebe actually admitted to being bisexual,’ he squealed, clapping his hands in delight. ‘She says everyone’s at it these days. She even named names.’

‘Was the tape running?’

‘All the time,’ smiled Jeremy.

Cassandra’s eyes scanned the page, her eyes growing wider as she read Vicky’s expertly-worded piece. It was perfectly balanced, managing to stay suitably fawning, while still letting the reader know exactly what was going on. She read out a passage to the stunned office.

‘“… Accompanying us to Annabel’s was the beautiful Romilly Dunn, the stunning New York stylist known for her colourful sex life, who proceeded to get cosy with Phoebe as the night rolled on.”’

‘Vicky says she can amend the copy to say Phoebe and Romilly were all over one another if you like,’ said Jeremy, ‘but she wanted to run it past you first.’

Cassandra knew she had more than a cover story here. Her passion and her expertise was fashion, but her journalistic skills were much wider than that. Ever since she had been parachuted in to British Rive three years earlier with a mission to bring the magazine back from the edge of extinction, she had constantly surprised the industry with what legendary Vanity Fair editor Tina Brown referred to as ‘the mix’, running beautiful fashion pages next to heavyweight intellectual essays, shopping tips next to campaigning reportage. Aware that the UK market was something of an also-ran in the fashion magazine arena compared to the mighty American publications, Cassandra had worked hard to harness London’s creativity, mixing high society with high fashion and street-level cool, bringing in artists, philosophers, DJs and schoolgirls, including them all in the super-luxe Rive world. Each month she made Rive an event, each issue contained a surprise, whether it was running shocking photo-spreads among Moscow tenements, or convincing Damien Hirst to design the sets for her couture shoots. At a time when magazines were getting more anodyne with airbrushed photo-shoots and fawning celebrity interviews, Cassandra dared to push her luck, constantly delivering the surprising and the innovative. It was an audacious, not to mention expensive and highly risky approach, but it had paid off. Rive wasn’t just the number one fashion magazine, it was the number one women’s glossy. And this month Phoebe Fenton was going to take them to a new level.

‘This is absolute dynamite,’ said Cassandra in a low voice, eager to now end the meeting and run the copy past the company lawyer.

‘OK, back to work,’ she barked, waving a hand in dismissal and swivelling around in her chair. She snatched up the phone and was just about to call the legal department when she noticed the red light on her second line was flashing.

‘I didn’t want to disturb you while you were in the meeting,’ said Lianne apologetically, ‘but Phoebe Fenton has been on the phone twice in the last ten minutes. She’s still holding.’

Cassandra groaned, holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece as she debated whether to wait until she had called the lawyers. But curiosity got the better of her and it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

‘Put her through.’

There was a click, then Lianne’s voice.

‘I have Cassandra Grand for you, Ms Fenton.’

‘Phoebe, darling,’ purred Cassandra settling back into her ergonomic chair. She knew Phoebe a little, as they had met at numerous shows and fund-raisers over the years, but she wasn’t a real acquaintance. Cassandra couldn’t afford get too close to celebrities, for obvious reasons. One week they could be hotter than the sun, the next in fashion Siberia.

‘Cassandra, honey, how are you?’ said Phoebe warmly. ‘Did you enjoy the shows?’

‘Vintage Kors. Calvin was a little predictable. Some wonderful colours at Matthew Williamson and Zac Posen. It was a shame you were in London but then I’m sure you had great fun on our shoot.’

‘Actually that’s why I’m calling,’ replied Phoebe.

‘Yes, I’m so looking forward to seeing the shots,’ said Cassandra enthusiastically. ‘I love Xavier’s work.’

There was a brief pause before Phoebe began again. Cassandra could tell Phoebe was picking her words very carefully.

‘Cassandra … I’m a little concerned about how things went.’

A little late for that, darling, she thought.

‘Oh, really?’ said Cassandra, feigning surprise. ‘I heard it went well. Xavier is a genius. We were very lucky to get him in London when the New York shows were on. He makes women look so strong. So beautiful.’

‘Yes, I was wondering if we could talk about that. I’m nervous about the shots and the implications of the interview. I was wondering if I could …’

‘Darling, you know we never give copy approval. Once we start, everyone wants it and then the whole magazine grinds to a halt,’ replied Cassandra, cutting her short.

Phoebe paused again.

‘Yes, I realize that. There’s just a few things I’d like to explain. In private? I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel for lunch.’

‘I’d love to, Phoebe,’ said Cassandra, beginning to enjoy herself, ‘but it’s London Fashion Week now. I’ve got to see the Paul Smith show and I have crisis after crisis to deal with here.’

‘Cassandra,’ said Phoebe, failing to disguise the annoyance in her voice, ‘we go back a long way and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t want to get lawyers involved when we don’t have to.’

‘Lawyers?’ laughed Cassandra. ‘Why on earth would we need to involve lawyers?’

‘Can you come to the Met for one o’clock? I’m in the penthouse.’

In that case I don’t feel too sorry for you, thought Cassandra.

‘I have a lunch at Cipriani but I could drop by at 12.30.’

‘See you then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

You have no idea how much, thought Cassandra, and hung up.

Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, Cassandra flipped open her compact and put on some lip gloss. She allowed herself a small smile at the face looking back at her. Many women would feel inferior meeting a supermodel for lunch but Cassandra honestly didn’t feel that way. She didn’t have their freakish symmetry or gangly frame, but she was undeniably a beauty, with high cheek bones and a feline slant to her vivid green eyes. Her nose was a touch too long, her chin a little too pointed and at five feet eight inches tall she tipped the scales at eight stone dead – to go a pound over might mean not fitting into the sample clothes. And as a modern style icon, that would be career suicide. Not that she didn’t have to work hard at it. Daily Pilates. Twice weekly tennis lessons. Three times a week Joel, the top session hairdresser, came to her Knightsbridge apartment at 6.30 a.m. to blow-dry her long dark glossy hair. Plus she visited the Mayr Clinic in Austria once a year to eat spelt bread and Epsom salts for ten days, returning with glowing skin, a flat stomach and an uncontrollable desire for ice cream. No, Cassandra Grand was not a drop-dead beauty, but she was the pinnacle of chic. Impeccably dressed in a simple, understated style, she wore no jewellery except for a large diamond stud in each ear lobe, a gift from a lover. In fact, except for the La Perla underwear, she had paid for nothing she was wearing; her entire outfit were gifts from fashion houses and luxury goods companies desperate for endorsement from one of the world’s most stylish women.

She snapped the compact shut as the car pulled up on Park Lane.

As Cassandra stepped out of the lift on the 10th floor into the penthouse of the Metropolitan, she could see the smudge of Hyde Park on the horizon through floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe was sitting on the cream couch wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. Long wavy hair the colour of coffee beans was tied in a ponytail. In her late thirties, Phoebe Fenton was still extremely beautiful, but her eyes looked tired and distracted.

‘Phoebe, darling! You look wonderful,’ said Cassandra, kissing her lightly on both cheeks.

‘Mineral water?’ asked Phoebe, reaching for a crystal tumbler.

Cassandra nodded. ‘Still.’

Cassandra sat carefully on the sofa opposite Phoebe and crossed her legs elegantly under her. I think I’m going to enjoy this she thought, accepting her drink with a smile. Phoebe no longer had an agent – in fact negotiations for the cover shoot had been done through her PA – and that instantly gave Cassandra the upper hand. A big Hollywood publicist could get you over a barrel. If you upset one star on their roster, they could and would refuse access to any of their charges. You wouldn’t even get photo approval for an ancient head-shot. But now Cassandra was in the driving seat.

‘So have you read the interview?’ asked Phoebe.

Cassandra gave a little deliberate laugh and shook her head.

‘Wasn’t the interview on Friday night?’ she asked, ‘Vicky won’t even have transcribed the tapes yet. You need to give these big-name journalists at least a fortnight to get their copy in.’

Phoebe ran a finger around the edge of her tumbler.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ve been told already, but I was a little, well, manic at the shoot on Friday.’

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

Phoebe looked down at her glass again.

‘You see, my friend Romilly popped by, she often comes to shoots with me. She dresses me for the red carpet and I feel comfortable with her, but she can be a bit … a bit wild. But she’s a good friend and I need all the ones I can get at the moment.’

Phoebe looked up at Cassandra and the look of sadness in her brown eyes almost melted Cassandra. Almost. Phoebe sighed and continued.

‘We had some drinks and I guess I was a little too loose-lipped.’ She leant forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘Cassandra, I’ve just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,’ she said quietly.

‘Manic depression?’ said Cassandra. Phoebe nodded.

‘I don’t know if the separation triggered it, but the doctors say it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a vicious circle. I’m depressed so I’ve been drinking, but drinking seems to bring on these extreme mood swings. I go a bit crazy. I say things I don’t mean. I’ve just been put on lithium to keep it under control but it doesn’t seem to have stabilized me yet.’

She stood up and walked over to the huge window.

‘I’ve never met Vicky, your journalist before. She seems a nice woman but you never know, right?’

‘Vicky is one of the best celebrity profilers in the UK,’ said Cassandra with a hint of reproach.

‘I’m just thinking she could paint an untrue picture.’

‘I’m sure Vicky will be fair.’

Phoebe went over and sat down next to Cassandra, so very close that Cassandra felt uncomfortable.

‘Cassandra, please,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Ethan is fighting for custody of Daisy and he’s fighting hard. Falling around in night-clubs, doing nude photo shoots. If I look like a bad mom his team of very expensive lawyers are going to tear me apart. I did this shoot as a favour to Rive. I don’t want it to make them take my baby away.’

Cassandra suppressed an internal snort. A favour! No one did anything in this industry without some ulterior motive. No doubt Phoebe wanted a set of sexy pictures to make her husband see what he was missing and come back to her. Well, the plan had backfired.

‘Phoebe honey, don’t worry,’ said Cassandra. ‘I haven’t seen the copy, but when I do, I’ll make sure it’s all completely complimentary. Our readers are going to love you.’

Phoebe huffed like a little girl denied her pony.

‘Well I hope so, because I don’t want to get difficult.’ She flashed Cassandra a look that betrayed her simpering, girl-next-door persona. After all, thought Cassandra, no one got to the top of the tree in modelling by being a walk-over.

‘I’m sure my attorney would go mad if he knew I was even talking to you. But I’ll get an injunction on the magazine if I have to,’ she said fiercely.

‘Listen, I think we’re all getting a little carried away,’ said Cassandra smoothly, putting out a placatory hand. ‘So you were a little drunk at the photo-shoot. Your friend may have been a little badly behaved. So what? Rive is a fashion magazine not the National Enquirer. We are here to celebrate people, darling, not destroy them.’

Phoebe looked a little more at ease.

‘If you like I can email over the shots when I get them.’

‘Is it all right if I look at the copy too?’

‘You know we don’t do that, Phoebe.’

‘Please. For me?’ she said, putting her head on one side.

Jesus, this woman is 38, thought Cassandra. She’ll be saying ‘Pretty please, with sugar on top’ next!

‘When are you back in New York?’

‘Saturday.’

‘We won’t have layouts for at least a fortnight. How about I Fed-Ex something over to you then. Just so you can have a look at it?’

‘I’m really grateful, Cassandra. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My shrink says Romilly’s not good for me. But it was tough being in that marriage. Claustrophobic’

Cassandra touched her on the knee gently.

‘He’ll be sorry when he sees these photographs. You’ll look amazing and everyone will be jealous. Trust me.’

In the back seat of her car Cassandra took out her phone. An alcoholic, drug-taking bisexual and she blames it on bipolar! The nerve of it! She punched in David Stern’s number.

‘David, I have a lunch and then the Paul Smith show so I won’t be back until at least 3 p.m. But in the meantime there are a couple of things I want you to do.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Talk to Jeremy, talk to the subs. Tell them to rush the Phoebe Fenton copy through as it is. Then I want you to work on the cover. Go with the bare breasts image. Main cover-line: “Phoebe Fenton Bares All”. I want “Bares All” in gold block foil across the cover; make sure it covers her nipples. I want this issue to fly off the shelves, not be taken off it.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked David.

Cassandra had asked herself that very question. It was a gamble, certainly. Some advertisers wouldn’t be happy and some of her more conservative subscribers would be on the phone. But the fashion market was just the same as any other market: sex sells, and after a disappointing audit on last month’s issue she needed to pull something big out of the bag. For, despite her position of power and influence as editor of Rive, Cassandra knew her kingdom rested on shifting sands. Editors were expendable, pawns used by management to cover their failings. And more than anything, UK glossy editors had a shelf-life; after forty, maybe forty-five, they tended to mysteriously disappear. It was a little better in the States. So the US Rive boss Glenda McMahon was still wielding her power at 50, but a few dud issues and even she was instantly replaceable. What Cassandra was painfully aware of was that with the exception of perhaps Carmel Snow and Diane Vreeland, editors rarely left a legacy beyond their tenure. And it was a legacy she wanted.

‘What do you mean “is this a good idea”?’ snapped Cassandra.

David paused again, weighing his words carefully.

‘Is this not going to crucify Phoebe? The tabloids will take this and rip her to shreds. I didn’t think that was our agenda.’

‘For a queen, you’re very uptight, David,’ she sneered. ‘Our agenda is to set the agenda. To sell issues we have to be bold, we have to be provocative. We have to take chances.’

‘Well this is certainly that.’

‘Just do it, David,’ she barked and snapped the phone shut.

And finally, after one hell of a gruesome week, she allowed herself a laugh.

4

‘Good morning, Gretchen.’

It was 7.45 a.m. Although Price Donahue’s working hours did not officially start until 8 a.m., there was already a hum of activity around the office. Emma herself had been there since 7 a.m., trying to get through a backlog of work which had piled up since her trip to England.

‘Oh God, morning Emma,’ said Emma’s secretary breathlessly, rushing into her office and presenting her boss with a large bunch of red and yellow tulips. ‘Sorry, I wanted to get in before you this morning so I could get these in a vase.’

‘What’s all this for?’ she smiled, gathering the flowers up.

‘Your birthday, silly. You make me remember when half of corporate Boston is born so I think I can remember my own boss’s.’

Emma smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Gretchen was forgetful, disorganized and her time-keeping was atrocious, but she had a kind heart, a rare thing at any level in business, thought Emma as she watched the girl scuttle off to find a vase.

‘Who’s 21 again?’

Emma looked up to see her friend Cameron Moore, a manager in the retail division, pop her head around the door. Her perfectly blow-dried mane of dark hair hung to one side, like a shampoo advert.

‘Welcome back, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Here, a birthday gift.’

Cameron handed Emma a small orange box tied with a chocolate ribbon. She smiled. Emma usually bought clothes because they were smart, not because they were designer names, but she still recognized the famous bright orange of Hermès. She opened the box and a gorgeous silk scarf fluttered to the table.

‘Oh, Cam, how wonderful! Thank you,’ she said, getting up to give her friend a kiss on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you remembered.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Cameron, rolling her eyes, ‘That secretary of yours has been bombarding everyone with emails for about a month! But enough of that, how was England?’

Emma sighed, looking down at the scarf, examining the stitching.

‘Eventful. I’ve been given a company.’

Cameron’s face lit up and Emma immediately regretted saying it. The news would be around the building in minutes and eyebrows would be raised. Total commitment had to be shown to Price Donahue at all times.

Cameron closed the door and hushed her voice.

‘The family company? Milford?’

Emma nodded. As Cameron’s area of expertise was luxury retailing she was interested to hear her friend’s thoughts on the company even though she personally had little interest in her new shareholding.

‘Your uncle gave it to you?’ said Cameron incredulously. ‘The whole thing?’

‘A controlling interest, yes. It was a bit awkward really,’ she shrugged. ‘Still, it was nice to see my family, even if the circumstances could have been better.’

‘Family?’ hissed Cameron. ‘Forget about the family! Jeez, Emma, you’ve got your own company! This is enormous!’

Cameron sat down on Emma’s desk, as if stunned by the news.

Emma laughed at her friend’s reaction, but it did make her think.

‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘Do? You should go straight in to see Davies right now and resign!’

‘Resign? I have no intention of giving up work here, it’s …’

Cameron interrupted, nodding her head.

‘Yes, yes, I know, it’s your life. But, Em, haven’t you ever dreamed of getting off this merry-go-round? Haven’t you ever wished you could stop telling fat old duffers how to run their companies and do it yourself?’

‘Cam, I’ve even taken up golf to get this partnership,’ she laughed.

‘Golf? Emma! This is your big chance. What, you want to spend the rest of your life doing all the hard work for Daniel Davies and his little clique, hoping they’ll throw you a bone someday?’

Cameron picked up Emma’s scarf and waved it at her.

‘OK, so Milford might not be Hermès right now. But honey, it could be.’

Emma looked her friend doubtfully.

‘I don’t think so.’

Cameron smiled.

‘With you in charge, sweetie, anything’s possible.’

Emma was sitting back at her desk at Price Donahue, trying to concentrate on a spreadsheet relating to a possible merger between two haulage companies, but for once, the jumble of figures was failing to hold her attention.

Looking at the orange Hermès box still on her desk she reached into her handbag and pulled out a letter that had been given to her by Anthony Collins at Milford and which she had read once on the flight home.

Dear Emma,

If you’re reading this letter it means I have gone, as J.M. Barrie would say, on an awfully big adventure. Here’s hoping I had an interesting demise and that we managed to hook up for one last game of chess. We don’t see each other as much as I’d like these days but I’m so proud of your accomplishments in America. You certainly grabbed the land of opportunity by both hands. By now, you’ll also know about my plans for Milford. They may come as a surprise to some in the family but in my heart I know that you will know what to do with the company. We all know I am more bon viveur than businessman, but I believe this is one decision I have got right.

I hope you don’t see the opportunity as a burden. There is great satisfaction to be had in working for yourself and your family rather than for other people.

I believe you can do great things if only you believe in yourself.

With much love, Saul

She stared thoughtfully out of the window before a ping made her look up: an incoming email.

‘How was it? Mark.’

She folded the letter, put it back in her handbag and began typing.

‘Interesting, to say the least. How about dinner to discuss?’

There was an instant reply. ‘Dinner it is for the birthday girl. Eight?’

She looked at her watch and groaned. She’d been so wrapped in her own dramas that she’d forgotten to send out an important letter. It wouldn’t do to slip up on anything right now; the partnerships were due to be announced tomorrow. She called out to her secretary.

‘Gretchen? Have you done that letter of engagement for the Frost Group yet? It was supposed to go this morning.’

Gretchen put her head around the door, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘It’s already gone,’ she said. ‘Mark came to speak to me about that a couple of days ago. Said the letter was going out in his name.’

‘Really? When was this?’

‘Tuesday. Sorry, Emma, but he’s a partner. I didn’t query it.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ said Emma quickly. ‘I’d just forgotten he was going to do it, that’s all.’

When Gretchen had gone, she swivelled round to look out of the window. For some unaccountable reason, there was a sick feeling in her stomach. Was she being paranoid? Why had Mark sent the Frost letter out in his own name? OK. Maybe it was protocol because he was a partner but she had hustled hard for that piece of business.

She picked up the phone and dialled Mark’s extension but it went straight to message.

‘Emma. I thought you’d like to know,’ said Gretchen popping her head around the door and whispering. ‘It looks like partnerships are being announced today.’

‘Today!’ said Emma. ‘I thought it was going to be tomorrow, Friday.’

Gretchen came into the office and closed the door. She was the hub of the PA grapevine; a better gossip than she was secretary and Emma didn’t doubt that her sources were good.

‘Jason Rich has already been seen coming out of Daniel Davies’ office grinning like a Cheshire cat. Apparently a couple of other senior managers have just had meetings chalked in for after lunch.’

For the rest of the day Emma couldn’t settle as all afternoon senior managers had been going up to see the managing partner Daniel Davies. When Gretchen put the call through at 5 p.m. asking her to go and see Davies, Emma could hardly stand the suspense.

This is it, thought Emma feeling sick. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt.

She tried to calm herself, but had never felt so nervous about anything in her whole life. Three years at Stanford. Another two at Harvard; Emma had always known she was not as academically gifted as her father, a Fellow at Oxford, so she had to work damn hard to the exclusion of everything else. No social life. No boyfriends. The work never stopped once she got to Price Donahue with six years of ninety-hour weeks, eleven and a half months a year. But a partnership at 29! It would mean instant respect around the city and instant respect in corporate America, not to mention a high six-figure salary. In ten years’ time she could pick and choose board directorships at some of the biggest blue chip companies in the world. And best of all, it would have been all of her own making, not like the brash, young CEOs she met on the corporate circuit who only held the job because their daddies had held the position and their daddies before that. With a lurch, she realized that she was also thinking about Milford. Handed to me on a plate. Where was the victory, the glory in that?

She went to Daniel Davies’ office on the top floor and tried to read his face the minute she walked through the door. He was sitting behind his desk, furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad with a silver fountain pen. He was 45 but his thick black hair was greying, making him look older. His gaze, when he looked up at Emma, gave nothing away.

‘Ah, Emma,’ he said, putting his pen down carefully.

‘Daniel,’ said Emma feeling her palms go clammy.

‘Have a seat and I’ll get straight to the point. You know we’ve been extremely pleased with you over the last twelve months. Client feedback has been excellent from many of your projects and we always like having a Harvard Baker Scholar on the team,’ he said, referring to the prestigious award given to the top 5 per cent of students from the business school.

A flock of butterflies took flight in Emma’s stomach.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘But despite my enormous respect for your abilities, I’m afraid you are not going to be invited to join the partnership this year.’

It was as if she had been kicked. She felt a thickness in her throat.

‘I see,’ she said evenly, fighting back her emotions. Now was not the time to fall apart-a tearful scene would only confirm their decision.

‘I wonder if you could expand on that?’ she asked. ‘I know it was competitive this year, but some feedback might be useful.’

She was digging her nails into her palm, but managed to meet Davies’ eyes.

He averted his gaze slightly.

‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Some partners simply felt that you were a little short of experience to make the jump to the next level. I’m sorry.’

Emma nodded. She had rehearsed a hundred times how she would respond to the news that she had not made partner. She knew the dignified response would be to thank him and leave the room immediately, but she had felt so sure. She had to know.

‘Could I ask if it was a unanimous decision?’

She knew she was the strongest manager by a mile, she just knew it. But if the senior partners couldn’t see it, then she was obviously wasting her time at the firm.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, examining his manicured fingernails. ‘Of course, the decision is taken by the board, but we take advice and recommendations from the partners you have worked most closely with.’

He paused and gave her a small encouraging smile.

‘Everyone thinks you can do the job, Emma,’ he said looking at her with his dark eyes.

‘But some people think you could do with a little more maturity before you progress to the next stage.’

Emma could not hold it inside any longer.

‘Who?’ she asked weakly.

‘Emma. Being a partner isn’t just about doing the job. It’s about bringing in business. Mark Eisner thinks you need to be more confident in social situations. You need to interact better with potential clients, be more aggressive with salesmanship.’

‘Salesmanship?’ repeated Emma, stunned. ‘Only last week I brought in Frost Industries. I met PJ at a convention. He invited me to Vermont… It’s worth a fortune in fees.’ Her head was spinning. How could Mark, the man she was in love with, have betrayed her so brutally? He knew how much she had wanted this partnership. Only days ago, she had lain naked in his arms as he had told her she was the brightest talent in the firm. Surely Daniel Davies was lying or mistaken?

Davies raised an eyebrow. ‘It was my understanding that Mark Eisner brought in that business and closed the deal. He told me so himself on Monday. We are grateful for your work on the pitch and I am sure you will be involved in the team that implements the work.’

She bit her lip knowing it was pointless to contest what David had said. She remembered how Mark had insisted on coming on the Vermont trip. At the time, she’d been flattered and excited. ‘Bring me. Let’s have a couple of nights in a five-star hotel on the company,’ he’d told her. But no: was he just looking for a way to steal her thunder? How much more of her work had he passed off as his own? The bastard.

‘Emma. Given time, I, for one, think you have a future at Price Donahue,’ said Davies sympathetically. ‘You are only 29 years old.’

‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ she whispered, her hands trembling.

They looked at each other, each knowing that Price Donahue was a company of Young Turks; you had your window of opportunity to make partner. If you didn’t make it, you were history.

Without another word she got up and left the room.

She walked back to her office in silence, a short shake of the head all she needed to impart her news to Gretchen.

‘Who did?’ she asked, knowing Gretchen was popular with all the PAs and secretaries in the company.

‘Pete Wise, Jack Johnson, Bob Hatch,’ she said apologetically.

Pete Wise? The man was an idiot! And what business had Jack Johnson brought in? Despairing, Emma grabbed her coat and headed out into the cold Boston evening.

The tall office blocks of downtown soared up around her. In front, Boston harbour shimmered like a vat of ink. Suddenly she felt very small and alone.

Hearing footsteps behind her on the pavement, she turned to see Mark running after her, his breath puffing white clouds up to the skyline behind him.

‘Em! Emma!’ he called, panting as he caught up with her.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you didn’t make it,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I only found out early today.’

She jerked her arm away from him.

‘Don’t give me that, Mark,’ she said turning on her heel. ‘You knew.’

‘Emma. Don’t get so worked up. What’s the big hurry? You’ll make partner next year.’

She stopped and turned back, her eyes blazing.

‘Next year? Or perhaps the next? Or whenever you let Daniel Davies know that I’ve suitably matured?’

Mark went pale.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Davies told me about your recommendation, that I wasn’t ready for partner. Not quite the same line of bullshit you have been feeding me for the past two months, is it?’

‘Now come on,’ he said, putting out his arms towards her, ‘that’s not what I said.’

‘Oh really?’ she challenged. ‘He seemed very clear about it.’

‘He’s obviously taken what I said the wrong way …’

The snake, thought Emma, walking off in disgust. Mark chased her, grabbing her arm.

‘Davies thinks you brought in the Frost Industries as well. Apparently you told him so. Or did he take that the wrong way as well?’

‘Come on Em, let’s talk about this. I thought we were going to have supper.’

‘You betrayed me, Mark,’ she said her voice thick with emotion. She was desperate not to cry but she could feel the tears welling up and stinging the backs of her eyes.

Mark turned away then faced her.

He looked as if he was about to keep denying it but finally he simply shrugged his shoulders.

‘OK. You’re right. I happen to think you’re not ready to be a partner,’ said Mark flatly. ‘You are a good business strategist, but you’re too soft. You don’t even have the balls to fire that dim secretary of yours. You’re an academic, not a corporate player. You’re too nice to make tough decisions. You’re just not ready to play with the big boys.’

‘And Pete Wise is ready? Jack Johnson is ready? Does being on your softball team make you ready for partnership? I’m good, Mark,’ she pleaded. ‘You know it.’

‘You do well at Harvard and you think the world owes you a favour,’ he laughed scornfully.

‘I trusted you to tell the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘I trusted you to tell people like Daniel Davies that I was the best. But no, you surround yourself with yes-men, idiots who will make you look good.’

‘Fucking you could have cost me my job and this is all the thanks I get,’ he said sneeringly Droplets of rains began to fall. They were like slaps on the cheek.

‘Fucking me,’ she repeated quietly. ‘Is that what it was to you?’

Mark glared at her, then waved a dismissive hand in the air.

‘Ah, you needy women are all the fucking same: Davies is right, you probably do want to run off and have a baby.’

She looked at him. The man she had whispered ‘I love you’ to, the man she had admired and trusted, had withered to a sycophant and a liar, a man who lived off other people’s hard work and talent. She knew she was better than him, but there was little doubt he had played the game better than her. The likes of Daniel Davies would never know how much she put into the company, how much profit was directly down to her efforts and talent because operators like Mark Eisner took the glory for himself.

Waves were beginning to whip up in the harbour and rain was beginning to fall more heavily. Lights on the skyscrapers behind her sent a muddled saffron glow into the shallow puddles. She was angry, confused, but she was sure about one thing.

‘I don’t ever want to see you again,’ she said as evenly as she could.

‘Emma, don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, the tone of his voice softening. ‘We have to work together.’

‘Do we?’

She thought of Winterfold, that crazy jumble of antiques and bric-a-brac, she thought of the lazy village and its single red telephone box, all of it a million miles away from this corporate jungle. Saul had trusted her to take over his entire company. Saul had faith in her. And suddenly so did Emma.

Suddenly she had a clear sense of purpose, a sense of belonging.

‘Happy birthday, Em,’ said Mark, hunching his back against the rain.

She didn’t turn round. She just kept on walking.

5

Briarton Court, one of England’s top boarding schools for girls, had phenomenal resources at its disposal. Its one hundred acres of grounds housed an embarrassment of riches: indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a lacrosse pitch, running track and tennis and petanque courts. In the classroom, Briarton’s pupils – who included the children of politicians, tycoons, ambassadors, billionaires, minor European royalty and good old-fashioned English aristocrats – had the opportunity to study everything from Calculus to Mandarin, not to mention the wide range of extracurricula activities. Apart from the annual ski trip to Klosters, the most popular after-school activity by far was Briarton’s monthly careers evenings which pulled in guest speakers to give the Oxford Union a run for their money.

That evening’s guest speaker looked around the packed lecture theatre and took a sip of water. Cassandra Grand had been tempted to turn down the invitation to speak as it was slap bang in the middle of London Fashion Week, but when she had heard that in the last two years alone the speakers had included two cabinet ministers, a Nobel prize winner, Richard Branson and an Oscar-winning actress, Cassandra had found time in her diary.

She was glad she had; forty-five glorious, uninterrupted minutes talking about her glamorous life as a glossy magazine editor and – the girls hung on every word of this – how she had got there. Cassandra would reveal how she had left a similar school to this one eighteen years ago with the sole ambition of wanting to work for an upmarket fashion magazine. How her six months as an intern at US Rive almost killed her: lugging suitcases full of clothes to fashion shoots, unpacking them and ironing them, getting shouted at by the photographer, the art director and the models, running here and there to fetch coffee, batteries or pick up dry-cleaning, then repacking the suitcases, lugging them back to the office late at night before neatly folding the clothes back into padded envelopes for return to the fashion houses. She would tell them how she got her big break when she met Carla Miller, one of the hottest fashion names of the early Nineties, back in London. Carla styled shoots, catwalk shows and advertising campaigns for the likes of Calvin Klein and Versace and it was she who gave Cassandra a job as her assistant. She would tell them how Carla grew so confident in Cassandra’s abilities that she would recommend Cassandra for small jobs that she was too busy, or simply too important to undertake. And she would describe how another chance meeting with Alliance Chairman Isaac Grey landed her a job as fashion editor on US Rive where she rose through the ranks to become their deputy editor and eventually seconded to salvage the UK edition as their editor-in-chief. Cassandra had loved talking about herself and reliving her apparently charmed life, leaving out the ruthlessness, the back-stabbing and political chicanery that was really at the heart of her success.

She was, however, unprepared for the onslaught of questions from her eager audience, hands darting into the air like fireflies.

‘How much money do you earn?’ asked a blonde in the front row.

‘What famous people have you met?’ asked a Chinese girl further back.

‘Do you get free clothes?’

‘Do you have to be thin?’

Cassandra looked out onto the sea of eager faces wondering how many of them would make it. The fashion cupboards of glossy magazines, of course, were full of pretty young things like these who wanted to play with clothes all day long, killing time until a rich banker husband came to sweep them off their feet and out to the country.

‘What do you need to get to the very top, other than a fabulous fashion eye?’ asked a beautiful blonde girl. Now she looked more promising. Her blouse looked vintage YSL and she had that indefinable X factor. Stylish, confident, focussed. Cassandra smiled at her.

‘Having a fashion eye certainly helps, but it’s not essential. People who reach the very top know how to pick the best team, how to get the most out of other people’s talent. What the editor-in-chief needs is passion, determination and a way of thinking commercially. Knowing what the reader wants. Knowing how to woo advertisers like lovers …’ She paused, realizing she had overstepped the mark, but she gave the blonde a helpful, conspiratorial smile. ‘If you want to make it to the top, my dear,’ she said, perfectly seriously, ‘you need to know how to make money.’

At that point, Miss Lamarr, head of the Sixth Form rose to her feet. ‘I think that’s enough questions now,’ she said briskly. ‘Miss Grand is a very busy woman. I’m sure she has plenty of fashion shows to attend,’ she added light-heartedly.

A burst of eager applause bounced around the wood-panelled room. As Cassandra descended from the stage, she was surrounded by girls wanting to shake her hand or get an autograph. A flustered Miss Lamarr motioned to Cassandra who escaped through a side-door into a quiet corridor, shutting the pandemonium behind her. She took a deep breath, energy buzzing around her body. She felt like a movie star.

‘Hiiiiiii,’ squealed a loud voice to Cassandra’s left. Before she could even turn, a lanky female body wrapped itself around her, almost toppling her over.

‘Can you believe they wouldn’t let me watch the lecture?’ gushed the voice, not releasing the embrace. ‘No year nines allowed, apparently. Rules are rules even if it’s your mother speaking they said!’

‘Darling, how are you?’ said Cassandra, disentangling herself, before kissing the girl warmly on the cheek. Cassandra hadn’t seen her daughter Ruby since Christmas and couldn’t believe how much she had changed in only eight weeks. She had always been tall and gangly, but Cassandra was convinced she must have grown another inch since New Year. Already she was five feet eight and even the drab Briarton school uniform could not disguise her blossoming figure. A size six, thought Cassandra, trying not to feel envious: the perfect sample size. If there was one thing Ruby’s father had given her, it was good genes, with olive skin, raven hair spilling down her back and eyes that could change from grape green to emerald depending on the light and time of day. She would have looked like Pocahontas were it not for a long vivid orange streak across Ruby’s fringe.

‘What on earth is that?’ she exclaimed in horror.

‘I know,’ said Ruby, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It didn’t quite work out as I imagined. Sienna said I’d look good with some contrast in my hair. Now I look like a sun-tanned skunk.’

‘What were you thinking? What the hell did you use?’

‘Bleach.’

‘Don’t you know some of the best hairdressers are at my disposal? Do you never listen …?’ she exhaled dramatically. ‘Maybe Daniel Galvin will do a house call,’ she said thoughtfully, still angry that this was yet another problem she had to sort out.

Cassandra had been 21 years old and on a photo-shoot in Miami when she had met Narcisso, a half America/half Cuban male model. She had been too young to say no to sex with someone incredibly good looking – and hell, why not? So they’d had a one-night stand. It was the most fantastic sex of Cassandra’s life. It was not until five months later that she found out she was pregnant. As a rule, Cassandra ate very little to keep her rail-thin figure, which had sent her menstrual cycle haywire to say the least. Cassandra had thought it was the end of the world: it was too late to abort it, too far gone to hide it and she had no intention of contacting the father again. The thought of adoption had crossed her mind for a moment but – against all previous instincts – Cassandra found she had a maternal side. The baby was her. A part of her, a product of her. How could she give that up? She quickly came to regret such romantic thoughts. Holding Ruby in her arms was the first time she could ever remember feeling helpless and she hated the feeling. Added to which, almost immediately, having a baby interfered with her career. She couldn’t travel, couldn’t work late, couldn’t attend all the parties so essential to maintaining a profile in the fashion world. Cassandra had no choice: she moved her daughter in with her mother and went back to work. At eight, Ruby was sent to boarding school. Ruby had her own room at Cassandra’s Knightsbridge apartment, although it was rarely used. Cassandra had fought hard to hold onto her career, but now she was glad she had Ruby. Unlike thousands of career women her age she didn’t have to worry about the ticking biological clock or finding the right man because she had a child, one that was becoming more self-sufficient by the day. They climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes and Cassandra ordered the driver to take them into Rye.

‘Here. Some of the older girls asked me to give you these.’ Ruby thrust her hand into her Marni tote bag and pulled out a handful of CVs. ‘You’ve made me very popular with the upper sixth.’

They drove out of the school gates and made the twenty-minute journey into Rye. Andrew dropped them outside the Mermaid Inn, the best restaurant in Rye. It had a slightly run-down rickety feel, with uneven floors and low beams, the sort of place you could imagine well-heeled smugglers frequenting. Sitting by the window, Cassandra could see up towards the medieval church and the half-timbered houses. There was an undeniably eerie beauty to the town. Not quite Nobu, thought Cassandra, but charming nonetheless.

‘Isn’t it great?’ said Ruby, bouncing in her window seat, ‘Johnny Depp stayed here once.’

‘Did he?’ said Cassandra, slightly mollified. ‘I’m not at all surprised.’

‘So how was the funeral?’ asked Ruby, her young mind already on other things. ‘I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have gone. I saw Uncle Saul more than you did and I really wanted to go and say my goodbyes.’

‘Roger thought it best if there were no children and for once I agreed with him.’

‘Mother, I’m not a child,’ said Ruby, affronted. ‘I’m thirteen years of age.’

‘By the way,’ said Cassandra crisply, ‘Saul left you £10,000 in his will.’

‘Wow! Brilliant!’ squealed Ruby slurping her drink. ‘Can I have it now?’

‘Of course not,’ said Cassandra fiercely.

‘And did you get the company?’ she replied playfully.

Cassandra almost smiled at her daughter. Straight to the point, just like her mother.

‘No. Saul, in his infinite wisdom, gave it to my cousin Emma.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you’re in a really shitty mood,’ she smiled cheekily.

‘Ruby!’ said Cassandra. ‘I don’t pay £25,000 a year for your education to hear you swear.’

Ruby leant forward and held her mother’s hand.

‘What did you want that boring company for anyway?’

‘I wanted it for us, darling,’ said Cassandra, squeezing her daughter’s fingers with a warmth that surprised her.

‘But why?’ asked Ruby. ‘You have a cool job. We have money. If you’d got the company, we’d have had to move back to the village. Uncle Saul used to tell me that it was a perk of owning the company living in that house. Some perk! It’s so creepy! I bet it’s got ghosts.’

Cassandra moved her hand from her daughter’s grip, smarting at her daughter’s casual dismissal of her ambitions. What did that ungrateful wretch think she did this all for? How did she think she got such an expensive education? A few ghosts was the least of it. Cassandra took a deep breath, trying to get her emotions under control. Only Ruby could make her shake like this, she thought.

‘So … what did you think of the March issue?’ she asked, trying to change the subject.

‘It was great. Although I think you do too much modern art.’

‘Darling, lots of our readers are collectors or fancy themselves as collectors.’

‘But it’s all a bit rubbish, isn’t it?’ laughed Ruby. ‘I mean the way you called that painter who does the orange circles a genius. How is he a genius compared to say Leonardo da Vinci? Did you know Da Vinci was probably one of the most all-round talented people ever? He designed helicopters, solar heating, rockets, everything.’

Cassandra smiled.

‘Am I to assume you’re studying the Renaissance period at the moment?’

‘You got it,’ grinned Ruby, happy her mother had taken the bait. ‘… And seeing as I got an A in my paper, are you going to take me to Paris? You did promise at Christmas … ?’

The fact that Cassandra was the mother of a 13-year-old girl was an open secret in the industry, but it was not something she flaunted. There was no shame; over the years, Anna Wintour’s child Bee Shaffer and French Vogue editor Carine Roitfeld’s daughter Julie had been seen on the front row. But Ruby looked nearer eighteen than thirteen; Cassandra was only 35, and did not want people doing the maths and getting it wrong.

‘Now, darling, I know I promised you could come to a couple of shows this year but Rive is throwing a big party in Paris and I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to be there. Maybe for couture in July, mmm?’

‘I really wanted to go to the Louvre,’ said Ruby in a low, disappointed voice.

Cassandra so wanted to please her daughter, to give in to her demands. She’d love to show Ruby off, but she had to be strong. She couldn’t let Ruby’s disappointment interfere with her plans, not now. She was doing it for both of them – didn’t she understand that? Sometimes she felt so close to her daughter that she was almost part of her, other times it seemed as if they lived on different planets.

‘When am I going to see you again?’ said Ruby grumpily.

‘I’m away for a little while. Milan, Paris and then I have to go to Mexico. But I think your grandmother is coming next weekend.’

Ruby looked up at Cassandra; her teenage barriers were all stripped away now and she was just a little girl who needed her mum.

‘I miss you,’ she said.

‘I miss you too,’ said Cassandra, her voice wobbling. ‘But you know why I work so hard, don’t you?’

‘For us?’

Cassandra nodded, then reached under the table for a stiff paper bag.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘I’ve been saving this.’

Ruby peeked inside, rifled through the tissue paper and then looked up beaming.

‘Groovy. A Chanel quilt!’ she said.

‘The Chanel 2.55,’ corrected Cassandra. ‘So named because …’

‘… because it was introduced by Coco Chanel in February 1955, I remember,’ said Ruby quietly.

Cassandra felt a pang of disappointment and concern at Ruby’s interest in the works of Leonardo da Vinci above those of Coco Chanel. While her daughter’s quick-wittedness and spirit suited Cassandra’s image of herself, to be too academic might be detrimental to Ruby’s long-term prospects. Intelligence put too many men off, which was why brainy bluestockings like Emma Bailey ended up alone.

Cassandra had such high hopes for her beautiful daughter. She wanted her to be the belle of the Crillon ball. She wanted her to have a good marriage; a spectacular marriage, perhaps the son of an oligarch or the scion of some great American family. She wanted her to have glamour and power and money. She wanted her to have everything.

The car stopped back outside Briarton Court and they got out.

‘Are you coming in to say goodbye?’ asked Ruby. ‘I have to be back in the dorm by nine.’

‘I won’t come to the dorm. I might get accosted for more autographs,’ said Cassandra following her into the entrance hall.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t love it,’ smiled Ruby, twisting the chain strap of her bag around her fingertips. Cassandra kissed her daughter on the cheek and felt a shot of warmth course through her body. As Ruby ran down the corridor, her mother watched her go, only turning round when she heard the tapping of shoes coming down the stone floor towards her.

‘Miss Broughton,’ smiled Cassandra extending a hand to the matronly headmistress of Briarton.

‘A wonderful talk, Miss Grand,’ she said, although Cassandra detected a look of disapproval in the woman’s expression. ‘I have a love-hate relationship with the career talks. On the one hand, it’s wonderful to be able to make use of the resources our parents offer us, but it does make the girls rather giddy.’

‘Well, I have a handful of CVs to show for it,’ said Cassandra, tapping her bag. ‘It’s the sort of initiative I like to see,’ she lied.

Miss Broughton smiled. ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

They stood in the doorway. Outside it was cold; frost was sitting on the ground and creeping fog was settling in the darkness in front of them.

‘We didn’t see you at parents’ evening last month,’ said Miss Broughton, a little too casually.

‘I was in Paris, I’m afraid,’ said Cassandra, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘I believe my mother attended.’

‘When we work so hard we have to work twice as hard not to be a stranger to our children.’

Cassandra bristled. The cheek of the woman!

‘Until last month, Miss Broughton, I have never missed a parents’ evening since my daughter started her education. But her last school didn’t have parents’ days during couture.’

There was the crunch of car tyres as Andrew her driver drove the Mercedes in front of them.

‘I must go,’ said Cassandra quickly tightening the belt of her cashmere overcoat.

Miss Broughton nodded, but continued to talk. ‘You are aware that Ruby is one of the most able pupils in her year? Independent, although you would expect that from someone who has boarded for so long. Very bright too. But there is a definite rebellious streak there we must keep our eye on.’

Cassandra gave a small laugh. ‘If we are referring to the orange stripe in her hair I’m going to get that sorted out immediately.’

The headmistress shook her head. ‘I’ve always felt thirteen is a watershed age. The cusp of womanhood. She needs her mother to guide her along the right path.’

Cassandra felt herself stiffen. Was there the suggestion in the woman’s words that she was not a good mother, or was she being overly sensitive?

‘I thought that’s what I paid you a great deal of money to do,’ said Cassandra, pursing her lips.

‘We like to think we have excellent pastoral care at Briarton but we can’t be all things to all children.’

You hypocrite thought Cassandra narrowing her eyes. You charge the highest fees to make parents feel better about themselves but at the slightest hint of trouble, you throw the blame straight back at them.

‘Ruby has an enormous amount of love and attention from her family, Miss Broughton, I can assure you of that. I can also assure you that there are other schools who would be only too glad to take responsibility for a bright, capable pupil like Ruby.’

She opened the car door and climbed inside.

‘As I said, a wonderful talk, Miss Grand,’ Miss Broughton said as Cassandra slammed the door.

Through the tinted windows, she looked up at the Gothic beauty of Briarton Court and shivered. For a moment she thought about taking her daughter away. That would show the old bitch, thought Cassandra. She wouldn’t want to lose the high grade exam results Ruby was likely to chalk up, would she? But then the reputation of the school was unparalleled and more importantly, the calibre of the pupils, of the friends that her daughter would forge, was also excellent. Besides, she didn’t want the inconvenience of moving Ruby again. She looked away from the school and told Andrew to drive to London as fast as he could. She then turned her attention to dissecting the new issue of Vogue as it started to rain.

6

Emma told the taxi to go slowly. Past Prada, Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent. Past Hermès, Celine and Louis Vuitton. Past the window displays of grand twinkling diamonds: De Beers, Tiffany and Cartier. Past some of the greatest, most desirable luxury brands in the world. London seemed to have grown so much richer since the last time she had been shopping in Mayfair. Bentleys and high-end Audis lined the road, beautiful women with expensive haircuts and winter tans floated out of jewellers with big smiles and sparklers.

‘So where d’you want dropping, love?’ asked the cabbie, now visibly annoyed. He’d spent the last ten minutes snaking up and down Bond Street, with Emma pressing her face up against the window.

‘Do you know the Milford shop?’ she asked.

‘Not the foggiest, love. What’s it look like?’

Emma knew how he felt. It had been so long since she had last visited the Milford store that she could scarcely remember it either, and now having gone up and down the length of Bond Street, she was no wiser. Milford had four stores worldwide, all in prime locations; Rue St Honoré in Paris, Fifth Avenue in New York and Via Condotti in Rome, but the London shop was the flagship. Strange, then, that it seemed impossible to locate.

‘There it is,’ she said finally, and the taxi pulled up outside an anonymous-looking store on the lower stretch of New Bond Street.

‘It’s my shop. Well, sort of,’ she explained to the cabbie as she handed him a crisp twenty pound note.

‘Yeah, right,’ said the taxi driver under his breath as he roared off. Emma loitered on the pavement, unsure whether she really wanted to go in. It was a rather forbidding place, painted in a dark blue with a tiny window display of some not terribly exciting wallets and gloves. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the mahogany door but it wouldn’t open. She tried again, this time harder, but still it wouldn’t budge. Then she noticed a bell to the side of the door and after pressing it twice, a buzzer sounded and it opened with a creak. The ghostly quiet which greeted her reminded Emma of going into a church. The store was dingy and very old-fashioned and it smelt slightly musty, like a country house boot-room. Where’s the glorious smell of leather? she thought distractedly. There was a beautiful staircase in the middle of the room leading to a mezzanine floor, but the rest of the store was dark and depressing, with small windows which let in very little light. Behind the counter, an old man with a pince-nez eyed her curiously, then continued with his telephone conversation. Emma had the curious sensation of feeling both intimidated and ignored at the same time.

Since leaving Price Donahue, Emma had dealt with her sadness and anger in the only way she knew how – by losing herself in work. She had requested Milford’s press cuttings and financial reports to be Fed-Exed over and had examined them with forensic thoroughness. She had quickly discovered that the company’s financial position was dire. While the luxury leather goods industry was now a multi-billion dollar business – in the last two decades designer handbags had been one of the biggest growth areas in the whole of the fashion industry – Milford was barely staying afloat. Looking around, she knew exactly why. It was a Saturday afternoon and the shop was deserted. Emma wandered over to the nearest shelf and picked up a leather bag. She pulled a face. You didn’t need to be a fashion expert to know that it was ugly. It was dark brown but it wasn’t the warm, rich brown of milk chocolate; it was sludgy like mud. She ran her fingers over the bumpy leather – ostrich she wondered – it was obviously expensive but it wasn’t an item she’d want in her wardrobe in a month of Sundays.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a stern-looking shop assistant with blonde hair the texture of candy-floss and a brass name-badge announcing her name as ‘Barbara’. She looked at Emma’s fleece and jeans with undisguised distaste.

‘I’m just looking,’ said Emma as brightly as she could.

‘For anything in particular?’ asked Barbara snootily.

‘Actually, can you tell me which is your most popular bag?’

The woman looked stricken that anyone should base a choice on anything as vulgar as popularity.

‘It’s this one,’ she said, indicating a brown leather tote. ‘It’s called the “Rebecca”.’ I wonder where that came from, thought Emma. She picked it up. The leather was certainly beautiful but the materials could not disguise the frumpy shape and the overcomplicated knotted tassels.

‘It’s rather expensive,’ said Barbara.

Emma picked up the price tag. £3,000! For that? she thought to herself.

As if reading her thoughts, Barbara added: ‘The craftsmanship on all the Milford range is superb.’

‘Hand-stitched?’ asked Emma remembering the summer after school she had spent working at Milford. In actual fact, the time she had spent with the workmen in the factory had been the part she had enjoyed the most. It had been a fascinating place. She remembered the wonderful smell of the warehouse where thousands of rolls of leather were kept; there were crocodile skins from Australia, python skins from India, calf skins from Brittany and goatskin from Scotland which was used to line all the handbags. She remembered watching Jeff Conway, Milford’s head cuireur, stretch and beat leathers until they were butter soft and the white-coated artisans hunched over their work-stations, crafting the bags from start to finish, using needles, awls and pinces de cuir. Creating a bag had seemed like creating a work of art, not something that rolled off an assembly line.

‘There is some hand-crafting involved,’ said Barbara cautiously.

‘But not hand-stitching?’ repeated Emma, making a mental note.

Barbara was getting visibly irritated.

‘If madam requires hand-stitching then perhaps you’d like to consider our bespoke service. But the price is considerably higher.’

‘I didn’t really want to pay too much,’ said Emma.

‘Then perhaps madam would be better off in another store. Oxford Street has an excellent selection of mid-market accessories.’

What a cow thought Emma. No wonder the shop was empty. Luxury retail wasn’t just about the product, it was about the experience. If you were spending that much on something, you wanted to feel pampered and flattered, as if the luxury reflected back on you and your incredible good taste.

Emma handed the Rebecca back to Barbara and left the shop. As the door closed behind her, Emma inhaled a deep draught of fresh air.

‘Thank you, Barbara,’ she whispered to herself as she walked off towards the brighter, glossier shops of London’s most fashionable street. The snooty assistant didn’t know it, but she had done Emma a huge favour, because now she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Julia Grand sat in her daughter’s spacious Knightsbridge apartment, drinking a chilled glass of Pouilly Fumé, thinking there could be few more pleasant places to spend a Sunday afternoon. A sprawling lateral Regency conversion, the flat had been decorated in Cassandra’s favoured dove grey, chocolate and cream and was being flooded with lazy winter light from Hyde Park which lay beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The long walnut dining table had been set with Meissen porcelain – Julia noted that it was a different set from the one she had seen on her last visit – while Lucia, Cassandra’s housekeeper, was preparing a light lunch of poached salmon and asparagus. Julia considered for a moment how much Cassandra must be earning to afford this luxury and felt a burst of pride at her daughter’s accomplishments. Of course, Julia liked to think she’d had a considerable hand in Cassandra’s success; raising her as a single mother, the years of looking after Ruby, but she was sure her daughter wouldn’t think of it that way.

She looked over at Cassandra, wearing what she called her ‘après yoga’ look of cashmere jogging pants and a skinny white vest. Cassandra was leaving for Milan that afternoon and so she was taking armfuls of clothes from her cedar-lined wardrobes and folding them between tissue paper before putting them into two Louis Vuitton trunks. Julia had kept a fascinated inventory as she watched Cassandra pack: ten pairs of red-soled shoes, most of which looked unworn. Twelve skirts, twice as many dresses, cashmere sweaters in a rainbow of complementary colours and finally, almost a dozen coats, one each from the main designers showing at the Milan collections, which she would wear to the corresponding show. There must have been hundreds of thousands of pounds of clothes in those trunks which, according to Cassandra, would be completely redundant by the time the shows were over. Julia considered it an abject waste of money; think of what all that money could really buy! A Picasso sketch, perhaps, or a Corot landscape. Now that would be something worth having.

‘So. Tell me again what Roger told you?’ asked Cassandra, finally fastening the latches on the trunks and taking a seat at the dining table. Julia tried not to smile; Cassandra had a habit of making every conversation feel like a business meeting.

‘He said that Emma has come back from Boston in time for the shareholders, meeting tomorrow.’

‘And do you think it’s significant?’

Julia shrugged.

‘She’s already told Roger she doesn’t want to be CEO. I suspect she’s just there to show willing and formalize Roger’s appointment so we can all move forward.’

Cassandra frowned slightly.

‘So everyone is happy with Emma’s share in the company?’ she asked.

‘I never said that,’ replied Julia diplomatically, knowing that her daughter had not been pleased with Saul’s bequests. ‘But what can we do? Roger has already engaged a lawyer; apparently we can’t contest the will simply because we don’t like what it says.’

Cassandra was silent for a moment and Julia reached across the table to take one of her hands.

‘I was desperately disappointed at the reading of the will. It should have been you, darling. We know that. But there seems to be very little we can do.’

‘Is this the sort of fight you put up when Dad left you?’ snapped Cassandra, pulling her hand away. Cassandra was angry. She was already well aware of the legal situation with Saul’s will; her own lawyers had taken the full force of her fury when they had explained it was watertight. So Cassandra had contacted her financial advisers to explore the possibility of buying Emma’s shareholding should she decide to sell, but even with a conservative valuation on Milford, they were talking very big numbers indeed. Cassandra might be the highest-paid editor in London, but it was still way out of her financial grasp.

Julia looked at her daughter wondering how she could be so fearsome. She blamed Cassandra’s emotional detachment on herself of course, for allowing her husband Desmond to leave. She had tried to put that day in a box at the back of her mind. The day Desmond had left her for another woman, leaving her to bring up Cassandra and Tom by herself. In the years that followed Desmond had given very little financial support to Julia; maintenance payments dwindled to nothing once he’d moved to South Africa twelve months after their divorce. But it wasn’t money Cassandra wanted from her father; it was love, support, approval. So Julia had spent the last two decades trying to make up for it. That was why she had volunteered to bring up Ruby when Cassandra had made the move to New York and it hadn’t been easy. Suddenly burdened with a three-year-old grandchild, Julia had been forced to cut her time back at the Oxford gallery she owned with the result that it had almost gone under. It had taken the business a decade to recover but Julia had taken the sacrifice on the chin: everything she did was for her children.

Julia held her hand to her breast as if she had been stung.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cassandra with an unusual tone of softness. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m just incredibly frustrated by the whole thing.’

‘I could sell my shareholding to you, if that’s what you want, darling?’ replied Julia. ‘A gallery space I’d love is coming up soon on Cork Street. The money would certainly come in handy.’

‘Mother, you have 5 per cent stock,’ sighed Cassandra, ‘and 5 per cent is neither use nor ornament.’

They fell into silence as Lucia entered to serve the poached salmon with a spoonful of hollandaise sauce on the side. Julia used the interruption to change the subject – the situation at Milford was all anyone in the village could talk about and for Julia it was getting a little trying – and besides, she was keen to move on to matters even closer to home. ‘Darling, the reason I wanted to see you today is that I’m very concerned about your brother,’ she said.

‘What’s the matter this time?’ asked Cassandra. She was aware that Tom had moved back into her mother’s house and expected a tirade about cigarettes, loud music and mountains of washing.

‘He wants to go to Goa. Next week. And he wants me to pay for it,’ said Julia, a tone of exasperation in her voice.

‘I should think it will do him good to get out of the country for a while,’ said Cassandra.

‘But I’ve read about these places in the Daily Mail,’ Julia insisted. ‘It’s rife with disease and drug trafficking and heaven knows your brother doesn’t need any encouragement in that department. Cassandra, can’t you speak to him? Sort him out with a job or something to keep him in the country?’

Cassandra took a deep breath. It sometimes pained her to think how the role of parent and child had reversed so quickly. Increasingly Cassandra now felt like the head of the family and for once, it was not a position of authority she relished.

‘You make me feel like a babysitter,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not here to entertain Tom just to keep him out of trouble.’

‘I appreciate that, darling,’ said Julia.

Cassandra snorted.

‘I mean, remember the time I got him work in Xavier’s studio.’

‘He really wasn’t cut out for photography,’ said Julia.

‘It was nothing to do with his talent behind the lens,’ said Cassandra, dipping her fork into the fish. ‘He was caught having sex with a model in the darkroom.’

‘He’s a boy, he’s got hormones.’

‘He’s 26, not some randy teenager.’

Julia met her daughter’s eyes. ‘Darling, please.’

Cassandra was tempted to say no. She was sick of Tom’s feckless ways, drifting from one half-baked ‘career’ to another and she was annoyed that her mother expected her to pick up the pieces. It wasn’t as if she didn’t help out the family as it was. She introduced Julia to wealthy art patrons on London’s society circuit and constantly promoted artists exhibiting in Julia’s gallery, billing them as the next big thing in the pages of Rive. But there was always something else.

‘OK, Mother, I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally. ‘But this is absolutely the last time: I mean it.’

Julia patted Cassandra’s hand. ‘Thank you, darling. He won’t let you down.’

‘Oh, I am absolutely sure he will,’ said Cassandra. ‘Now let’s eat. I don’t want to be late for my flight.’

Roger Milford never liked Monday mornings, but today he had woken up in a particularly anxious mood. From the bedroom window of the Old Rectory he could just see the iron entrance gates to Winterfold and it made his stomach ache. Roger was by nature a decisive, ‘to hell with the consequences’ kind of man, but for once, he was at a loss for what to do. On the one hand he had no intention of going into Milford this morning; the last thing he wanted to see was that smug bluestocking niece of his sitting behind Saul’s old desk. My desk, he corrected himself. On the other hand, much as it pained him to do so, he had to put on a good show for Emma, to impress her, to convince her that with himself installed as CEO her majority shareholding was in good hands.

Rebecca was sitting propped up in the four-poster bed, her mane of pale blonde hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. A tea tray was perched delicately to her side containing a china teapot, smoked salmon and egg-white scrambled eggs which Latvina, their Polish housekeeper, had prepared.

‘I don’t know why I can’t come to the meeting,’ she said, her lower lip pouting. ‘I am a member of this family.’

‘It’s for shareholders and directors, honeypot,’ said Roger, going over and stroking her cheek. ‘I wish you could be there too, but my hands are tied.’

‘What is the meeting actually for anyway?’ asked Rebecca. ‘She’s told you she doesn’t want to be CEO, hasn’t she? So is this meeting to rubber-stamp your appointment?’

‘It better bloody had be,’ growled Roger.

His wife looked at him sharply, recognizing the note of doubt in his voice. The disappointment of not getting Saul’s shareholding had been crushing, but at least it had gone to Emma – having such a good job in Boston, she surely wouldn’t want to leave it for some muddy backwater? But it could so easily have been Cassandra and that… well, that would have been a disaster for Roger. She looked at him again, and squeezed the balls of her fists together. Roger had to be CEO. As comfortable as their present home was, it wasn’t anything very special. She didn’t want to live in the Old Rectory for the rest of her life like some vicar’s wife holding dinner parties and making jam. They had to live in Winterfold. He had promised it to her ever since he had proposed at the Hotel du Cap eight years earlier. She thought back to their wedding day in the tiny church in Chilcot. Half the pews had been stuffed with her friends from the rich, fast social set she had fallen into when she had moved to London to model. The other half were her family from the villages surrounding Chilcot; uncles in cheap suits, cousins in hats from the charity shops. At the time, she hadn’t been embarrassed because she had seen the ceremony as a farewell to her past as she moved to her rightful position in the upper classes. Back then, driving up the gravel drive to Winterfold where Saul had allowed them to have their reception, Rebecca had felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. Despite the twenty-year age difference she had been happy with Roger. He was a dynamic and incredibly attractive man and one day Milford would be his. But that was then and eight years was a long time. Life with Roger was going nowhere fast and it made her almost physically sick.

‘Honey,’ she asked, ‘when do you think we can move in?’

Roger squeezed her fingers and gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. He wished he could give this beautiful woman everything she wanted. From the second he had met her in Annabel’s nightclub in Mayfair, he had wanted nothing else. Sure, he had known what she was – a two-bit model who had never had the breaks to make it into the big league, a beautiful hustler charming her way around the elite nightclubs of London – but he had pulled her up to his level and turned her into the creature in front of him; poised, elegant and respectable. She looked like the Lady of the Manor. He glanced out of the window towards the gates of Winterfold.

‘Soon, my darling. As soon as we get it all sorted we’ll be moving straight into Winterfold.’

I’ll make sure of it, she thought biting her lip so hard she drew blood.

The Milford offices were in Byron House, a converted Regency villa a mile outside of Chilcot village. It was a striking building on its own with tall, thin windows and fluted columns either side of the entrance but Byron was all the more remarkable for the adjoining factory building. Built from glass and concrete in the early 1930s in the then-futuristic Art Deco style, it should have been an architectural disaster, but somehow the juxtaposition worked, each styles complementing the other. The same principle of mixing the old with the new was visible in the company’s boardroom, situated on the top floor of the old house. It was a truly magnificent space. Silk wallpaper lined the walls, a huge chandelier hung regally above a long mahogany table with tapered dress-legs and twelve toffee-coloured leather chairs. It was more like the dining room in a palace than a corporate meeting room, but offsetting the grandeur was a modernist steel and glass bar stocked with the finest spirits and champagne and a state-of-the-art audio-visual system set into the far wall, on which Bloomberg, the business channels and ticker-tape information was constantly beamed in from the world’s money markets. Emma winced as she entered: this was clearly where Saul had spent Milford’s wafer-thin profits. She walked around the room, trailing her fingertips along the table, gazing up at the dancing crystals in the chandelier, thinking of her Uncle Saul, putting off the moment: the moment when she’d have to sit in his chair.

It felt too big, and she felt an impostor sitting there at the head of the table, but she forced herself: the rest of the shareholders would be arriving at any moment and they would expect her to sit there. Emma could feel her nerves getting the better of her. She had tried to look the part of confident businesswoman, but she wasn’t even sure if she could pull that off. Her red dress was an old stand-by for when she had to speak at conferences or in front of company directors. Back then it was like armour; confident and bold, but here at Milford HQ, it felt false and showy. Her hair had been blow-dried and she’d taken extra care with her make-up; not so much that she looked overdone but the tinted moisturizer and glossy lips made her feel ready for the day. It’s not what you look like, but what you say, she scolded herself as people began to file in, smiling and murmuring a few words of greeting. Emma’s mother and her Aunt Julia sat to her left halfway down the table. Julia gave Emma an encouraging smile, her mother looked down, playing with her wedding ring. Slowly the room filled: Anthony Collins, Saul’s solicitor, then Ruan McCormack who was Milford’s Head of Merchandising, followed by Abby Ferguson who looked after marketing. There was a hum of pleasant conversation and cordialities. And finally, in came Roger, his gaze lingering on Emma sitting at the head of the table. Emma felt her palms tingle with sweat and she played nervously with the gold bangle on her wrist. Since her first day at Harvard business school it had been Emma’s dream to run a company one day. But as she prepared to address her board of directors, it wasn’t a wave of euphoria she felt, but a rush of nausea.

‘Hello, everyone,’ she began, hoping they wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. ‘Thank you all for coming. Can I begin by saying that it was a great honour – although an enormous surprise – when Uncle Saul left me his shareholding. My first response was that the company didn’t belong to me, that I had a life elsewhere, that I didn’t belong here. So I felt that I should offer to sell my 70 per cent stake to the other shareholders.’

Emma could feel the tension and anticipation around the room pressing in towards her. She glanced at Roger who was looking at his hands and nodding cautiously.

‘But I have been thinking about this long and hard. Uncle Saul gave me those shares for a reason and I want to make him proud. We all want to make him proud. This company has a wonderful heritage and enormous potential.’

She took a deep breath.

‘That’s why I have decided to keep the shareholding and take the post of Chief Executive.’ Emma paused momentarily, waiting for a reaction. She was greeted by silence. It was as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing.

‘Well, I think there are various formalities and paperwork we’ll need to deal with to authorize it, but…’

She looked at Anthony and the solicitor nodded.

‘But the directors choose the CEO!’ interrupted Julia suddenly. She turned to Roger. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Emma didn’t wait for an answer.

‘As 70 per cent shareholder I effectively control membership of the board,’ she said.

‘What she means, Julia,’ said Roger, ‘is that she can get rid of us in a heartbeat if we don’t go along with what she says.’ His lips were set in a thin line, his gaze stony. ‘Is that not correct, Emma?’

Emma steeled herself. She’d hadn’t expected this to be easy. You have to be tough, you have to be tough. She had spoken in front of CEOs of Forbes listed companies before now, but this audience, particularly Roger, who always intimated her even as a child, was making her feel sick. Emma leaned forward and put her hands on the table.

‘I know this may come as a surprise, Roger,’ she began, as levelly as she could. ‘And I know some of you might not even think I should be here. But I think I can bring a lot to Milford. Yes, I don’t know the company as intimately as most people in this room, but perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe we need to start thinking out of the box if Milford is going to recover.’

‘Spare us your management consultancy,’ said Roger tartly.

‘And what do you mean by recover?’ asked her mother, who had a cold look of disapproval.

Emma sat up in her chair, grateful for the opportunity to show them what she was good at.

‘Since my arrival in England I’ve spent time getting up to speed with the company and where the luxury goods industry is, at large.’ She opened a folder and passed some charts around the table.

‘I’ve prepared these for you to look at. Milford’s market share in the luxury leather goods is now, well, negligible. In the early 1980s we were competing with Gucci. I hardly need to point out that they and many other companies have now eclipsed Milford by a country mile. We have to modernize quickly if we’re to survive but I really believe we can recapture some of our old glory.’

‘Perhaps we haven’t had the best couple of years,’ interrupted Roger, looking around for support. ‘But the new Autumn/Winter line is strong. At our last meeting Saul talked about increasing the marketing budget and we all agreed that that was the way forward.’

Emma noticed that Virginia and Julia were nodding, while Ruan and Abby looked less convinced.

‘Unfortunately I think the problem runs a little deeper than that,’ said Emma. She leant under the table and came up holding a handbag which she placed on the table top.

‘I think I’m right in saying this is the most popular bag from our current line. The “Rebecca”?’

‘That’s right,’ said Ruan.

‘It’s an elegant bag for our existing customer-base,’ said Emma as diplomatically as she could. ‘But that customer-base is ageing. We’re seen as a traditional company. Too traditional.’

‘You’re saying that people don’t want our merchandise?’ snapped Roger. His tone was sharp and defensive.

‘Roger, I respect your experience but we have to look at the figures ruthlessly,’ said Emma. ‘Milford’s sales and profits are on a steep downwards turn and yet the high-end accessories market is booming. You can blame marketing if you like, but the buck has to stop at the product.’

Roger barked out a hollow laugh.

‘Since when have you been an expert in accessories design?’ he said. ‘I thought Cassandra was the style guru in our family.’

‘I’m not an expert on fashion, no,’ she said candidly. ‘But I do know about business and I know about the people who can afford super-luxury products. They’re a cash-rich, time-poor demographic. Women who can afford £2,000 handbags have busy lives. They want bags that are beautiful and functional, not stiff and formal. They want bags that make them feel sexy. Lifestyle statements. We need sleek, discreet luggage that can go from the airport to the boardroom. We need to update our products for the new millennium.’

She moved the Rebecca bag to one side and opened her laptop which was connected to one of the video screens in the wall. She pressed a key and a huge image of a Hermès ‘Birkin’ bag appeared.

‘We sold 55 Rebecca bags last year,’ said Emma. ‘Hermès on the other hand has a waiting list of up to five years for Birkins and Kelly bags.’

‘We’re well aware of the competition,’ said Roger dismissively.

‘And why does everyone want to buy into Hermès?’ she asked, turning her gaze from Roger to Abby. She needed support, she needed confirmation that what she was saying was right.

‘Well, um, they’re beautiful bags. They’re entirely hand-crafted using the highest quality of workmanship,’ said Abby cautiously.

‘And they’re pitched higher than other companies in the sector,’ added Ruan. ‘More expensive, more elite. They manage to be both classic and fashionable at the same time and, well, they just have a magic that everyone wants to buy into.’

Emma smiled and nodded. At least she had managed to get two people to understand what she was saying, even if they were only kowtowing to their new boss.

‘And that’s exactly where we should be aiming Milford,’ said Emma firmly.

Roger laughed.

‘Well, if our problem is a lack of sales, shouldn’t we be pursuing a policy of more inclusive luxury to increase sales?’ he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Emma took out another pile of papers from her leather folder.

‘I have had this faxed through from a ex-colleague of mine at Price Donahue. She’s an expert in the luxury sector.’

Emma began passing the crisp white documents down the table. Thank goodness for Cameron, she thought.

‘Her analysis of the luxury goods market is that the sector is becoming devalued. When so many designer goods are now made in China, the very top end of the market, the growing numbers of high-net worth individuals, want a return to traditional craftsmanship. With that in mind I believe we need to be more exclusive, we need to be right at the very top end, the most luxurious on the market. We don’t want to be in the business of churning out ‘it-bags’. We want to make heirlooms for fashionable women.’

Emma stood and walked over to the video screen which was now showing a black and white photograph of a white-coated artisan bent over a work-bench, making tiny holes in the leather enabling a bag to be hand-stitched.

‘We need to get back to this. Gorgeous design and beautiful craftsmanship. Ruan, after this meeting can we discuss reverting production to hand-stitching?’

Her mother was laughing gently.

‘Darling, I know you’re only trying to help but you really don’t know anything at all about the company. We’ve just spent thousands putting in the new machines to increase productivity.’

Emma stared back at her mother, her lips pursed.

‘As it happens, I do know about the factory machines and every other part of the company,’ she said, her anger making her rush her words. ‘I have been over every inch of the company books and I know that money has been wasted on poor decisions in every area. That doesn’t mean we should continue to do so.’

‘This is preposterous,’ said Roger slamming his hand on the table. ‘Anthony?’ he said looking over to the lawyer. ‘Must we endure this, this … piffle?’

‘Roger, please. Calm down,’ interrupted Emma. ‘This is not personal, it is simply what needs to be done to save this company from going under.’

‘Emma, show some respect to your uncle!’ said Virginia sternly. ‘How dare you speak to him like that!’

‘I think perhaps we need a short break?’ said Anthony, quickly fiddling with his glasses.

‘Fine,’ said Emma, gathering her papers. ‘I will be in Saul’s office. Sorry, my office.’ And she walked out, her head held high, but her heart sinking.

‘This is totally outrageous,’ shouted Roger storming into the office, just as Emma was sitting down. ‘Are you deliberately trying to humiliate me in front of everybody?’ he said, leaning over the desk and glaring at her.

Emma was taken aback by the force of his fury, but she felt protected by Saul’s desk between them and she was tired of being bullied, especially by Roger.

‘I don’t mean any of this as a personal attack, Roger,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘But the business is on its knees. I saw the designs for the Autumn/Winter line and my gut feeling is that we’re going to have to go again with them.’

‘Go again! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with them,’ he spluttered. ‘What exactly do you propose we do instead?’

Emma looked at him, her eyes narrow. She had made the decision about what she was about to say the moment she had left the Milford shop.

‘I propose we get a new creative director.’

‘But, but – I am in charge of design,’ he said, panic in his voice.

‘Roger, we can discuss this later.’

‘We can discuss this in court!’ he bellowed, marching towards the door.

‘Roger, please.’

‘Please? Please? That’s all you can say?’ he shouted, turning back, the fury blazing in his eyes. ‘You come in here with your prissy little business school theories with zero experience in the real world and start telling us that a business we’ve been running for decades is worthless. How dare you!’ he hissed. ‘You’re playing with people’s lives!’

Emma began to feel the situation spiral out of control before her. Suddenly she could hear Mark’s words in her head. You’re too nice. You’re an academic, not a corporate player.

‘I dare, because I have to!’ shouted Emma, stopping Roger in his tracks. She grabbed a thick file and threw it down on the desk between them. ‘You look at the figures, Roger: they’re all there in black and white. If we don’t do something pretty radical, Milford is dead before the end of the year. How’s that for the real world?’

Roger’s face drained of colour and his mouth worked without sound.

‘I am still a large shareholder of this company, young lady,’ he finally managed. ‘I know what the figures say and with a marketing budget…’

‘Roger, you have a 20 per cent shareholding,’ said Emma, stabbing a finger onto the spreadsheets. ‘And 20 per cent of nothing is nothing.’

She stood up and inhaled deeply. There was no going back now.

‘I give you my word, Roger, that by the time I have finished, your stake will be worth fifty times what it is now. Twenty years ago Gucci was almost bankrupt, now it’s a multi-billion dollar company. A great designer turned Bottega Veneta around in months, not years. Chanel was once in the doldrums, so was Burberry, the precedents are all there. But we need to be brave, we need to try. Give me a chance, Roger. I can do this, I know I can.’

‘And what makes you think we can trust you?’ said Roger slowly.

Emma almost smiled.

‘Saul did,’ she said. ‘That’s a start, isn’t it?’

7

The showroom of designer Guillaume Riche’s Parisian atelier was alive with colour. Stork-thin models strutted down the makeshift catwalk with smoky eyes and hair so straight it swung in time to the music. Each girl brought out a look which was more beautiful than the last: a cashmere wrap coat in cyclamen pink, a bone white chiffon blouse with a graphite wool pencil skirt, a voluminous evening dress in amethyst. This was ready-to-wear at its most bold and luxurious. Finally Alexia Dark, one of the industry’s hottest models, walked past in a gown sculpted in layers of primrose tulle so delicate it looked like the ripples of water on a tropical beach. Tomorrow, the unveiling of Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection would be the hottest show in town, but tonight it was a dress rehearsal and a private view for the luckiest, most talented fashion magazine editor in Paris: Cassandra Grand.

Standing at the end of the catwalk was a small man in tight charcoal jodhpurs. From the back he looked like a jockey except for the long grey hair that fell down between his shoulder blades. As the music died, he spun around dramatically to face the woman sitting in the front row and threw his hands into the air.

‘Cassandra!’ he cried. ‘You are not clapping! Tell me why you are not clapping? You hate it! You hate the show!’

Cassandra laughed. She stood up and pulled on the little mink shrug that had been sitting on her lap.

‘The beauty of the dress rehearsal, Guillaume,’ she said, linking her arm through his, ‘is that I don’t have to clap. I’ve spent the last four weeks of shows clapping. I can’t stop clapping because some devious design houses such as yourself have been known to film the audience to make sure they are clapping and withhold advertising if you do not show sufficient ardour. I’m sick of clapping. I practically have RSI.’

‘So you hate the show?’ Guillaume said nervously.

‘As we both know, clapping is really no indication of the quality of a collection.’ She paused dramatically and gave him a playful smile. ‘But in this case I think the show is absolutely sensational.’

Guillaume stopped in his tracks and collapsed to his knees, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the god of fashion.

‘Sensational. Do you mean that?’ he said, slinking into a Louis Ghost chair next to the catwalk. ‘I am not sure the hair is absolutely right. I think maybe the girls need white lips. Merde. I wish the venue would be ready so we could have a full dress rehearsal. But the sets aren’t ready. They are imbeciles. Useless.’

Cassandra sat down and put her hand on his knee to reassure him. Guillaume Riche, one of the world’s most beloved designers, really did not need overblown sets or white lipstick to show off the brilliance of his latest collection – it was amazing. Although he was nearly sixty, Guillaume was a designer at the peak of the game. In 24 hours’ time, celebrities, editors and buyers from all the top retail stores in the world would throw themselves at his feet and scratch each other’s eyes out to get hold of their favourite pieces. But tonight, Guillaume’s genius was for Cassandra’s eyes only – as his collection always was in the final hours before it was unveiled. Her position as editor-in-chief of Rive meant she could not be Guillaume’s official muse – other advertisers would not be happy – but she would always be called upon to make final suggestions, perhaps a change of shoes or accessories, or change the running order. Occasionally Cassandra actually recommended the axing of a look entirely and although Guillaume would naturally throw a hissy-fit to register on the Richter scale, he trusted her implicitly. And why wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it Cassandra who, almost single-handedly, had resurrected his career? The Nineties minimal aesthetic had very nearly killed off the flamboyant Guillaume Riche brand entirely, until Cassandra, then a junior stylist, had championed him on every shoot she styled. But much more significantly, when Cassandra had graduated to dressing up-and-coming starlets, she had used Guillaume’s designs to dress them for the red carpet – and Hollywood needed little encouragement to fall back in love with Guillaume; his luscious clothes were old-school, movie-star glamour that flattered the legends and made the younger generation look sophisticated and worldly. And where the A-listers led, the rest of the fashion industry followed. Today Guillaume was now one of the most important designers in the world, a flamboyant foil to Lagerfeld’s commercial brilliance and this show, Cassandra was sure, would be his biggest triumph yet.

‘But how can we improve it?’ said Guillaume, getting up and pacing around.

Cassandra flipped open her Moleskine notebook and reviewed her scribbled comments. Even in a mediocre collection she could pick out the one gem that could make a woman beautiful and elegant.

‘I adored the inverted pleating, the volume of the skirts. However … the penultimate exit…’

‘What is wrong?’ said Guillaume, his eyes blazing. ‘What?’

‘The obi-belt on the amethyst dress, perhaps you should try it in pumpkin rather than black? It’s just a little too predictable.’

For a moment, it looked as if Guillaume would explode. Then he reached out and pinched Cassandra’s cheek affectionately.

‘Ma cherie, you are always right.’

He clicked his fingers in the air and an assistant came running with two cups of espresso. Cassandra glanced at her watch. It was time to go back to her suite at the Plaza Athénée and prepare.

‘You are coming to the party?’ she said, downing the coffee in one.

‘Of course, but only for a short time, I’m afraid. Your timing before my show is very bad and then …’ he threw his hands in the air again, ‘… you request pumpkin obi-belts! But don’t worry, the rest of Paris will be there.’

‘Not all of them. Only those who are lucky enough to have been invited,’ she smiled.

‘Is Glenda coming?’ he asked. Glenda McMahon was the editor-in-chief of US Rive and therefore one of Cassandra’s most bitter rivals, despite the fact that she was Cassandra’s former boss and mentor.

‘Darling Glenda!’ she exclaimed, without a hint of irony. ‘I know she’s in Paris. I saw her at Lanvin yesterday. Whether that means she will turn up tonight is anyone’s guess.’

Her offhand comment switched Guillaume into a playful mood.

‘I see she was only one place above you in Time’s“Most Powerful Women in Fashion” …’

‘Will people stop mentioning that silly list?’ replied Cassandra, standing up and handing her coffee cup to a make-up artist.

‘One place,’ said Guillaume gleefully. ‘She is surely going to feel the breath on the back of her neck.’

‘Guillaume …’

‘My prediction is that in twelve months’ time that job will be yours.’

‘Guillaume, stop it! Glenda is a very gifted editor.’ But not as good as she was, added Cassandra silently. As close a friend to Guillaume as she was, she simply couldn’t admit that she wanted Glenda’s job – Guillaume was as indiscreet as he was gifted. US Rive was where Cassandra had started her magazine career and it only seemed right that she should finish it there because New York was undeniably the centre of the media world, where money men, models and insiders collided and formed alliances. That was where she would make her next move, she was sure of it. She’d been at UK Rive for three years and knew it was already too long. She often lay awake at night thinking ahead to the day when she would be given the US Rive job, planning how she would finally take it beyond US Vogue to become the greatest fashion magazine on earth – and how she would make herself a legend at the same time.

‘Well, if you are not interested in that job,’ said Guillaume slyly, ‘what about another one I hear of in New York?’

Cassandra looked at him curiously. She thought she knew every magazine move that was being made or plotted. She thrived on gossip, it was the lifeblood of the industry, running up and down the front row, crackling between the tiny tables of the fashionistas’ favourite Parisian restaurant Chez George, at art previews and society weddings. For Cassandra it was not just idle tittle-tattle, it was professional ammunition.

‘And what job would this be?’ she asked.

‘The launch of the AtlanticCorp’s US fashion weekly,’ said Guillaume, ‘they have an editor-in-chief already but…’

‘Carrie Barker – I know. She was drafted in from their newspaper division.’

‘Yes. But they are not happy at all with the dummy and frankly my darling, I’m not surprised. The publishers presented it to me last week and it was … How do you say, shit.’

Cassandra caught her breath. This was gossip of the highest quality.

‘So they are firing her?’

Guillaume nodded. ‘I told them they could do better.’

He clapped his hands as if he was already bored with the conversation and an assistant appeared carrying a long plastic bundle.

‘Now, ma cherie. What are you wearing to the party?’

‘What? Oh, I haven’t decided …’ said Cassandra, still lost in thought.

‘Well perhaps I can help,’ said Guillaume with relish, tearing the layer of plastic off the package. Cassandra gasped.

‘For you,’ smiled Guillaume. It was a beautiful sculpted tulle gown, the very same show-stopping gown Guillaume had used to end the catwalk show, except this version had been created in the most glorious pale biscuit colour, its neckline sprinkled with delicate seed pearl embroidery. She reached out a finger to touch the beading.

‘Lesage?’ she said recognizing the work of the great French artisan house.

He nodded and she beamed. The colour was the perfect complement to her skin.

But it was more than that: this was a dress that would be fêted by journalists in thousands of column inches and be worn by A-list stars on the red carpets of the Oscars or Cannes – except they wouldn’t be the first to wear it. Cassandra Grand would be, even before it had its official debut at Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘just so, so, beautiful!’ Carried away by the moment, Cassandra dropped her guard and embraced Guillaume, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘And it will fit perfectly.’

Cassandra smiled. She knew it would. It would fit her lithe body perfectly and it would fit her new plan perfectly, her new plan which started tonight.

‘Maintenant,’ screamed the sexy blonde, grabbing onto the bed-sheets.

‘Sure thing, baby …’

Tom Grand had dropped French as soon as he could at Shrewsbury school and he could barely remember how to say hello let alone decipher the ramblings of someone in the throes of orgasm, but he didn’t need a dictionary to know the girl currently astride him was having a good time. Her small tits, glistening with sweat, were jiggling up and down as she slid herself along his cock, twisting her pelvis to grind her springy bush into him. Frankly, she was a wild-cat. Her name was Sophie. She was French, an actress, and when he had met her that afternoon in a café in the Bastille, where she’d been drinking espresso and painting her fingernails black, he’d suspected she’d be a right goer. He hadn’t minded that she wasn’t the most groomed girl he had ever seen. She had stringy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and had been wearing a green parka coat and flip-flops despite the cold. But she had a delicious way of holding her cigarette, a filthy laugh and beautiful, dark, flinty eyes. Almost immediately he’d wanted to take her back to his swanky room at the super-chic Hôtel Costes. It was being paid for by Rive magazine and he wanted to make full use of the mini-bar and room service. But Sophie wasn’t impressed and besides, she wanted to feed her cat. So before Tom knew where he was, they were in bed in her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Montmartre improving Anglo-French relations.

Sophie lifted herself off him, stroking her clitoris with the tip of his throbbing cock. When Tom could stand it no more he grabbed her hips, pulling her back down so that they were rocking in tandem harder and faster until they both came together in a spine-jolting explosion that made Tom cry out so loudly, it made his throat hurt.

‘You’re fucking good,’ he said finally, exhaling deeply and collapsing onto the mattress.

‘Good at fucking?’ she replied in rather rickety English.

Tom laughed.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant,’ he said, propping his head up on the pillow and thinking that if it hadn’t been for his mother he’d be halfway to India by now. He’d been finally evicted from his Camden flat for non-payment of rent just before Christmas and while he’d managed to extend his time in London looking up old girlfriends, he’d finally accepted his fate and moved back in with his mother just before Saul’s funeral. When the chance of a trip to Goa came along-his friend Mungo said he could get him work at an ‘amazing’ full moon party – Julia had given him such a hard time about it all that when Cassandra had asked him to DJ at some do in Paris he’d quickly accepted. He knew his mother would have put her up to it, but he was slightly less angry when Cassandra had indicated that she could introduce him to fashion show producers and other people who might finally get his music career going. Plus, Rive were putting him up at the Costes, which was never a chore.

Although he and his sister weren’t particularly close – Cassandra was too wrapped up in her shallow little world to really care about anyone else – every now and then she would throw him a bone. His mother and his friends were forever reminding him how lucky he was to have someone that connected and that powerful as a sibling, but Tom didn’t see it that way. Yes, he had a wardrobe full of Dior Homme suits, Tom Ford shirts and Bill Amberg bags, none of which he had paid a penny for. His friends called him the best-dressed loser in town and that was exactly the point. Every opportunity Cassandra gave him, simply fuelled his sense of inadequacy and every job he fucked up just showed him up in sharp contrast to his sister’s brilliant career. He used to think that he was just as creative as Cassandra and that he just hadn’t found the right outlet yet, but at 26, finding himself jobless and back at his mother’s, well, maybe he wasn’t really good at anything. Still, at least he was successful with the ladies.

Suddenly he remembered the party and sat up.

‘Shit! What time is it?’ Predictably, he didn’t have a watch.

Sophie shrugged. ‘Perhaps 9 o’clock.’

He was due at the Rive party at 10 p.m.

‘Bugger. How far is the Marais? I have to be at this party for ten.’

Sophie’s apartment was up eight flights of stairs in a run-down block overlooking Sacre Coeur. She shrugged again. ‘Ten minutes. Maybe.’

He pursed his lips. He wasn’t exactly sure where Montmartre was but he had a clue it was in the north of the city. The Marais was also on the right bank but closer to the Seine. Fuck it, he had to trust the local when she said it was close by, didn’t he?

‘Are you sure about that?’

Sophie didn’t even bother to shrug this time, simply rolled towards him and took his nipple between her lips.

‘Ooh,’ he smiled to himself, ‘no reply necessary.’

He put his arm behind his head and watched her slide off the futon.

Light poured in from the illuminated Sacre Coeur behind them. She had a beautiful long body, a slim, sinuous back and smooth round buttocks that looked like marble in the half-light.

‘Do you want some … ’ow do you say in English – GHB?’ she said, fiddling with a glass vial on her cluttered dresser.

Tom guffawed. ‘Shit, you get better all the time.’

Then he froze. There was a head poking round the bedroom door.

‘Allo.’

Tom sat up and grabbed the duvet to cover his exposed body.

Christ! Who’s this? He thought in a panic, imagining all sorts of knife-wielding boyfriend scenarios. Then he got a better look at the intruder. Hey, she’s a corker.

‘This is Sabine,’ said Sophie distractedly.

Sabine was even more startling than Sophie, her black hair looked as if it had been cut with a pair of shears into an uneven bob, but her face was exquisite enough to take it. She walked into the room holding a ginger cat which Tom could see had three legs.

Sabine saw Tom looking and smiled. ‘She fell from the window there onto the street. She survived so we call her Lucky.’

He liked this one too.

‘Er. Who is she?’ he asked, turning to Sophie. ‘Your flatmate?’ It was, however, a one-bedroom apartment.

‘My girlfriend,’ she said casually putting the GHB into a small tumbler of water and handing it to him before lying naked across the bed.

Blimey, thought Tom, I can’t remember getting a hard on again so quickly.

Sabine put the cat on the floor and kicked off her shoes before joining them on the bed, reaching over to kiss Sophie gently on the lips.

‘What time did you say it was again?’ said Tom, in no rush to leave.

Sabine looked at her watch. ‘9.15.’

The Marais was only ten minutes away Tom thought to himself as he moved forward to lie beside Sophie. She reached towards him and curled her black-tipped fingers around his hand and Tom knew that, for a short while at least, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Giles Banks, Rive magazine’s editor-at-large, stepped from the limousine outside the gorgeous Parisian hôtel particulier and offered a hand to the woman still in the car. As one pale caramel Manolo heel hit the pavement, even Giles, who had no interest in the opposite sex, recognized that she was a magnetic beauty. Dozens of flashbulbs went off like firecrackers. He stepped back out of the line of the cameras, knowing that nobody wanted a picture of him. This was Cassandra’s night. The final part of a quartet of big nights held during the international collections that had seen her host parties in New York, London, Milan and Paris to celebrate Rive’s tenth anniversary. Sure, Giles himself had been the one she had entrusted to organize the parties and it had been a mammoth operation pulling in every contact to make sure every A-list star in town was going to be there, but tonight it would still be Cassandra at the centre of everyone’s attention. So far the parties had all been enormous successes. The supper in New York, in a yet-to-be-opened restaurant in the Meatpacking District. In Milan, Cassandra’s good friends, the Count and Contessa of Benari, had lent her their pocket-sized palazzo on the shores of Lake Como, while in London she had taken over Spitalfields Market for the night, draping the vast Victorian warehouse with white silk. They had all been very, very exclusive with invitations strictly specifying ‘No plus ones’ and they had all been a triumph. His efforts had been worth it.

Giles was aware that his boss had a difficult reputation; she was the most demanding and particular woman he had ever met, but she was also brilliant and had been good to him: very good. He had learnt so much from her, been given so many opportunities and in helping transform UK Rive he now had an international reputation as one of the most talented fashion journalists in the world.

He watched Cassandra’s face break into a small composed and elegant smile as they walked through the doors of the beautiful hôtel. Its grand atrium was twinkling in the glow of a thousand tea-lights. Huge glass vases were filled with scarlet and gold pomegranate halves and the perfumed air smelt like spiced nectar, sweet, rich and heady.

Giles could see Cassandra’s eyes scan the crowd, looking for names. There were plenty to choose from. Françoise Henri Pinault and Salma Hayek. Sonia Rykiel, perched on a hot-pink sofa laughing with a friend. Bernard Arnault, CEO of LVMH and his beautiful daughter Delphine were talking to John Galliano whose elaborate plumed hat set him apart from the crowd – as usual.

Everyone knew the importance of tonight’s party. Paris was fashion. All its main players were here. Nothing could go wrong.

‘Oh, darling. Everybody’s here.’

Cassandra kissed him on the cheek.

‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ she purred, swinging her dark hair over her shoulders. ‘Although didn’t Muffy Dayton have pomegranate vases at her divorce shower?’

Giles flushed a little. ‘Did she?’

Still looking nervous, Giles’s eyes darted behind her.

‘Look out. Toxic is coming this way,’ he said quickly.

Cassandra had just accepted a flute of pink champagne from a waiter when her publishing director Jason Tostvig, also known as ‘Toxic’ due to his unpopularity with the editorial team, appeared at her side.

He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and shook Giles’s hand awkwardly. Despite – or perhaps because of – his job, Jason was not a man completely comfortable in the world of fashion. He’d been drafted over from newspapers, was resolutely heterosexual, bullishly macho and seemed to think that even talking to somebody openly homosexual would somehow impact on his own masculinity.

‘Quite impressive,’ he smiled thinly looking around the room before raking his eyes over her dress. ‘How much is this shindig costing me?’

‘Whatever the invoice says, it’s worth it,’ smiled Cassandra, still glancing around the room. ‘Throwing parties is a branding exercise.’

‘Yes, but did we need four of them in as many weeks?’

‘Perhaps you don’t want to send the message that Rive is rich, exclusive and international. Perhaps I’ll bring that up with Isaac Grey next time I see him,’ she said, namechecking the CEO of their company.

Jason narrowed his dark eyes. Traditionally publishers and editors were mortal enemies, regarding each other as tight-fisted Neanderthals and irresponsible decadents, respectively. But Cassandra had a particular loathing for Jason. Not only did she think he was mediocre at his job, he had no handle on the fashion world beyond his cack-handed attempts at picking up models.

‘Is that a threat?’ he hissed.

‘Merely an observation that you and I might have different agendas,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘Personally I don’t think you can put a price on goodwill.’

Jason puffed out his chest and popped a canapé into his mouth.

‘Well, I hope some of that ‘goodwill’ is directed at Oscar Braun,’ he said, nodding his head over at the CEO of the Austrian fashion house Forden. ‘They’re threatening to pull £250,000 worth of advertising over the next two quarters. Perhaps you’d like to tell Isaac Grey that the next time you see him.’

Cassandra chuckled.

‘Oscar is always saying that,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’d help his own cause if he started showing decent collections. I have to put the fashion team in a headlock to get Forden’s revolting things in the magazine.’

‘I think we managed to get the mint bouclé jacket into the March issue,’ said Giles helpfully.

‘This time I think he’s serious,’ said Jason with a hint of relish. ‘You’d better do some serious schmoozing because if his ad revenue gets pulled we’re going to have to start looking at cutting editorial budget.’

Finally Cassandra turned to look at him.

‘Leave the editorial out of this,’ she snapped.

‘Speaking of which,’ said Jason looking up at the giant Phoebe Fenton cover. ‘Has anybody actually read that interview yet?’

‘It’s embargoed till Monday,’ said Cassandra quickly.

‘Funny, I thought the plan was to give the issue out to guests after the party.’

‘We never agreed that.’

‘Well, I read the issue on the Eurostar and you gave poor Phoebe a right old kicking, didn’t you? I was just thinking that perhaps you might be nervous about all these actors and models and socialites reading about their friend and what a coke-snorting whore she is, when you’re right there to take the flak? I mean, Phoebe might be down, but she’s not out. There’s still a lot of “goodwill” around for her.’

Cassandra flashed him a furious look, then took a breath to compose herself. What did Toxic care about ‘poor’ Phoebe Fenton? More likely he wanted there to be an uproar. He wanted trouble from the Fenton camp and wanted Cassandra to be held accountable. She was convinced he didn’t like the fact that she was the star of the Rive operation while not one celebrity or CEO in this room would even know his name. He was a snake. She knew she was going to have to get rid of him at some point but Cassandra always thought tactically. While Tostvig was ambitious and spiteful, he wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake and she’d rather be up against someone toxic and foolish than someone ruthless and clever.

‘Cassandra, could I have a word?’

‘What’s wrong?’ she said impatiently, turning see Sadie her junior assistant holding out a mobile phone. Jason looked over, his lips curling gleefully as he smelled trouble. Satisfied that Cassandra’s perfectly-groomed feathers had been ruffled, he took a flute from a waiter and headed off to try and chat up Naomi Campbell.

‘It’s your brother,’ whispered Sadie when he had gone.

‘What on earth is the problem? Why is he on the mobile? Shouldn’t he be here?’

She glanced at the DJ booth where a man with long dreadlocks appeared to be packing up his records.

‘That DJ finishes in ten minutes,’ explained Sadie. ‘Your brother is on until twelve and Jeremy Healy has only just got off the Eurostar and won’t be here for at least another forty-five minutes.’

‘Well, get that man to stay,’ she snapped, pointing up to the DJ booth.

Sadie had a look of sheer panic on her face.

‘I’ve tried that! He’s playing at Les Bains Douche in half an hour. His car is already outside waiting to take him there.’

Sadie thrust the phone towards Cassandra again. ‘Do you want to speak to Tom? He says he’s stuck in traffic near Galeries Lafayette.’

Cassandra shut her eyes momentarily, willing herself to be calm but feeling such a sense of fury and betrayal that she felt her cheeks begin to sting hot. He was her brother. How could he let her down so badly yet again?

‘Tell him that if he’s not here in five minutes not only will Rive refuse to pay his expenses at the Hôtel Costes but that I, personally, will make sure that everyone even remotely connected to the music industry knows what a irresponsible moron he is. He won’t be able to get a job sweeping the floor of a rat’s cage by the time I’ve finished with him.’

‘You want me to say all that to your brother?’

‘If you don’t, you can join him in the cage.’

Giles was already making calls on his mobile.

‘I’ve just called Queen,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece. ‘They’re sending one of their DJ’s over immediately. He only lives on the Rue des Rosiers, so we should be OK.’

Cassandra grabbed Giles’s hand and mouthed ‘Thank you’. Then, in the blink of an eye, her legendary poise was back and she was gliding away smiling and waving at people in the crowd, as if nothing had taken place.

‘Marvellous party, Cassandra. I don’t think there is anybody more beautiful at the party.’

Cassandra turned to see Jean-Paul Benoit, chief executive of the Pellemont luxury goods house. Major advertiser. Major sleazeball.

‘Jean-Paul!’ she cooed, ‘I was just telling Giles how we need to get fashion’s most glamorous tycoon inside the pages of Rive magazine.’ She took his arm and steered him away from Sadie. ‘How would you feel about doing an “At Home”? You do still have your adorable house in Ile de Re? It’s one of my favourite places in the world. I’ve found this new photographer. I think he could be the new Testino. Someone like that could really do it justice.’

‘Will you be coming along in person?’ asked Jean-Paul, a wolfish grin on his face.

Cassandra smiled sweetly.

‘I’m sure something could be arranged …’

Am I mad? thought Emma as she stepped out of the taxi. Paris; the city of lovers. It had magic. She and Mark had talked about coming together at New Year. That seemed so long ago now and here she was outside a glittering party alone. She looked at the paparazzi crowding around the entrance, their flashbulbs lighting up the red carpet leading into the Rive party and thought that the gates of hell themselves might not be quite so intimidating. In front of her, a long queue snaked down the street while two girls with stern expressions and clipboards either waved people through or condemned them to ridicule. She shivered. What had made her come without a ticket? Desperation, she thought, moving towards the entrance, holding her clutch bag in front of her like a shield. Emma was in trouble with Milford already. After a long and heated meeting with Roger she had agreed to create the new position of Director of Bespoke Services for him. If she’d truly had it her way, she’d have dispensed with him entirely but as she’d definitely rocked the boat enough since her arrival, she’d decided that a sideways move for Roger was the best solution in the short term. That left the glaring vacancy of head designer to re-vamp the collection and if she’d thought it would be an easy appointment she was very much mistaken. In the last week, she’d make clumsy attempts at poaching big design names from other fashion houses, but despite hitting the phones for hours on end, she’d rarely made it past the company switchboards. At the factory, staff morale was low and the atmosphere around the village wasn’t just icy, it was glacial. Only yesterday she had driven up to the Milford factory gates to see that someone had spray-painted ‘Bailey out’ on the wall outside. Emma knew she needed to make changes fast if she was to head off a meltdown within the company, but she seemed to be banging her head against a brick wall: Milford’s image as a luxury brand was far worse than she had ever imagined. But there was one person she knew who could penetrate fashion’s inner circle: Cassandra. But even she had proved elusive. Every phone call to her cousin’s office was politely but firmly rebuffed. Cassandra was unavailable. Thinking laterally, Emma had contacted her aunt, Julia, but she had merely sent a message that Cassandra was in Paris for the week and would contact her on her return. Emma didn’t have a week. Production of samples for the Autumn/Winter line had been halted and could not begin until a new designer was in place. With a press show scheduled for six weeks’ time, they’d have to show Roger’s designs if she didn’t take action immediately – and she didn’t think the company would survive that. So when Ruan heard through the grapevine there was a Rive party in Paris she had booked her Eurostar ticket at once, telling herself she would sort out the details when she got there.

Well, now I’m here, she thought. Emma took a deep breath and walked as confidently as she could up to the clipboard desk.

‘Emma Bailey,’ she said, smiling.

‘Sorry. No,’ said the girl, dismissing Emma instantly and looking down the line to the next poor sap.

‘But I’m Cassandra …’ began Emma, then stopped herself, immediately realizing that ‘I’m Cassandra Grand’s cousin’ sounded like the whine of a gate-crasher – they’d probably already had a dozen people claiming to be relatives tonight.

‘Can you look again?’ said Emma politely, reaching into her clutch bag and placing her freshly-printed Chief Executive business card on the clipboard.

‘Perhaps it’s under Milford Luxury Goods,’ said Emma with an air of authority. ‘I might be on the advertisers’ guest list.’

The girl looked at Emma for the first time and she saw a cloud of doubt cross her face.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Bailey,’ she said, lifting the velvet rope. ‘Enjoy the party.’

Emma felt a little thrill of triumph. Maybe I can pull this off after all, she thought.

She walked into the impressive atrium mentally running through the questions she needed to ask Cassandra. Emma had even mulled over the idea of Cassandra joining the board as a non-executive director, although she had a nagging reservation. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to invite a fox into her henhouse.

Emma had never been to a fashion party before. She was surprised to see food. Waiters drifted by with trays laden with delicate bites: savoury tartlets, crab claws and mini Fauchon éclairs, although for the most part the guests waved them away, as if taking a single one would show weakness. Emma felt as if she had crossed into another world.

It’s only a party. They’re only human, she said to herself, but it was hard to believe. Everywhere she looked there were impenetrable cliques of beautiful and powerful-looking people, talking, laughing and drinking champagne. Had Emma a better grasp of pop culture, she would have recognized that she was surrounded by actresses, models and big-name designers. Up close, many of them weren’t actually beautiful, she thought with detached interest. But they had something, a worldliness and polish, a superiority. These people had ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. And Emma most certainly did not. She felt a sudden sense of inadequacy she hadn’t felt since boarding school when she was known as Cassandra Grand’s geeky little cousin, a bookworm with mousy hair and clumpy shoes. That bookworm, of course, went on to get an MBA and work alongside the CEOs of multinational blue-chip companies. In Boston Emma had felt on a level pegging with even the most impressive businessmen because she knew her intellect and business skills matched theirs. But here! For a second, Emma felt so far out of her depth, she should just turn round and go back to America. ‘Bailey Out’ – that said it all. But she was not a quitter. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter and took a longer gulp than was polite. From a distance she could see Cassandra receiving guests like the Sun King granting an audience with the peasants.

‘You look a little lost, can I help you?’

Emma turned to see a tall man in a lavender woollen suit. He extended a hand with a genuine smile.

‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Emma, taking his hand gratefully.

‘Giles Banks. How nice to meet you.’

She smiled at his eccentric formality and relaxed. ‘Emma Bailey – very nice to meet you too. I was beginning to feel invisible.’

‘Oh, don’t worry!’ laughed Giles, leaning in as if to impart a secret, ‘I felt like that for years at fashion parties, then I realized that almost everyone feels the same way. They spend their whole time looking around for someone more important or famous than them, worried that everyone else is looking more fabulous or having a brilliant conversation with someone amazing on the other side of the room. No one ever is, they’re all talking about who else is here and who they’re talking to.’

‘So why does anyone come?’ asked Emma, fascinated.

‘Because you have to darling! This is the hottest party in town, if not the whole planet! Who wouldn’t want to be here?’

‘So it gets better?’

‘When you have the right friends. I’m a colleague of Cassandra Grand’s and she’s introduced me to everyone. Now I know who’s going to be fun and who’s going to be a crashing bore. Anyway, I always seem to find the most interesting person in the room.’

‘Cassandra’s my cousin.’

Giles raised his eyebrows.

‘How extraordinary. Are you that cousin?’

‘Which cousin?’ asked Emma suspiciously.

‘Oh, come now, Emma Bailey, don’t be coy. The new CEO of Milford?’

‘Did Cassandra tell you?’

Giles clapped his hands in delight. ‘You are that cousin, how wonderful!’ he cried. ‘No, Cassandra’s been very tight-lipped on the whole business, but fashion is a very small world, word gets around,’ he said with a small smile. ‘See? I’ve done it again.’

‘Done what?’ asked Emma.

‘Found the most interesting person in the room.’

What is she doing here? thought Cassandra, seeing Emma’s pale face move through the crowd towards her. And what’s she doing with Giles? She instantly felt furious with Giles, then checked herself when she remembered she hadn’t actually told him about Milford, Saul and Emma. Giles was a close friend and trusted confidant, but there were limits. To Cassandra, self-publicity was everything. She had to maintain an air of superconfidence and invulnerability at all times, even when she was cut up inside, even in front of friends. She certainly couldn’t admit that she’d been passed over in favour of the geek who knew nothing about fashion. That would have been the ultimate humiliation.

Cassandra took a breath to compose herself. Ever since her mother had told her about the events of the Milford board meeting held earlier that week, how Emma had installed herself as CEO and deposed Roger in the process, Cassandra had been calculating her next step. She knew Emma had to be disposed of – and quickly-but she hadn’t imagined a confrontation with her cousin would come so soon. Nor did she welcome the distraction on such an important night.

‘Look who I found!’ smiled Giles, pushing Emma forward, then darting to the right and embracing Sonia Rykiel who treated him like a long-lost friend.

‘Emma. What a surprise.’

‘I’m a gate-crasher I’m afraid, before you ask, I’m sorry, but I needed to speak to you,’ garbled Emma, almost tripping over her words. There was something about Cassandra that had always unnerved Emma, though she had never been able to put her finger on it. The effect was magnified tonight: Cassandra was looking so otherworldly and glamorous in her amazing gown and everyone in the room was craning their necks just to look at her.

‘Listen, Cassandra, I won’t stay long,’ she continued quickly, ‘but there was something urgent I needed to ask you.’

‘Nothing serious I hope?’

‘It’s the company.’

‘Ah. Well, congratulations, if that’s appropriate. I was surprised to hear you’d given up that job in Boston. It’s one thing to be given a majority shareholding in a company; it’s quite another to give up your life to become its CEO.’

Cassandra began walking out towards the hotel’s courtyard. She didn’t know why Emma was here, but she had no intention of any of the industry overhearing it.

‘Yes, I surprised even myself. I never really saw myself being the sort to be in the fashion business,’ said Emma, trying to smile. ‘I’ve never really been bothered about clothes.’

Cassandra gave a hard, brittle laugh as they stopped in front of an ornate fountain.

‘Clothes?’ she said loftily. ‘This business isn’t about clothes, Emma. Clothes are just something to keep you warm. This business is about fashion, and fashion is a language, a lifestyle, a huge, billion-pound global phenomenon.’

She turned and pointed at a woman on the far side of the courtyard who was wearing a pair of high-waisted trousers. ‘Fashion is the genius of that Balenciaga tailoring. Fashion is the feeling it gives her when she dresses and the sense of taste and sophistication other people see in her when they watch her float by.’ Cassandra reached down and pulled up a piece of her gown. ‘Fashion is this dress, a dress that will be first seen commercially on a catwalk tomorrow and whose photograph will be seen on front pages around the world. This dress won’t even be in the stores until September and the copies of it won’t filter down into the high street until weeks, maybe months later. But this one dress will generate thousands, perhaps millions of pounds in revenue and in its watered-down version, it will change the lives of thousands of women. It will get them laid, make men propose, it will make them miss lunch for a month just so they can afford it. This dress will transform them, make them feel wonderful, take them to a different place. Fashion has that power – it is magic’

Cassandra took a breath, surprised by the passion of her speech, knowing that it would serve no purpose to vent the force of her anger on Emma. Not yet anyway.

‘Although, strictly speaking, Milford isn’t about fashion. It’s about luxury leather goods,’ stuttered Emma feeling completely out of her depth. ‘It only really makes handbags.’

Cassandra nearly laughed out loud. What did Emma Bailey know about any of this? Look at her in those navy trousers and sensible shoes! This was the most glamorous party being held in Paris over Fashion Week and she looked like an estate agent.

Cassandra gave a little superior laugh.

‘Oh, Emma, darling, handbags are the bedrock of the fashion industry. It’s where the most profit is made. They can account for 70, 80 per cent of a fashion company’s revenue. Do you think Louis Vuitton makes most of its money from ready-to-wear? They make it from Japanese girls spending half their salaries buying three handbags at a time. They make it from average Joe saving up for six months to afford a purse. Handbags are fashion’s golden goose.’

Cassandra looked at Emma’s clutch bag with barely concealed distain. ‘At least, sometimes.’

Emma bristled. She hated being bullied by Cassandra and her style knowledge; she’d always felt like a scarecrow in comparison.

‘We’re getting off the point.’

‘Which is?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I need a new designer.’

‘Yes. Poor Roger.’

Emma bit her tongue and refused to rise to the bait.

‘I wondered if you might be able to suggest someone?’

‘Why don’t you pencil in an appointment with my PA?’ Cassandra replied, looking a little bored.

‘Cassandra, I tried, but the soonest she could give me was in five weeks’ time!’

‘Well, I’m very busy as you can see. I’m off to Careyes next weekend. Have you ever been? You must. In the meantime, this is my party and I must go and attend to the guests. It’s been lovely to see you and maybe we can put in that lunch?’

Cassandra began to move away.

‘Please,’ said Emma more forcefully. ‘Even if you haven’t got time to help me, remember this is also your mother’s company.’

Clever bitch thought Cassandra. She exhaled heavily.

‘All right. Good accessories designers are hard to find,’ she said finally. ‘The best ones get poached to head up the womenswear of big houses like Frida Giannini at Gucci. The alternative is to recruit a big name stylist and team them with a technically competent designer.’

‘I want the biggest name we can get. Where do I begin?’

‘Unless you have personal contacts, which I suspect you do not, the big appointments are made through fashion and luxury head-hunters like Claude Lasner. He fixes up the right talent with the right company. Now I don’t wish to be impolite, Emma, but this is a working event. A very important night for me. I’m going to have to go.’ She looked down pointedly at the narrow gold watch on her wrist.

‘Can I tell Claude you told me to get in touch?’ asked Emma.

‘Of course. He’s a very dear friend. Now I really must go.’

As she turned, Cassandra walked straight into a body.

‘Do you mind if I join in?’ said a deep voice.

Jean-Paul Benoit handed Cassandra a glass of champagne and curled his fingers around her waist as he kissed her cheek. Cassandra pulled back from the strong scent of cologne.

‘Don’t worry, I was just leaving,’ said Emma.

‘And who was that?’ leered Jean-Paul, as he watched Emma’s behind disappear into the crowd. At the creative end, the world of fashion was largely homosexual. But the money men and the business brains were not. Jean-Paul had made it clear that he wanted sex with her. While sex, or the promise of sex, was a tool in Cassandra’s repertoire it was one that needed to be used with care.

‘That was my cousin needing advice on her little company,’ she said boastfully. ‘She fancies herself as the next Rose Marie Bravo.’

‘Really,’ replied Jean-Paul, looking after Emma with interest. ‘And what company would that be?’

‘Milford,’ she said quickly.

‘I didn’t realize that was in your family. A good heritage.’

She saw the interest on his face and felt a stab of panic.

‘A company in its death throes, I’m afraid.’

What was happening? This was supposed to be her perfect night, the pinnacle of her achievements so far and a springboard to the next stage, yet here she was, being ambushed by a mousy upstart, while the CEO of a major luxury goods conglomerate appeared to be interested in both Emma and the company. She felt like all her careful plans were coming unravelled.

Giles appeared and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm.

‘What?’ snapped Cassandra, not trying to hide her annoyance.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, flashing a look of disapproval in Jean-Paul’s direction, ‘you’re wanted at the door.’

‘Excuse me, Jean-Paul. Duty calls,’ she said, with a winning smile. ‘Perhaps we can take this up again later on?’

She walked towards the entrance and through the sea of faces she could make out her brother Tom, arguing with a security guard. Their eyes locked through the crowd. She saw him mouth something to her but she turned her head away from him. All people wanted to do was take, take, take, she thought bitterly. What had anybody ever given to her? Without a backward glance, she turned to Giles.

‘Make sure security throw him out onto the street. Publicly.’

Giles opened his mouth to object before he saw the fury in her eyes. He turned towards the door.

As Cassandra moved back in to the party, she saw Emma leaving the cloakroom with her coat. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Jean-Paul passed her without any sign of recognition. The last thing she needed was a major luxury goods conglomerate interested in Milford. Now Cassandra knew what needed to be done. She could not allow Milford to get off the starting blocks. It had to fail so she could rescue it and gain control of it herself. But how to begin?

Then she smiled; the answer was right in front of her. This room was packed with fashion’s power players: executives, agents, photographers, art directors, stylists, PRs, journalists. All people Emma needed, people who needed to know that Milford was in the hands of an amateur who wore ballet pumps to the hottest party in Paris. People who needed to know that Milford was on the edge of bankruptcy. Fashion was a fickle world; it couldn’t stand to be associated with failure. And she knew exactly where to start: in the distance she could see Claude Lasner. It was only fair to warn him, she reasoned. She thought of her mother’s small shareholding in the company and shrugged the idea away. She had things to do. She had to make the night count.

8

‘It’s useless,’ said Emma throwing down another portfolio on the oak kitchen table. ‘This one only left St Martin’s six months ago. How can I appoint someone like that to be the head designer of Milford?’

‘It doesn’t mean to say they’re not any good,’ said Ruan McCormack, pouring out coffee from the stove in the warm kitchen of Winterfold. Emma had invited Ruan and Abby Ferguson around for some supper, hoping to sift through the pile of applications for the job of head designer. Claude Lasner had politely but firmly told her that he only dealt with the ‘top end of the market’, while a contact of Emma’s friend Cameron, who had been deputy design director at Gucci, had turned them down flat.

‘I don’t understand how you can call this good,’ said Emma, holding up a photograph from one applicant’s graduate show. ‘This model is wearing a straight-jacket! She looks like she’s escaped from an asylum!’

‘St Martin’s is very creative,’ said Abby, taking the photograph from Emma and looking at it as if she really understood it. She had only just left university herself; her father was a friend of Saul’s which is how she got the job but Emma was now beginning to doubt the wisdom of having invited her along at all. Although Emma liked her a great deal, her bubbly enthusiasm couldn’t disguise her inexperience. In fact, so far she had brought very little to the evening’s proceedings beyond throwing the odd lingering look in Ruan’s direction.

‘Look, this is serious,’ said Emma. ‘Obviously we’ve got to make the right appointment but I’ve got meetings with the banks next week and they are going to want to know who our management team are.’

‘What about going back to Roger?’ said Abby, trying to fill the silence.

‘I’m not sure that’s the best way forward,’ said Emma diplomatically, although she knew the choice was narrowing between Roger and Mr Straight-jacket.

‘How about I open a bottle of wine?’ said Ruan looking in his bag. ‘I swiped this from the boardroom.’

‘Great idea,’ smiled Abby, jumping up to fetch some glasses. ‘By the way, did you find out who wrote “Bailey Out” on the wall outside Byron House?’ she asked as she was rummaging in a cupboard.

Emma shook her head sadly. She was beginning to find running her own company less of a dream and more of a nightmare that she couldn’t wake up from. She understood why people in the factory and the village as a whole were nervous of change, but they hadn’t seen the Milford accounts. If Emma couldn’t find a way to reverse the company’s fortunes, the factory would close and they would all be out of jobs. And at the moment, she didn’t need the pressure of that responsibility to add to her worries.

‘I’ve spoken to Johnston, the floor manager,’ said Ruan briskly. ‘He says he will launch a discreet inquiry but doesn’t reckon any of his lot would do anything like that.’ His voice had a note of reproach that caught Emma unaware. Ruan had been supportive of her plan to modernize the products and the working practices, and she’d rather assumed that Ruan was on her side all the way. But his protective attitude towards the factory floor – people he’d worked alongside and probably grown up with – was only natural. Emma made a mental note: Must remember that this is life and death for some people.

‘It was probably some pissed kids from the pub,’ said Abby, trying to make light of it. Emma smiled at her, but she was unconvinced.

‘Perhaps,’ said Emma feeling her voice wobble. Abby caught the gesture and looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. She put the glasses on the table.

‘I’m just going through into the other room to phone my boyfriend,’ she said with mock cheeriness. ‘It’s 8 p.m. He’ll be wondering where I am.’

When they were alone, Ruan walked over and awkwardly put an arm around her. Emma had known Ruan McCormack almost all her life. Both his mother and father had been artisans at the factory. He had been a couple of years ahead of her at the local primary school, but at such a small village school, the kids all played together, plus Saul had allowed the children of Milford employees to swim in the lake at Winterfold, so Ruan had taught her to swim the front crawl and to dive. As they grew older they had drifted apart; just awkward smiles across the street when Ruan was with his friends. By the time Emma moved away to boarding school, Ruan had grown into a handsome young man; moody and super-cool; the hunk of the village. Whenever she came home in the holidays, if Emma saw him, she would blush furiously and run away.

She had hardly seen him in the last ten years but she had heard about his rise through the ranks of Milford to become head of merchandise. She knew he was well thought of and in the last two years he had been given a position on the board. He was still sexy, she thought with a smile. Dark wavy hair curled round the top of his white shirt. He had colouring that whispered of pirate ancestry; deep brown eyes, lightly-tanned skin and a strong mouth.

She dismissed the thought, feeling herself flush – she hoped it was the heat from the Aga. Today she was just grateful for his reassurance rather than his good looks. Ruan had been a tower of strength since the day she had arrived at Milford and he was about her only friend out here in the middle of nowhere.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. It was just a bit of silly graffiti,’ she lied.

Ruan had uncorked a bottle of wine and handed her a glass.

‘I feel as if I’m stumbling around in the dark here,’ she smiled. ‘Tell me if you think we’re wasting our time.’

‘With the revamp?’

She nodded.

‘A revamp is exactly what Milford needs,’ said Ruan with such confidence it instantly buoyed Emma. ‘Our manufacturing is good. Our leather is even better than what they use at Connolly or Valextra. We just need a break.’

She leant into him just a fraction.

‘You could always cancel the meetings with the bank until we get a designer,’ said Ruan.

‘And prolong the agony?’ said Emma, shaking her head. ‘The longer the downward spiral continues the more difficult it’s going to be to climb out of it.’ She didn’t want to tell him the whole truth, that suppliers hadn’t been paid in three months, that unless something decisive was done, the company would be bankrupt within twelve months. Milford was Ruan’s life and home and there was little other work in the area beyond agriculture, which in any case wasn’t terribly healthy either after a series of environmental and political disasters. Theoretically, Ruan could find similar work elsewhere, but the reality was that Britain’s manufacturing industry was on its knees. Whatever you needed, it could be made cheaper and faster in the Third World. It would be even worse for Milford’s two hundred or so employees and Emma felt she had to protect them from such dire news until she was sure it was inevitable. But who could she share the burden with? She could hardly tell Roger – he probably hadn’t ever looked at the company accounts in twenty years – and besides, he would feel vindicated if the ship went down with Emma at the helm. ‘Oh, if I’d been in charge, I could have done something,’ he would tell his cronies. ‘But what hope did old Saul’s legacy have with some young floozy playing shop?’ Or her mother? She’d only care about Emma’s problems as they impacted on her, specifically her shareholding and any awkwardness it would cause at dinner parties. Her Aunt Julia? It was reasonable to assume she would believe that the company should have gone to her own daughter. No, the bottom line was that Emma was all alone in this and would have to face it by herself. She was grateful when she heard the doorbell chime.

‘Is that the food already?’ said Ruan. ‘They usually take hours.’

Along with Milford, Emma had inherited Morton, Saul’s septuagenarian butler whom she could ill afford to keep on but who was a Cordon Bleu standard chef. As it was his night off and as the only things in the fridge were duck and lamb shanks, (none of which were right for Emma’s single signature dish of spaghetti bolognaise,) she’d done the decent thing and ordered Chinese food from the village takeaway. ‘I’ll go and see.’

Emma had to yank hard on the brass doorknob to open the door and cold night air rushed in. There was an old man standing there, not a delivery boy. At first she didn’t recognize him as his face was lined and creased.

‘Uncle Christopher?’ she said flatteringly. ‘Is that you?’

Christopher Chase was not a real uncle, rather one of Saul’s oldest friends, often appearing at family gatherings and at Saul’s villa. He was also one of the country’s most famous sculptors; one of the few surviving members of the St Ives movement. As far as Emma could remember, he still lived in Cornwall, in fact she always thought of Uncle Chris in terms of the old nursery rhyme: ‘As I was going to St Ives/I met a man with seven wives …’. Christopher was on his fourth wife and had three children aged from 24 to 50.

‘It is indeed,’ said the old man, taking off his hat with a dramatic gesture. He was still a debonair man now. His face was wrinkled, but his eyes were still bright blue and twinkly, and he was wearing a rakish maroon cravat at his neck.

‘Gosh, well, you must come in,’ said Emma, moving aside. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Provence, I think, maybe fifteen years ago?’ smiled Christopher as he took off his coat. ‘As I remember, you told me off for not reading and you gave me a book. What was it? The one set in the South of France.’

‘Tender Is the Night.’

‘That was it!’ he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. ‘It was excellent.’

‘I was so pompous,’ laughed Emma, her earlier gloominess melting away. ‘Anyway, have a seat and I’ll nip through to the kitchen, I have some friends round for supper.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude. I’ll only be a few minutes.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she said waving her hand. ‘Let me go and tell them to entertain themselves for a while.’

By the time she returned Christopher had wandered into the library.

‘I see you’ve added a few feminine touches.’

She smiled. There hadn’t been a great deal of time to do anything with the house, but she had removed a few of Saul’s slightly more masculine decorations: the dented blunderbuss on the mantelpiece, the antique pistols, the buffalo skin Zulu shields, the rather severe-looking stuffed stag’s head which looked down from the eaves.

‘I tried to tell myself that poor stag had been dead for twenty years, but his eyes still seemed to be following me around, giving me evil looks,’ she smiled.

Christopher laughed. ‘I was there when Saul shot it. Perhaps I should have taken it myself and pickled it; I could have appealed to a whole new generation of art lovers.’

They both found themselves looking at the grand portrait of Saul above the fireplace. ‘I do miss that old rogue …’ said Christopher quietly. ‘I didn’t see him enough over the last few years. I regret that.’

‘We all do,’ said Emma.

Christopher nodded, then shivered, shaking his shoulders like a dog.

‘Anyway, sorry for dropping by unannounced. I was on my way to London and thought I’d take a detour into Chilcot. I’ve just been to the church to pay my respects to Saul. I couldn’t make the funeral; Chessie my wife was in hospital.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Nothing serious I hope?’

Christopher shook his head.

‘Everything’s fine.’

He wandered over to the mantelpiece and picked up a silver frame containing a black and white photograph of Saul and himself in Egypt, and another of them arm-in-arm at the top of Mount Cook.

‘Look at him,’ said Christopher with affection, ‘he always was a big showman.’

‘You noticed he has the biggest gravestone in the church grounds?’ smiled Emma.

‘Of course he has,’ laughed Christopher. ‘He should have been an entertainer, not a businessman. I know he wouldn’t mind me saying that. But he was shrewd enough to give the company to you. That news filtered down as far as St Ives.’

‘Shrewd? Not everybody sees it that way.’

Christopher looked at her, rubbing his chin with his hand. Emma was startled to see that his artistic fingers were now twisted and gnarled by arthritis.

‘I wanted to drop by and see if you were OK,’ he said with a note of concern. ‘How is it going so far?’

‘Difficult,’ she said honestly.

‘Roger?’

Emma caught the co-conspirator’s smile.

She grinned back and nodded.

‘Roger always had a high opinion of himself. Always been the failing of this company in my opinion. Saul allowed him to get away with far too much, indulged Roger’s ego. Actually, I think he was a little afraid of him. As I’m sure you know, Roger can be very charming, but he’s also very manipulative. Saul made him creative director at 25 because, well, because that’s what Roger wanted. And the company has been going downhill ever since.’

‘Well, he isn’t creative director of Milford any longer.’

‘You fired him?’ said Christopher, surprised.

‘Not exactly. Moved him along.’

‘Well, good for you,’ said Christopher. ‘But watch out for that one. You know what a rat will do when it’s cornered.’

Emma frowned. A rat? It was obvious Christopher didn’t think much of Saul’s younger brother, but that last comment was laced with venom.

‘Sorry, Emma,’ interrupted Christopher, glancing at the clock on the wall, then at his own wristwatch, ‘I really must be going. Chessie is at the Feathers. We’re staying there tonight and then we’re off to London.’

‘Oh. OK, if you must,’ said Emma, following him out of the library towards the door. ‘It’s always lovely to see you. How are the children, by the way?’

‘All fine. Well, I think they’re fine. I don’t see as much of them as I’d like. My two eldest live in Scotland. Stella, my youngest, lives in the States now. She’s a fashion designer. I tried to get her to follow in her old man’s footsteps – she studied sculpture at the Slade, but it seems she prefers working with cloth rather than clay.’

Emma’s ears had pricked up.

‘She’s a designer. Really? Who does she work for?’

‘Oh, some trendy American company in LA. Can’t even remember the name,’ he laughed.

‘LA?’

‘“La-la-land”, I know, but her mother lives on the West Coast. Stella went over there after college and never came back.’

‘Is she a good designer?’ asked Emma cautiously.

He laughed heartily. ‘How could she fail with my genes? Hey, maybe you should give her Roger’s old job? I’d be glad to have her back in the country.’

Emma smiled weakly. ‘Maybe it’s not such a crazy idea,’ she said under her breath.

‘Really?’ said Christopher, pulling a black leather diary from his inside pocket.

‘Then maybe you should give her a ring,’ he said, writing something down. ‘She doesn’t call me much, but the last time I heard she seemed to be quite happy out there – takes all sorts, I suppose. Here’s her number, anyway. You’ll get her answer machine, she’s never there. But if you leave a message she usually calls you back.’

Christopher hugged Emma then stepped back, holding her by the shoulders.

‘You stay strong, young lady,’ he said. ‘Saul gave you the company for a reason. Saul was many things, but he wasn’t a fool and he chose you to carry on his legacy – not any of those vultures in your family. I, for one, think he made a splendid choice and I know you’ll make him proud.’

He pulled down his hat and tipped a salute back inside the house, then he was away into the darkness and gone.

Emma stood there on the doorstep, feeling a distant wave of hope.

‘Who was that?’ asked Ruan, coming behind her with a glass of wine.

‘Milford’s lifeline,’ said Emma.

9

‘She is such a bitch!’ said Stella Chase indignantly. ‘Have you seen this shit?’ She thrust a copy of US Rive towards her friend Tash, stabbing a finger at the page. Moments earlier, the two girls had been sitting quietly in Venice Beach’s Fig-tree Café, eating frozen yoghurt and idly leafing through the latest fashion magazines. Then Stella had come across a twelve-page photo story on handbag designer Cate Glazer. Alongside a series of sumptuous photos of her palatial Hamptons home, the article gushed about Glazer’s life: how she had started as a bit-part soap actress, fallen in love with and married Hollywood producer Lance Glazer, then launched her must-have range of bags and purses. The cherry on the cake, said the article, was Glazer’s recent triumph, being crowned CFDA Accessories Designer of the Year.

‘Which bit are we referring to?’ asked Tash, taking a lick of double-berry yoghurt while she scanned the feature. ‘The photo of their new forty-million dollar home in Sag Harbor or the roll-call of her former boyfriends? There’s some pretty cute guys in that list, you know.’

‘This bit,’ said Stella, pointing at the page so hard her fingernail almost went through the paper. ‘That entire section boasting about the “Beverly” bag. How the design came to her in a dream. A dream!’

Stella jumped up, grabbed her things and barged out from the air-conditioned cool of the café into the bright heat of early spring afternoon in Los Angeles. She dumped the paper sack bulging with groceries she had bought from Whole Foods that morning into the basket of her bicycle as Tash tagged along behind her, the magazine fluttering in her hand.

‘Are you going to bring it up with her?’ asked her friend.

‘I won’t even be seeing her until Wednesday. You know it’s the Oscars tomorrow; she always takes the next two days off to recover.’

‘Cate loves to party,’ said Tash weakly.

Stella stopped dead on the boardwalk, causing a muscled in-line skater in only shorts and headphones to swerve dangerously to avoid her.

‘Three years!’ she said. ‘Three bloody years I’ve been working for that company! And what thanks do I get?’ she continued, determined to get it off her chest. ‘I work fourteen-hour days. I design every purse, dress and shoe for that company and she tells the world the idea for her latest It-bag came to her “in a dream”.’

‘What you need is a good night out,’ replied Tasha, putting a reassuring hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Apparently there’s this great party in the Hills tonight. Like an unofficial pre-Oscars party. I hear Brad’s gonna be there and …’

‘You know Lance is gay, don’t you?’

Tash threw her frozen yoghurt in the trash.

‘Stella, honey! Let it go! It’s bad for your karma.’

Stella didn’t seem to hear her, starting to push her bicycle along the beach again. Across the wide expanse of sand, the sea twinkled in the distance.

‘Maybe I’ll go to that good tarot reader on the boardwalk on the way home,’ mused Stella vaguely, ‘I think I need some psychic intervention to tell me what to do.’

‘What you need to do is come out tonight,’ said Tash firmly. ‘Go home and get ready.’

Stella shook her head. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t.’

‘What’s more important than a party on Oscars weekend?’ asked Tash seriously.

‘Oh, a friend of the family is in town,’ she said.

‘So bring her to the party.’

Stella grimaced. ‘I really don’t think she’s the partying kind.’

‘Orlando is going to be there,’ persisted Tash.

‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ said Stella already on her bike, ‘call you later.’

‘Brad! Orlando!’ called Tash after her, ‘that guy out of the OC?’

Stella just turned back and waved, knowing that not even the cutest boys in Hollywood could lift the black cloud surrounding her today.

The two-mile cycle ride back to Santa Monica did little to clear Stella’s head. The Santa Ana winds were blowing making it artificially warm for an early spring day. To her left the Pacific Ocean sparkled silver while in the distance, as if to welcome her home, the pier jutted out into the sea looking every bit as magical as it had the first time she had seen it almost four years earlier. And look how far I’ve come, she thought, with just a hint of irony. She had come to California six months after she had graduated, ostensibly to be nearer her mother who had moved from Cornwall to Montecito to ‘reinvent’ herself as an aromatherapist. But within weeks Stella had drifted down to LA, got a flat in Santa Monica and a job in a boutique on Melrose. Her wage was a pittance; the trade-off for them turning a blind eye to her lack of a green card. The boutique was hip and Stella was pretty which meant that she was often invited to parties. She went along for the free food and drink, but even at the most chic Hollywood Hills soiree, Stella was always the most stylish person there in the little dresses she customized from thrift shop finds or rolls of spare fabric from the shop. It was at one of those parties that Stella had met Cate Glazer, wife of the famous movie producer Lance, who had ambitions to be LA’s answer to Kate Spade. Cate Glazer had been knocked out by the beautiful blonde Brit, but was more knocked out by the white jersey T-shirt dress she said she had run up that afternoon. It was simple but chic, cleverly using the material to show her figure off to best advantage. The kid clearly had talent.

‘Can you design handbags?’ Cate Glazer had asked her.

‘I’ll try anything once,’ smiled Stella. What the hell, why not? She shrugged. And it was that easy: the next Monday Stella began work as ‘design executive’ for fledgling LA fashion house Cate Glazer. She hadn’t realized when she signed on, however, that it was a workforce of two: Stella designed the bags which were produced by a company in Mexico, Cate handled the PR. Their first venture involved Stella making 100 totes from white sail canvas. Cate gave them to a selection of Lance’s actress friends each of whom had been photographed carrying them. The photos ran in every magazine from US Weekly to Vogue and suddenly Cate Glazer was on the map. The orders poured in so fast that within six months they had to open a factory in Mexico. Three years later, Cate Glazer was one of America’s hottest lifestyle labels, a multi-million-dollar business, branching out from accessories into fashion and interiors, while Stella was in pretty much the same place. Sure, she had an office with ‘Design Executive’ on the door, but despite her talent, she had never received a single job offer because everyone believed Cate Glazer was the talent behind the stylish Cate Glazer merchandise.

The sky was beginning to darken by the time Stella pushed her bicycle through her apartment door. What a mess, she thought, leaving the bike against the wall and stepping over the piles of laundry in the kitchen and books on the carpet. She opened the shutters to let the warm, salty scent of the Pacific fill the room. She had just put on a pot of coffee and was just contemplating transferring the huge mountain of plates into the dishwasher when her intercom buzzed.

‘Who is it?’ said Stella wearily.

‘Emma Bailey.’

‘Oh shit,’ she said, before realizing her finger was still on the buzzer.

‘I can come back,’ said a crackling voice.

‘No, no, come on up,’ she said quickly, before rushing around scooping up everything cluttering the floor and flinging it all into a laundry bag. Then Stella stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh shit!’ she said, as the penny dropped. This woman may be here to offer me a job. Emma had called the previous day and after some polite pleasantries about Saul’s death, Emma had muttered that there might be some design opportunities opening at Milford and that she was very keen to talk to Stella in person about them. Stella had been up for three days putting the finishing touches to a dozen clutch bags which a certain A-lister had requested for the Oscars red carpet. One bag would not do, Stella had been told, because the notoriously divaesque actress could not possibly decide which dress she was going to wear until the afternoon of the event. Her mind fuzzed from lack of sleep and overwork, Stella had failed to take in the meaning of Emma’s words. In fact, until this moment, she had failed to consider why Emma Bailey, new CEO of Milford Luxury Goods, would take the time and expense to fly six thousand miles to see her. ‘Oh, SHIT!’ she cried and ran for the bathroom.

Stella looked at herself in the mirror, wishing she had time to change out of her shorts and vest-top. But she didn’t look too bad. Her skin was lightly tanned and clear. She had a wide mouth, sun-kissed blonde hair in a Jean Seberg crop which suited her petite frame and height. She did not like to think of herself as beautiful although she suspected it, given the number of people who assumed she was an actress and men who made passes at her every time she went out. She ruffled her hair and pinched her cheeks. Well, it’ll have to do, she thought. She’s not after me for my pretty face.

‘Come in. Come in,’ said Stella, opening the door as she kicked her sneakers behind the magazine rack. ‘Sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’

Stella was slightly relieved to see that Emma seemed equally flustered.

‘Don’t worry, my fault for being early. The LAX immigration Gestapo waved me through without too much interrogation and the taxi driver seemed to have a death wish,’ she smiled.

Emma took in the chaos of Stella’s flat: the piles of magazines, the rolls of fabric, the precarious tower of DVDs by the TV, most of which seemed to be rom-coms or weepies. ‘What a lovely view!’ she exclaimed.

Stella burst out laughing and Emma couldn’t help but join in. Stella decided immediately that she liked this crazy woman who had flown halfway around the world to see her. She could barely remember Emma from a holiday in Provence when they were both very young, but her mother still kept in touch with Julia Grand. From the snippets of gossip that occasionally filtered her way, Stella had gathered the impression that Emma was the black sheep of the Milford family: someone tough and independent and mysterious. But the woman in front of her was sweaty and creased and had more than a hint of vulnerability about her. Well, that can’t be a bad thing, she thought.

‘Well, I guess I’d better offer you a drink after you’ve come all this way,’ smiled Stella, taking Emma’s bag and plopping it on an already overladen armchair.

‘Soda or vodka, I’m afraid,’ she said, rummaging around in the fridge. ‘Or I bought mint from the farmers’ market so we could have fresh tea?’

‘Mint tea would be lovely,’ said Emma, wandering to the window and gazing out. ‘So your father never made a sculptor out of you after all?’

Stella laughed. ‘He tried – oh, he tried. And for a little while I went along with it. I studied sculpture at the Slade,’ she called from the kitchen as she banged about preparing the tea.

‘I fell into fashion design by mistake although it’s not a hundred miles away from sculpture. All about form and shape. I took a course in pattern cutting but I’m pretty much self-taught.’

‘And now you’re a design executive at Cate Glazer.’

She looked at Emma wondering how much – or little – she knew about her life, not knowing that Emma had spent the entire twelve-hour flight to LA reading an inch-thick file on the growing Cate Glazer empire that she had obtained from a London press agency.

‘Well, officially I’m the design executive, which means I help Cate design the products.’

‘And unofficially?’ asked Emma, immediately reading between the lines.

Stella hesitated and looked a little embarrassed.

‘Cate is the front-person for the products, but I design everything. It’s a little like a ghost-writer doing novels. She OKs everything and she knows what she likes. Plus however much I moan about her, I have to admit she’s a great business brain and a marketing genius.’

The truth, thought Stella, was that Cate Glazer was a nightmare. Controlling and arrogant, she was paranoid to the point of forbidding her staff to have telephones, in case they should be tempted to make personal calls on company time. Stella knew Cate was also terrified that her star designer might be poached, but instead of incentivizing her, she kept Stella locked away in a windowless office with her drawing boards and swatches, ensuring that no one outside the company ever met her. Stella brought the tea things out on a dusty tray and pushed some magazines off the sofa so they could sit down.

‘So tell me, is this an interview or a chat?’ asked Stella, handing Emma a cup. ‘I take it from your call yesterday you’re looking to boost your design team?’

‘No. I’m actually looking for a head designer. I want someone to run the whole operation.’

‘No way!’ gasped Stella, almost spilling her tea. ‘You haven’t flown all the way from London just to speak to me have you?’ she said incredulously.

Emma nodded.

‘Why?’ said Stella with a half-laugh.

Emma hesitated before she spoke. ‘Well, because none of the big names are interested. Because I need to make an appointment very, very quickly before my family’s company goes down the pan. Because I’ve done my homework and know you spent three summers working in the Milford factory, because I know you’re the unsung hero of Cate Glazer and because I hope you care as much about Milford as I do.’

‘Blimey. You’re very straight-talking,’ laughed Stella, not expecting such an honest answer.

‘I used to be a management consultant,’ smiled Emma. ‘I’m used to speaking my mind.’

Stella took a sip of her tea, her heart suddenly thumping.

‘You work in fashion now, honey. Nobody says what they really think.’

She paused, put down her mint tea and waved Emma over.

‘Come through,’ she said leading her to the second bedroom which had been converted into a studio. In stark contrast to Stella’s living space, there was a clear order to this room. There was a tailor’s dummy in the corner of the room and a sewing machine in front of the French window. Hung up on a wooden rail were a dozen squares of leather. Stella moved over to a white sofa near the window and sorted through a pile of bags.

‘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?’

10

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.

11

‘How are you bearing up?’

Roger popped a slice of tender Welsh lamb into his mouth and pulled a face.

‘I can’t say I’ve been delighted by the events of the last few weeks,’ he replied sourly. Roger and William Billington were sitting in the dining room of Mark’s Club, the establishment Mayfair restaurant where Roger had been coming since he was old enough to sign a cheque. William had been Milford’s banker for more than twenty-five years, a role he had inherited from his father before him, but the two men were more than just business associates, and in fact Roger had dated William’s sister for a while before he’d mistakenly double-booked her with a feisty deb one New Year’s Eve. The resulting catfight was still fondly remembered by both men. Roger and William’s relationship was based on something much more solid: a shared love of fine wines, food and money. Once a month they met up socially, taking it in turns to buy each other lunch in the best restaurants around London.

‘Did you and Saul have a falling out?’

‘Not at all,’ said Roger, looking surprised. ‘In fact the whole family is in shock. Saul hadn’t even seen the girl in the last three years, she was something of a black sheep to tell the truth. Never used to involve herself in family affairs, never summered with us at the house in Provence – not since she was a girl, anyway. Never joined us for Christmas in Gstaad. Strange girl; very closed off, I’d say.’

William chewed a mouthful of his steak thoughtfully.

‘However, I heard that she’s removed you from your position – a bit of a sideways move?’

Roger barked a hollow laugh.

‘It’s so transparent, isn’t it? Some trick they’ve taught her at that management firm she was with no doubt. Make your mark, fire a few people, especially people more capable than yourself, who might make you look bad.’

‘Hmm …’ said William.

‘More wine sir?’ asked the sommelier, appearing at Roger’s side.

Roger nodded, tapping the top of his glass.

‘And she’s replaced you with whom?’ asked William.

Roger laughed cynically, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

‘Ah, you haven’t heard? Some 26-year-old with no fashion college background and no track record bar some lowly position in a tacky Hollywood accessories company.’

William winced. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Indeed.’ He scoffed, ‘I’d almost understand it if she’d have got in a heavyweight designer, someone from Hermès or Bottega Veneta perhaps, but she’s treating it as some sort of game. Trashed the entire new collection for no apparent reason, wasted thousands in the process. Now she has all these grand ambitions for expansion. I still have a 20 per cent stake in this company, William, and frankly I’m worried my shareholdings aren’t going to be worth the paper they are written on by Christmas.’