‘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.
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.