Page 13 of Guilty Pleasures

‘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.’