Page 168 of Guilty Pleasures

‘We’ve just got to get through tonight,’ replied Stella. ‘We get through tonight and then we know we’ve done it.’

Cassandra sat in the back seat of Astrid Brinton’s Mercedes, biting on her thumbnail. She still couldn’t believe that Astrid and her mother had persuaded her to come. When she had first heard that Emma planned to host a huge party at Winterfold the night of Milford’s debut collection, she had scoffed. It was one thing for Valentino to persuade fashion’s great and good to attend his sumptuous Louis XVIII chateau on the outskirts of

Paris; it was quite another for a nonentity like Milford to expect people to make the 70-mile journey out of London. But Cassandra was out of the loop: Milford was no longer a nonentity. According to Astrid, it was the hottest ticket of London Fashion Week, with Clover Connor and Ste Donahue rumoured to be making their first party circuit appearance together following their stints in rehab. Kowalski were due to play an acoustic set and a fleet of Audis was bringing the guests from the fashion show to Winterfold. Cassandra checked her lipstick in her compact. She knew she looked stunning even if she didn’t feel it. Her oyster duchesse satin cocktail dress matched her colouring and tiny waist perfectly. Her dark, blow-dried hair bounced down her bare back and her five-inch heels would make her stand above almost anyone else at the party. For once, however, that thought sent a shiver through her.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ said Astrid as the car pulled through the gates.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Cassandra her mouth dry with apprehension.

She looked at her friend, grateful that just being next to Astrid, the society giant, offered her some sort of protection.

‘You had to come, remember?’ continued Astrid sternly. ‘There’s absolutely no point slinking off into the shadows like a loser. You’re not a loser, you are fabulous and you have to remind everybody just how fabulous you are. Because everybody is going to be here tonight.’

That last comment particularly irked Cassandra. Her own fall from UK Rive seemed to have been exaggerated by the apparently unstoppable ascent of Milford and she couldn’t help but wonder if she could have done things differently; if she had contested the will or joined forces with Roger, perhaps she would now be in charge of this thriving empire.

‘Actually, I’m surprised you two are coming tonight too,’ said Cassandra. It had only been a few weeks since the tabloids had gone crazy over Johnny and Stella’s dramatic split.

‘It wasn’t our bloody fault,’ said Blake from the front seat adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. ‘It’s our son. He’s a tart. As if everyone doesn’t know he’s shagging that old slag Lisa Ladro. He’s such an idiot; when her husband finds out, neither of them will ever work in Hollywood again.’

‘I’d forgotten what a beautiful house it is,’ said Astrid as Winterfold loomed into view, the drive lined with torches, its windows glowing pumpkin. ‘Do you think it’s more beautiful than ours?’

‘So I suppose now you want to move?’ said Blake sardonically, turning round.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ snapped Astrid. ‘I was just saying how fabulous it is. But at least someone suitable like Rob Holland lives here now. It would have been frightful if Roger and Rebecca Milford had moved in.’

‘What have you got against them?’ asked Cassandra, feeling slightly defensive about her own flesh and blood.

‘Dreadful social climbers, the pair of them,’ said Astrid. ‘Helen, our nanny, used to go to school with Rebecca – apparently she used to be so common. It’s everywhere now though, isn’t it? Such vulgarity. Everybody wants to become a billionaire without doing anything. Did you see some frightful nouveaux riches Russians have bought Wadham Court? I mean it’s the fourth best house in the county after Blenheim, Greywood and Winterfold!’

Cassandra looked at her friend and almost smiled at her hypocrisy. Instead, she felt a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach: she knew this was just the start. It was going to be a night of furious social competition.

The party was glorious. Guests had come from London in their hundreds, by courtesy car or helicopter, with many staying in every country-house hotel in a 20-mile radius. Since the show, Stella had already had three job offers and had been lavished with praise from some of the top retails buyers in the world. Harvey Nicks and Harrods, Colette in Paris and Bergdorf’s in New York, had all told her that despite the limited run of the collection – Stella had insisted that only 100 copies of each piece would be made available-they were all going to put in large orders. Standing under a heater on Winterfold’s impressive parterre, Stella felt as if she was watching a glamorous Fifties movie, as if she were inside a glamorous Fifties movie. She took a deep breath of night air and thought to herself that, for the first time in a long time, she couldn’t be happier. Well, with one big exception, she thought darkly, but then shook all thoughts of Johnny from her mind as she reached out and held her father’s hand. Christopher Chase’s fingers felt knotty and hard like the top of an old walking stick. She felt closer to him than she had for years and that made up for everything; she was glad that he seemed to be coping with Chessie’s disappearance so well. He’s been through it all before, I suppose, she thought with a wry smile. Before Christmas Christopher had turned down Stella’s offer to come and live with her, even on a temporary basis, but he had delighted her by turning up to both the show in London and the party in Chilcot.

‘He seems to have grown into a nice young man,’ said Christopher, nodding over to Tom who was chatting animatedly to Ste Donahue.

‘He is nice. In lots of ways,’ said Stella taking a contented sip of champagne.

‘In the important ways?’ asked Christopher.

‘He’s kind and decent and funny.’

‘But?’ said Christopher raising one bushy, white eyebrow.

‘He’s a bit directionless and irresponsible,’ she replied, feeling slightly disloyal, especially as they were things she’d heard said about Tom second-hand.

‘There are worse things to be, such as selfish, pompous and vain,’ smiled Christopher and his reference to Johnny Brinton was crystal clear. ‘Those people you can’t help. Other people, people with a good heart, you can.’

‘People can only help themselves, Dad.’

‘You helped me.’

He put his arm around her and they both smiled. It was time to start helping each other.

Emma had come into the courtyard to get some fresh air. Her head was spinning; she had just spent the last ten minutes talking to Tom Ford. She had giggled and blushed like a schoolgirl, but suddenly she felt that whatever the last year had thrown at her, she could take it all on again if it gave her one ounce of the contentment and self-worth that she was feeling right now. It was cold outside and while her dress, a long column of bottle-green silk, made her feel like the subject of a Tamara de Lempika painting, it offered no protection against the chill.

She turned round and saw a dark figure silhouetted in the light of the courtyard doorway. As he moved closer, she could see that it was Rob. Standing hidden in the shadows, she watched him for a moment as he took a gold cigar cutter out of his pocket and cut off the end of his Cohiba.

‘You know you don’t have to step outside to smoke?’ she said, walking into the light. ‘Saul used to chomp on cigars like they were going out of fashion.’