Page 181 of Guilty Pleasures

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The newspapers went into overdrive with the story. Monday was a slow day for news and the Milford party made a big splash in every paper on the stand. The broadsheets reported the fire that almost killed ‘top magazine editor Cassandra Grand’. The tabloids went heavy on Clover Connor and Blake Brinton’s steamy affair, claiming the couple were having ‘red-hot sex as media superstar Cassandra Grand was burning to death’, and the story was accompanied by lots of flashy photographs of the famous party guests, including, to her horror, one of Stella.

News of Cassandra’s ‘critical injuries’ were overstated. Cassandra spent the night in the John Radcliffe Hospital, suffering from smoke inhalation, a cracked rib and a sprained ankle from the fall. She had been furious to be papped leaving the hospital in a pair of royal blue jogging bottoms her mother had brought to the hospital for her, but the humiliation was slightly sweetened by the fashion industry’s unexpected volte-face upon hearing of Cassandra’s ordeal. Within forty-eight hours she had received extravagant blooms from every major fashion house. Isaac Grey sent a muffin basket. Gwyneth texted over the number of her Pilates teacher and everyone wanted to treat her to lunch or supper when she had fully recovered. By Tuesday Cassandra was beginning to feel much better.

Emma was one of the first visitors to come and see Cassandra after she had discharged herself from hospital and gone home.

‘What beautiful flowers,’ said Emma, admiring an arrangement of one hundred pale pink roses.

‘Everybody has been coming out of the woodwork,’ smiled Cassandra cynically. ‘Fashion loves a crisis, darling. If I’d died I’d have been named as Editor of the Year and some designer would have named a handbag after me.’

Emma looked over at her, lying regally on her long beige sofa. Somehow she looked smaller, less scary. Not that she had changed entirely. Her ankle was strapped and propped up on a pile of cushions and Emma couldn’t help but notice her immaculately painted toenails. Priorities, thought Emma with a smile.

‘So how are you feeling?’

‘I’d have preferred Hervé Léger to do the bandage,’ she said pointing at her foot with a small smile. ‘But what about you? Did you manage to salvage any of your stuff?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Everything’s gone except the things I had with me at the party. A credit card and a lipstick.’

‘What colour?’ asked Cassandra automatically and they both smiled.

‘Do you know anything more about how it happened?’

‘The police strongly suspect it was arson,’ replied Emma.

‘Yes, some tiresome police inspector was around for over an hour yesterday: very rude, terrible haircut,’ said Cassandra. ‘He wanted to know if I had seen or heard anything that evening.’

‘Did you?’

Cassandra shook her head. ‘No, at least nothing I can remember. And before you ask, it wasn’t me. I didn’t smoke, light a fire or touch anything in the kitchen.’

‘The fire officer thinks it was deliberate.’

‘How can they tell?’

‘By the patterns and intensity of scorching around the house, apparently. They think something came through the letterbox.’

Cassandra nodded thoughtfully, pausing before she spoke.

‘Emma, I should probably tell you the police inspector was asking lots of questions about you,’ she said finally.

Emma felt a small rush of fear.

‘What questions exactly?’

‘He knew that there’s been some animosity between us.’

‘So what are they thinking? That I torched my own house with you inside it?’ said Emma incredulously. She looked at Cassandra warily. She felt terrible about what her cousin had just been through but it didn’t mean she entirely trusted Cassandra. What had she been saying to the police?

The truth was that the fire had really frightened Emma and in actual fact she had desperately wanted Cassandra to have been responsible. A careless cigarette down the back of the sofa perhaps, or a candle left too close to the curtains. The alternative, well, the alternative meant that someone really did want her dead.

In the penthouse of the St Martin’s Lane Hotel, Stella finally relaxed, her photo shoot for W magazine over. Still wearing the Milford aqua chiffon cocktail dress she had posed in, she quickly gathered up her things and made for the door.

‘Are you sure you don’t need a car?’ asked the art director as Stella said her goodbyes.

‘No thanks, I’ve checked in at the hotel tonight,’ she said grate fully. It had been a snap decision an hour earlier; she was so exhausted she didn’t think she could make the journey back to Oxfordshire. She had barely stopped to take a breath for weeks-no, months – running at full pelt to get the womenswear line finished in time for the show and then there was all the press to deal with. That meant endless photo shoots and interviews along with all the draining attention of the blood-sucking journalists on the tabloids. As Stella pushed open her door, all she wanted to do was sleep for a week. Her room three floors below wasn’t as impressive as the penthouse but its sleek lines of wood, Perspex and sexy lighting were still beautiful. But Stella was too tired to take it in; she just flopped onto the bed and was about to drift off to sleep when her mobile rang.

‘Hello,’ she said groggily.