Page 31 of Guilty Pleasures

‘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 boo

ked 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.