Page 54 of Guilty Pleasures

‘Because they haven’t given me a hundred CDs to listen to before I die.’

There was a pause as Rob seemed to think about it.

‘OK, how about I come over on Saturday to have a look around? Maybe we could go for a run afterwards.’

‘I run alone. Just come round to the house. Ten-thirty. I’ll see you then.’

She hung up smiling.

15

Giles Banks loved fashion. He loved it with a passion stronger than anything he had ever known. Clothes were his obsession and for the last two decades, they had been his life. Giles spoke five languages, had a first-class degree from Cambridge and had won a number of prestigious awards for his journalism; he really didn’t need to spend his days debating ballet flats versus kitten heels. But Giles knew he had been blessed; unlike many people, he got to spend ever hour, every second of his day doing something he loved. Giles was also aware that his fervour was surprisingly rare in the industry. Fashion was populated by poor little rich girls and poisonous queens; the currency of the catwalk was gossip, the more toxic the better. To them, the clothes were just something else to laugh at. However much they air-kissed and declared things to be ‘fabulous’, more than anything, the fashion community loved to bitch. And Giles knew that they bitched about him. They called him the ‘Cashmere Walker’ because of his fondness for soft pastel jumpers and his constant presence by Cassandra Grand’s side. Giles didn’t mind; there were worse things to be called and worse people to spend time with. He adored Cassandra and loved working with her almost as much as he loved fashion. It was an unrequited love, of course, as Cassandra’s drive and ambition meant that everyone and everything was dispensable.

Today Giles was escorting Cassandra to an appointment at Dior’s office above their Sloane Street store. Although Cassandra respected Giles’s fashion eye implicitly, she really didn’t need him there. In fact, she didn’t really need to see the Dior Autumn/Winter collection at all. She had already seen the catwalk show in Paris, followed by a private viewing at their headquarters on Avenue Montaigne, but Dior were one of Rive’s most important advertisers and etiquette dictated they see it again in London. Giles, however, never tired of visits to the fashion

house: seeing the collection lined up on hangers and on mannequins, running his fingers over the exquisite fabrics, inspecting the workmanship, marvelling at the detail. Cassandra, meanwhile, spent their allotted thirty minutes being rather more aloof, regally accepting a little Nobu sushi from a very handsome waiter while politely viewing the collection and making assurances to prominently feature Dior’s bag of the season in the September issue.

‘I have a proposition for you, darling,’ said Cassandra, holding onto Giles’s arm as they descended the stairway onto the street. Outside, the sky was bright blue showing the first signs of spring, but it was still cold.

‘What proposition? Where’s the car?’ asked Giles distractedly.

‘I told Andrew to come back in thirty minutes,’ said Cassandra, steering Giles down the road. ‘Let’s get a drink at the Mandarin Oriental, there’s something I want to discuss with you.’

Giles felt a flicker of anxiety as they walked into the hotel. Cassandra ordered a coffee and an Earl Grey in the Mandarin bar and they took a seat.

‘So, what is it?’ asked Giles.

‘Don’t be so jumpy,’ she smiled, ‘It’s nothing bad. In fact I think you’ll find it rather good.’

Giles was instantly suspicious. Whenever Cassandra phrased anything like this, it was invariably good for Cassandra but not necessarily good for anybody else.

‘As you know I’ve been commissioned by the publishers Leighton Best to write Cassandra Grand: On Style, but they’ve just sprung the most ridiculously short deadline on me. There’s just no way I can do it justice as well as editing one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Giles, taking a sip of his tea.

She gave him one of her rare broad smiles, usually reserved for celebrities or chief executives.

‘I thought maybe I could get someone I trust to help me.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you,’ she said touching him lightly on the hand. ‘You are the only person who can do this Giles. You’re the only person who knows how I think and the only person with the knowledge and style to make it work.’

‘Cassandra, your greatest talent is making a chore sound like the chance of a lifetime,’ said Giles playfully.

‘Chore? I thought you always wanted to write a book,’ she said. ‘What was it again?’

‘The History of Dior. ’

Cassandra pushed a manicured fingertip across the surface of the table.

‘Strictly speaking Giles, Rive owns the copyright to everything you do, which could make writing books a little complicated. But once we get On Style out of the way, I’m sure we can look at your contract and iron that out. Plus, I can introduce you to the people at Leighton Best and get the Dior thing moving.’

Her implication was clear. If he didn’t write Cassandra Grand: On Style, he could forget writing his own book while he was still on the staff.

Giles thought for a moment.

‘Will I get a credit?’