Page 63 of Guilty Pleasures

‘Mark, I take it?’ asked Cameron looking up.

Emma nodded, feeling a cold chill down her spine at the mention of his name.

‘Working hard as usual, taking over the universe. Lonely as hell. Completely miserable, I’m sure,’ said Cameron with an encouraging smile. She put her hand on Emma’s.

‘Sweetie, you know you’re better off without him. And anyway, if you had stayed at PD, if you had got that partnership, you would never have made the move to Milford, would you? And although it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, it’s the best thing that could have happened.’

‘Was it the right move?’ asked Emma, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘I’ve never felt so unsure of anything in my whole life. I don’t even think I look the part.’

‘Well, I’d agree with that,’ said Cameron with a smile. ‘What have you got on today? Brooks Brothers?’

Emma opened her jacket to look at the label. ‘How did you know?’

‘Look honey, Brooks Brothers is fine for the City, but fashion is a different beast. You can’t go around like that.’ She flapped a disapproving hand at Emma’s suit and put her napkin on the table.

‘Come on,’ she said, standing and signalling to the maitre’d for the bill, ‘I think we’re going to have to get you some armour.’

‘What do you mean?’ frowned Emma.

‘We’re going shopping.’

Cameron looked at her friend as if she were sizing up a prize heifer.

‘Hmm … personally I love Marni, but I think it’s a little bold for you,’ she said, turning Emma around. ‘Dolce is too sexy for you but they do amazing trouser suits, not that your figure needs any help. We could do Prada or Helmut Lang but you can be too severe anyway.’

‘Severe?’ said Emma, putting her coat on.

‘You’re the MD. You want to be sharp and chic but I don’t think you should look too ball-breaker like. We need some jersey and crêpe and maybe a touch of georgette to soften the lines. That would be wonderful on you; I’m thinking kind of Julie Christie in Darling.’

‘Isn’t that the one about the prostitute and the soldier?’

‘No, it’s the one about the floozy and the prince. But she looked amazing.’

Cameron squinted into a compact mirror and scribbled on the bill.

‘Let Price Donahue get this one.’

Three minutes later, they were on Bond Street standing outside a shop full of black lacquer and silver mannequins.

‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ whispered Cameron taking her by the arm and leading her in. ‘Chic for day. Sophisticated for night. This is the place.’

No sooner were they in the shop than Cameron had picked up two ivory silk shirts, an amethyst silk jersey cocktail dress and a pleated navy pencil skirt. She threw them over her arm and led Emma into the fitting room.

‘Come on, gorgeous, we’re going to turn you into a fashion icon,’ she smiled.

After buying half of Yves Saint Laurent, they visited Gucci and Gina for shoes and Alexander McQueen for a gorgeous slate-grey cashmere overcoat. Flushed with indulgence, they stood on the corner of Bond Street and Piccadilly.

‘Here, now you’re fit for the front row!’ grinned Cameron, pushing the bags towards Emma, who staggered under their weight, but laughed with excitement.

‘Oh, and one more thing …’ said Cameron, flipping open her phone.

‘Julian? It’s Cameron. You too, darling, and thanks for the cut – it looks fabulous. Now I have a challenge for you: Emma, my close friend, needs some of your magic to bring her into the twenty-first century.’ Cameron winked at Emma. ‘Can you? This afternoon? You’re a doll! I’ll tell her, kiss-kiss.’

Cameron snapped her phone shut and handed her a card from her purse.

‘Julian Coco, my London hair-stylist.’

‘You have a London hair-stylist.’