Page 88 of Guilty Pleasures

‘It’s just… Why do we bother meeting up? He hasn’t got more than a passing interest in my life, but anything that comes out of Chessie’s mouth he considers of life and death importance.’

‘Come on baby, you’re being dramatic’

‘No, every time I see him, I hope that things have changed,’ she said determined to get it all off her chest. ‘He’s not a bad man but he’s

so wrapped up in her. I think my presence only reminds him about a past, a life he wants to forget.’

‘Stel, she’s his wife. You are his daughter but you barely see each other so, honestly, it’s not surprising you don’t have the closest relationship.’

He pulled her into a tight hug and she enjoyed smelling the cotton of his shirt and the smell of lime cologne.

‘Well then, I’m going to try harder,’ she said using the back of her hand to wipe away her tears. The unexpected news that he had another child on the way kicked in some strange competitiveness she didn’t understand.

‘Come on. Should we go for a drink?’ said Johnny briskly.

‘I just want to go home,’ she said sadly.

As they stepped out onto Park Lane, she noticed a photographer loitering on the pavement in front of them. ‘Oh shit, not now,’ she moaned, but it was too late.

The paparazzo had already advanced towards her, pointing a lens only feet away from her face.

‘Look, just piss off!’ she shouted angrily waving her arm in front of her, slapping the camera back into the photographer’s face. Startled, he lost his footing and his camera rattled to the ground.

‘Fucking bitch!’ he shouted, picking it up and chasing the two of them down the road, the motor drive of his camera whirling until they jumped into a taxi and sped off into the night. All in all, it hadn’t quite been the game of happy families Stella had hoped.

26

Emma sat in her sunny office looking at the month’s press clippings with mixed emotions. For one thing, it was a fairly slim file. Zoe, Milford’s publicist had offered exclusives to the Tribune and to Vogue which meant that the bulk of the Milford coverage would be running in the September issues – she hoped. Still, the August issue of Vogue had just hit the news stands, and their glowing two-page profile on Stella had been absolutely fantastic. But Emma’s Tribune interview with the strange little man she’d met at the wedding had been quite the opposite; the feature questioned Emma’s fashion credentials, sniped at Milford’s stuffy image and ridiculed the designs. Zoe was mystified. She had told Emma she usually had a good relationship with the journalist and couldn’t offer up any explanation why their piece had been so damning.

‘Hey Em, why so glum?’ said Stella, popping her head around Emma’s office door.

Emma smiled. Nothing seemed to be able to get Stella down.

‘Oh nothing, just work stuff,’ she said.

‘Forget about all that,’ said Stella, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Think about happy things like this: we’re going to a festival tomorrow afternoon. Want to come?’

‘What sort of festival? Opera? Cheese?’

‘Cheese?’ said Stella, flumping down on Emma’s leather office sofa.

‘Cheese is the new wine, or so I’ve been reading,’ smiled Emma.

‘That might be so. But I’m talking about a rock festival.’

‘You mean like Glastonbury?’

‘A bit like Glastonbury but this one has posher loos and fewer drugs. Come on. It will be fun. Rob’s getting us tickets so it will be rude to turn him down.’

Rob. Emma smarted at his name. They had barely spoken to each other since the Hildon wedding. Emma had packed her stuff the morning after the Wild West party and, too afraid to interrupt a possible sex-fest with him and the redhead, had stuck a note under the door of his suite, claiming a work emergency had called her back to Chilcot. She’d got the train home and since that weekend she’d kept her distance. She had just about managed to convince herself that the arrangement suited her fine, so why then was she so irritated that Rob was now apparently such good friends with Stella?

‘In other news, have you seen this?’ said Emma quickly, handing the cuttings file to Stella.

‘The Vogue piece? It’s wicked.’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘The Tribune story.’

Stella flicked through the stories, lingering on Larson Quinn’s hatchet job of Emma. She handed them back with a half-smile.