Page 98 of Guilty Pleasures

‘It’s over there,’ he said, pointing a torch away from Johnny and the Pixie.

‘Thanks!’ she hissed and set off at a run. It had suddenly turned very cold and the thin sweater she had brought wasn’t keeping her warm. Finally she found a white tour bus with a card in the window that read ‘Kowalski’.

‘There you are,’ said Ruan. ‘I went to meet you in the comedy tent but you’d gone.’

‘It wasn’t very funny,’ smiled Emma.

To Emma’s surprise it was not particularly glamorous or luxurious inside a rock band’s tour bus. There were a couple of bench-type sofas, cramped bunk beds and a long kitchen area with a chipped Formica table that jutted out at right angles. There was a faint smell of alcohol, sweat and marijuana, but no rock stars. The band had only finished their storming set on stage twenty minutes ago and had yet to appear. Stella was lying back like Ophelia on one of the bunk beds, her eyes closed, and after what she had just seen, Emma was glad she was asleep. Ruan was slumped on one sofa while Rob, sitting with his back to the window next to Jessica, was drinking champagne out of a large plastic cup.

‘Well, better late than never,’ smiled Jessica handing Emma the bottle of Moët.

‘How was the mosh-pit?’ asked Rob, his eyes looking a little glassy.

‘I gave it a wide berth,’ she smiled. ‘I managed to see one of Hollander’s new bands though – The Constants. They were fantastic. Their last song reminded me of something on that Beatles album you gave me.’

A slow grin spread across Rob’s face.

‘You’re learning, kiddo.’

Emma caught Jessica carefully watching them both and then give a sour smile. For Emma, who had spent her undergraduate years studying psychology because she wanted to understand human behaviour, it was telling. At that moment she knew she didn’t like or trust Jessica.

‘I don’t know about anyone else but I need a pick-me-up before the driver comes,’ said Jessica, reaching into her handbag. She took out a little paper envelope, unfolded it and then tipped some of the white powder onto the table. She took a credit card out of her purse and expertly chopped it into four fat lines, inhaling one through a rolled-up twenty pound note.

Emma felt deeply uncomfortable. She had never been a drug user, not out of any great moral fortitude but simply because the idea had never appealed, but she knew enough to know that doing drugs was a short cut to being ‘cool’, to being part of this world. Once again Emma felt like she was the geek in the playground, the square, the bore. As if sensing her discomfort, Jessica nodded in her direction.

‘Want some?’

‘No thanks, I was actually just going back outside,’ she answered, flushing slightly.

‘So soon?’ replied Jessica. ‘Is it another emergency?’

‘No, there’s still something on in the comedy tent we wanted to see,’ said Ruan quickly, following Emma out of the trailer.

‘Have fun,’ trilled Jessica.

Rob frowned as he watched them go, unable to put his finger on why he suddenly felt uncomfortable. The amount of booze he’d consumed might have had something to do with it. After he’d decided to get rightly sozzled, he had entered the champagne tent at a run and poured half a bottle of Moët into a plastic pint glass, knocking it back like lemonade. He was now comfortably numb, but not so numb that he couldn’t feel Jessica’s hand stroking his crotch under the table. That certainly wasn’t the thing that was wrong – he was most definitely enjoying what she was doing. Jessica was a world-class fuck, she was also funny and smart, albeit street-smart. She was definitely a cut above the girls he usually met on the party circuit. But still, he couldn’t concentrate, something was nagging at him. He brushed Jessica’s hand away from him and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Jessica, surprised.

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘You’re not going after Emma, are you?’ she said, standing up and holding onto his arm.

‘No,’ he snorted, as if she had said something ridiculous. ‘There’s a band manager I need to speak to. I’ll just be a few minutes.’

‘Come back soon,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I’m horny and I want to fuck you into tomorrow.’

Rob walked into the dark. The music from the stage had stopped and instead there was just the distant sound of cheering. Without thinking, he found his feet leading him towards the comedy tent. She was standing in the dark at the back, small and slim next to the tall, brooding figure of Ruan. They were both laughing and she was tapping her foot in time to the music until the final act came on. She didn’t look awkward now. She looked softer, happier. Not the bristling angry wound-up little thing from the wedding, not the stressed-out workaholic he would see jogging around Chilcot. Happier than when she was with him. Rob realized that

he’d come to find her because he had hated the situation in the trailer, the look on her face when Jessica had offered her drugs. It wasn’t disapproval, just awkwardness and a little panic, an emotion Rob would never have associated with Emma; she always seemed so capable, so in control. But he shouldn’t have worried; she was OK. Too OK. He shook his head and turned around, slowly heading back to the bus. He wasn’t even looking forward to the world-class fuck that was waiting for him there.

31

The San Pellegrino bottles lined up on the tables glinted in the sunlight. It was a blazingly hot day and Cassandra stood up to close the blinds as the Rive staff settled themselves around the boardroom table. When she took her seat, she was surrounded by almost the entire staff of the magazine, all looking at her expectantly.

‘Any idea what next month’s ABC figures are going to look like?’ asked a voice from the back.

Cassandra nearly smiled; she knew what was on their minds. The ABC figures – the official industry circulation figures released twice a year – were about to be announced and they were the only real way magazines could tell how their sales compared against their rivals. With the exception of the most senior staff, the team were only privy to the figures when they were published in February and August and they were powerful numbers. Poor ABC figures could lose a magazine a vital advertising campaign and they would certainly destroy a staff’s morale; even a tiny downturn could send them into a depression. And that was Cassandra’s problem. She already knew that Rive’s figures would be static: no rise, no fall. The Phoebe Fenton cover and the resulting controversy had given the circulation a big push, but a poor selling March issue and the dreaded Ludvana cover had had an impact on sales. It was bad news in any event but following her conversation with Pierre Desseau, it was a disaster. Cassandra needed to show him that she was one of the top editors in the world and mediocre sales figures just weren’t going to do that. It was extra pressure she just didn’t need. Pierre had called her back six days after their meeting to say he was interested, but he told her he needed more before he would consider agreeing to his side of the bargain. He wanted hard proof she could access Alliance’s figures and plans. Cassandra told him she could play hardball too: No Grand magazine, she said, no insider information. It had been like the hard slog of a grass-court tennis match. Eventually the Frenchman had conceded, but had insisted that Cassandra prove she was worthy of the job. He had set her a list of targets, the biggest of which was that she had to out-perform US Rive. Not at the newsstand – that was impossible – but in industry standing. And while they could massage the figures slightly, there was no hiding the fact that Cassandra’s performance this year was beginning to look a little lacklustre.