Guilty Pleasures (16 page)

She wrote a seven-figure number on a napkin and passed it over to him.

‘… a remuneration package in this ball-park. And a seat on the board.’

Charles folded up the napkin slowly.

‘That would be a considerable departure for us,’ he said. ‘As you know, magazines are a new media platform for us.’

‘And I have to safeguard my career very carefully,’ she said.

Charles nodded.

‘I think we both need to go away and think about it.’

Cassandra smiled politely and pushed her chair back, offering her hand.

‘I will
definitely
be in touch,’ she said, holding his hand and his gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary. She knew by the way he smiled back at her that she had hit home. Mission accomplished. It had been a very productive day indeed.

‘You’re a little early, madam,’ said Morton, opening Winterfold’s double doors before Emma had a chance to put her key in the lock. She threw her car keys on the walnut console table, flopped into a deep wing chair and kicked off her shoes.

‘Ooh, that feels good,’ she said, wriggling her feet in the deep pile carpet. ‘When it’s eight o’clock and you’re telling me it’s early, maybe it’s time to retire,’ she smiled at Morton, glad to see his genial face, even more glad of the mug of hot tea he produced from nowhere. When Emma had first moved into Winterfold, she had thought having a butler was a terrible extravagance, some strange reactionary throwback to colonial times, but now she realized why Saul enjoyed having him around so much. The house felt far too big for her to live in alone and coming home to dark empty rooms would have had her reaching for the gin. With Morton in residence, however, Winterfold felt more like a home – a huge home, admittedly-but slightly more warm and cosy, slightly more alive. Plus, Emma enjoyed the old man’s company; he was polite and deferential, however many times she asked him to treat her ‘as a friend’, but there was a twinkle in his eye and a wry smile on his lips.
I suppose that’s what you’d need, looking after Saul for so long,
thought Emma.

‘This arrived for you this afternoon, madam,’ said Morton, carrying a large cardboard box through to the study. ‘I think you’ll be more comfortable in here. I’ve made the fire for you.’

‘Morton, please call me Emma. And here, let me get that,’ she said, standing and taking the package from him. Emma had no idea how old Morton was – 70, nearing 80? – but he was certainly too old to be doing heavy lifting.

‘Whatever can this be?’ she wondered, walking into the cosy study, warmed from the crackling fire. According to his butler, Saul had spent most of his time in this room and Emma could see why. It was one of the most welcoming in the house, with wood-panelled walls, acres of bookshelves and deep squashy sofas facing a home-cinema grade media system: plasma TV, state-of-the-art stereo, internet access, the works. Emma placed the box on a mahogany coffee table in front of the fire and knelt to open it. She pierced the top with a letter opener and sliced back the lid. She frowned as she pulled out the layers of bubble-wrap packing. Stacked inside were dozens of CDs. She pulled them out and spread them on the table: David Bowie, Marvin Gaye, Led Zeppelin, Oasis, John Coltrane. One by one she looked at them, having a foggy awareness of some names – The Beach Boys or John Lennon, of course – but most she had never even heard of. I mean, who were the Velvet Underground? And surely there can’t be a band called Niggers With Attitude? As she reached the bottom, she noticed a business card which had fallen down the side of the box. She picked it up and had to suppress a smile at the hand-written message on the reverse. It read:
100 albums to listen to before you die. Enjoy. Rob x.

Morton walked in carrying the teapot and a plate of biscuits. Placing them on the side, he bent and picked up a copy of Frank Sinatra’s
Songs For Swingin’ Lovers.

‘I have this on an LP. Oh, and this,’ he said, picking up Bob Dylan’s
Blood On The Tracks.
‘It’s a good selection; whoever sent these has good taste.’

‘Thanks, Morton,’ said Emma, still smiling. ‘I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur.’

‘Oh, in my youth, madam, in my youth,’ he smiled, the twinkle back in his eye. ‘Myself and Mrs Morton used to cut quite a dash through Soho, if I do say so myself.’

Emma giggled.

‘You’re a dark horse, Mr Morton.’

Emma crossed to the CD player and slotted a disc into the drawer.
The Beatles
by The Beatles. It seemed the safest choice to Emma, although
curious it doesn’t have much of a cover,
she thought. She pressed the shuffle button, expecting a random jingly jangly Sixties pop song but instead was faced with a spiralling swirl of psychedelic guitars. Emma’s mouth hung open and she scrabbled to look at the track-listing. ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’? ‘Ob-La-Di,
Ob-La-Da’? ‘Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey’?
What was all this?
But as the record carried on, Emma found herself swept up in it. It had a strange primal urge she liked. She settled in a big armchair by the fire and used the remote to flick through the tracks, finding everything from beautiful ballads to strange avant-garde soundscapes. The record seemed to be almost as big a revelation as the man who had sent them. Emma had googled Rob Holland the evening after they had met on the common. She hadn’t meant to, but curiosity had got the better of her and she’d been surprised that he had his own Wikipedia entry. An even bigger surprise was that Rob wasn’t just an executive of Hollander Music he was the European
chief
executive. The company itself was a subsidiary of Hollander Media, a huge NYSE company that owned thirty radio stations, a major Hollywood studio, and a TV station network, to just scratch the surface. It was a multi-billion dollar international company. His father Larry was chief executive and the family were still major shareholders, which made the Hollands one of the fifty richest families in America.
Rich enough to rent Winterfold?
thought Emma, recalling their conversation on the run. Rob Holland could probably buy Winterfold with the interest from his trust-fund alone.

Morton popped his head around the door.

‘I was about to serve dinner, madam, but you have visitors.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Emma, surprised. ‘Who is it?’

‘Your mother, your Uncle Roger and Aunt Julia. Should I show them into the red room or would you rather stay here?’

‘Here, I think,’ said Emma, rising. She smoothed down her skirt and quickly looked in the mirror above the fire, suddenly unaccountably nervous.

‘Hello. What a surprise,’ said Emma as they walked in. Her unsettled feeling increased as she saw the cool look of purpose on their faces. She doubted they were popping round for a cup of sugar.

‘I hope we didn’t disturb you,’ smiled Julia, taking off her scarf.

Emma shook her head. ‘Of course not, please do come in. I was just… well…’ she said, scrabbling for the remote to turn down The Beatles.

‘Don’t worry, we won’t be long,’ said Roger gruffly.

‘Yes, I think we should cut to the chase here,’ nodded Virginia, sitting in a chair without removing her coat.

‘We’re all a little worried, dear,’ said Julia with a note of kindness, leaning against the desk.

‘What about?’

‘William Billington at the bank phoned Roger this afternoon to give him a heads-up that the bank are going to turn down Milford’s application for a capital loan.’

‘What’s he doing phoning Roger?’ said Emma feeling a hot flush of panic.

‘I
am
a director of this company,’ said Roger coolly. ‘I’ve dealt with William for years. He was trying to let us down gently. Frankly it was all rather embarrassing, not to mention incredibly worrying,’ continued Roger disapprovingly. He had walked over to the drinks table and began pouring himself a brandy.

Emma looked down at the floor. She thought her business-plan was convincing and at her meeting with Billington’s she’d felt sure that she had their support.

She glanced at Roger wondering if he’d had anything to do with the bank’s decision. After all,
he’d dealt with William for years.

Emma was determined not to show her disappointment and fear.

‘It’s a set-back but I do have a few other meetings lined up and I’m confident that we’ll get the money.’

‘None of us share that confidence Emma,’ said Roger, leaning back in the chair and sipping his drink.

‘Oh? And who exactly is “us”?’ asked Emma.

‘The other directors. The factory. Have you spoken to the shop floor at all? They are aware that you want to decrease production and they all believe they are going to lose their jobs. So much for your expertise in management,’ he sneered. ‘The only positive thing you’ve done so far is to get a new designer onboard and she’s a complete amateur. How old is Stella now exactly, sixteen?’

Emma felt the anger welling up in her, outraged that they had come into her own home and ganged up on her.

‘And then there’s the rumour that the directors aren’t getting the end of year bonus,’ added Julia softly.

Emma shot a look at her mother. That had to have come from her; Emma had only mentioned it to her briefly the day before. It was the final straw and she came out fighting.

‘First off, Stella Chase is a very talented and successful designer,’ she said firmly, ‘we’re damned lucky to get her and when she starts work on Monday, everybody had better make her feel like that.
Secondly, I really don’t think directors should get a bonus when the company accounts are running at record losses. How would that management strategy go down on the shop floor, Roger? And finally, whether you believe in me or not, I have had some very positive feedback from the banks and lenders I am meeting next week, and I maintain that I’m confident we will get the money we need.’

‘The money
you
want for your hare-brained schemes,’ said Roger petulantly, reaching for the decanter.

‘Billington’s will lend us the money if someone experienced is CEO,’ said Julia.

‘Someone like Roger?’ said Emma cynically.

‘Yes,’ replied Virginia. ‘Someone like Roger. This is for the good of the family you know, Emma,’ said Virginia.

‘Oh, you talk to her,’ said Roger to Virginia, taking his glass and leading Julia towards the door. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.’

For a minute Emma and her mother didn’t speak, both staring into the fire, listening to it crackle.

‘Go back to Boston, sweetheart,’ said Virginia finally. ‘You were doing so well out there.’

Emma felt she’d been punched in the stomach. She couldn’t believe her own mother would betray her like this.

‘So you don’t think I can turn the company around?’ she said, a waver in her voice.

‘Oh, I think your intentions are good Emma, but look at the facts. Morale is low, our bank has turned against us and this is tearing the family apart. Personally I don’t need the money, as Jonathon does very well. But Julia? Her gallery hangs on by a thread and Roger, well… Roger has his expensive wife.’

The two women exchanged a hint of a smile and Emma felt a spark of warmth towards her mother, then immediately extinguished it. More than anything Emma wanted Virginia to support her, but why should today be any different to the last twenty years of her life? Since Jonathon had come into the picture, Emma had felt more like an obligation than a daughter. No, there was never anything that would amount to neglect; Virginia sent polite letters to Emma at boarding school and had visited her once at Stanford University – although Emma remembered that the stay had conveniently coincided with a performance of
Rigoletto
at the San
Francisco Opera that Virginia had particularly wanted to go to. And on the rare occasions that Virginia spent Christmas in Oxfordshire or at Saul’s chalet in Gstaad, she would grudgingly invite Emma to join them. But that was the rarity. More often, she’d be on a Caribbean cruise or in a luxury bolt-hole in the Bahamas with Jonathon which meant that from the age of eighteen Emma had spent Christmas with college friends or alone. Did she love her mother? She wondered. Of course she did. But could she count on her?
No. Emphatically no.

‘Mum, Saul wanted me to do this,’ said Emma as firmly as she could. ‘I have another three appointments with three other lending banks this week. We’ll get the money, I promise you.’

‘Emma, if Saul were here now, he’d be much more concerned about you sorting out other areas of your life than saving the company.’

‘Like what exactly?’ asked Emma.

‘Like your personal life,’ said Virginia, pacing in front of the fire. ‘You’re thirty next birthday, Emma. You have no boyfriend, no time to see friends, no time to have a life. You’re here living in a huge house with a man you hardly know, old enough to be your grandfather. Darling, you’re paying for his company.’

Emma looked into her mother’s eyes.

‘I have to do this,’ she said quietly.

Virginia shook her head ever so slowly, her lips in a line. Then she sighed and dropped her hands.

‘If you must. After all, you can do whatever you want to do. But a word of advice, give everybody some good news.
Do
something and do it quickly.’

‘Like what? Give Julia and Roger their bonuses when the rest of the employees haven’t had a pay-rise in twelve months?’

‘It might postpone a revolution,’ replied her mother.

She kissed her mother on the cheek and said goodbye.

When her guests had gone, Emma wandered through the house to the kitchen. Morton had clocked off for the night but had left a note on the table informing her there was boeuf bourguignon in the oven. After the attempted ambush, however, she really didn’t feel hungry and instead made a pot of coffee that she took back through to the study. Everything was still except for the noise of logs burning in the fire. She took a random CD from the pile and put it on, then flopped back onto the sofa and sipped
her coffee. Perhaps coffee hadn’t been the best idea when she needed to calm down; she felt fidgety and edgy and much more upset by the meeting than she should be. It was more than anger at their approach or the disappointment of not getting the loan or even the unfeeling attitude of her mother. No, when it came down to it, she felt lonely. Emma had decided to take on this huge task on her own and had predictably ruffled the feathers of everyone she might have looked to for support. She was alone in her desire to modernize the company and alone too in this huge house.
What the hell am I doing here?
she thought to herself. Looking up, she saw Rob’s business card propped up on the desk. Her mother was right.
She had to do something.
She grabbed the phone.

‘Hi Rob, it’s Emma. Emma Bailey.’

‘And is that the sound of “Stairway to Heaven” swelling through Winterfold, I hear?’ said a playful voice.

‘No, it’s your tinnitus,’ she smiled, suddenly feeling better. Rob laughed.