Guilty Pleasures (49 page)

Emma refused to return to the chalet. The doctors wouldn’t let her fly with an arm in a cast and instead Rob hired a car and offered to drive her back.

Her phone rang as they were approaching the outskirts of Paris.

‘Grüezi. Is this Fraulein Bailey?’ asked an accented voice.

‘It is,’ said Emma, stealing a glance at Rob.

‘This is Inspector Beck of the Canton Bern police. An abandoned Mercedes has been found in Montbovond, about a fifteen-minute drive from Gstaad. I thought you would be interested to hear we discovered scrape marks all along the left-hand side, showing traces of red paint. I suspect they will match the red paint from your hire car that was run off the road.’

Emma had to bite her lip to prevent herself saying ‘I told you so’.

‘I suppose you have traced the owner of the car?’

‘Yes. It belonged to a Mrs Suzanne Marcel, a socialite lady who lives in Gstaad,’ said the policeman. ‘However, that does not help us too much as she had reported the car stolen before your accident.’

‘That car tried to run me off the road,’ said Emma firmly. ‘Whoever hit my car was trying to kill me, Inspector. Are there any forensic tests you can do on the car?’

There was a long pause. She wished she had stayed in Gstaad longer. She wondered how much of a priority her case would be now she was no longer there to pursue it.

‘Miss Bailey, we feel sure it was, how do you say in English,
joyriders.
It was Christmas, the car was stolen, the drivers were drunk.’

She could tell what he was trying to say: if joyriding was their most likely explanation, then it certainly wouldn’t be worth doing any expensive forensic tests on the vehicle.

‘Inspector Beck,’ said Emma, her voice rising, ‘I am absolutely convinced that whoever ran me off the road was doing it deliberately and knew it was me in that car. Even if you don’t believe me, one thing is certain: I was almost killed on that mountain. On that basis – attempted murder – I would hope that you and your police force might put a little more energy into finding the culprits, even if it was, as you say,
joyriders.
’

Beck sounded apologetic as he replied.

‘Fraulein, there is very little evidence.’

‘Well
find
some, Inspector!’

When she put down her mobile, Emma’s hands were shaking. She rested her head wearily against the window.

‘It wasn’t joyriders,’ she said quietly.

‘It
is
the simplest explanation,’ said Rob.

She looked at his profile and suddenly remembered the cider farm and how happy she had been that night. In the intimate confines of the car, there were so many questions she wanted to ask him. Why had it all cooled so suddenly after his Thanksgiving trip to New York? She didn’t even know who he had been in Courchevel with. She didn’t
want
to know. In Rob’s car she felt protected and safe, she wanted everything to stay that way for now.

‘What a great start to the New Year this is,’ she said, watching the French countryside slip by.

‘Listen, I have an idea,’ said Rob quickly. ‘Your birthday is next month, right?’

‘You have a good memory,’ she said suspiciously.

‘I’m not just a pretty face,’ he grinned. ‘And I also seem to remember that last year’s celebration was pretty crappy too, wasn’t it?’

She gave a low sarcastic laugh. ‘Oh yes. Betrayed by my then-boyfriend, I should have known what sort of year it was going to turn out to be.’

‘Well, this year, Miss Bailey, you are going to have a party. After all, it is your thirtieth. You need to push the boat out.’

‘Oh, Rob,’ she groaned.

‘I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll have a party at the house: leave it to me to sort everything out.’

‘Yeah, great,’ she grinned. ‘Coke, hookers. Happy birthday, Emma.’

Rob didn’t smile.

‘Hey, maybe you could let me be nice to you every once in a while.’

‘Oh, I’m not being ungrateful, Rob. I’m just not, you know, the party sort of person.’

‘You did OK at the shop launch.’

‘That was different. That was for the shop, not for me. I don’t like attention in that way and I just don’t think there’s anything much to celebrate.’

‘Why not?’

‘Someone tried to kill me, Rob. I know they did.’

‘But who? Your family? They have no reason to want you dead.’

‘They have every reason,’ she said, remembering the conversation at the Christmas Eve dinner. ‘They want me out of the way so they can either sell the company or float it. I don’t trust anyone, Rob,’ she said quietly. ‘No one at all.’

‘Georgia Kennedy! I don’t believe it. How? Tell me!’ said Jeremy Pike, rushing into Cassandra’s office almost breathless with excitement. It was the first working day of the New Year and Cassandra had only just taken her coat off. She was inwardly delighted at the reaction to Georgia Kennedy on
Rive’s
February cover, having seen the looks of wonder on the faces of her staff as she passed through the outer office.

‘Everybody has been after Georgia Kennedy for years,
everybody.
Come on, how did you do it? Spill!’

She suspected Jeremy was irritated to have been excluded from
Rive’s
little editorial secret, but for now he was hiding it well. Cassandra enjoyed her moment. Lightly tanned from Gstaad, wearing a winter-white, one-shouldered dress that would have looked over-dressed on anyone but her she looked and felt like the most powerful magazine editor on earth. ‘My lips are sealed, Jeremy, even for you,’ she smiled.

David Stern came in behind Jeremy, grinning.

‘I went into Victoria Station’s WH Smith this morning and they were all sold out.’

‘Yes, and Sky news have phoned three times,’ added Jeremy excitedly. ‘The
Evening Standard,
the
Times.
Everyone wants to interview you about the piece.’

‘And they will. In time,’ nodded Cassandra. ‘But for now, it’s all ours.’

‘What’s Glenda had to say about it?’

Cassandra’s smile was sphinx-like. She knew she had that confrontation to look forward to as soon as New York woke up.
Glenda would be incandescent with rage that Cassandra had gone back on their deal to run Georgia Kennedy on the March cover of both US and UK
Rive.
Cassandra’s bold decision to run it a month early against her wishes meant that Glenda had been well and truly trumped, despite her supposed power and influence.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl,
thought Cassandra.

‘Nothing yet, but I’m sure she’ll be sporting about it,’ she said. ‘Now, Jeremy, can you round up the 10 a.m. meeting? Obviously there’s plenty to discuss.’

‘Like the takeover of Alliance?’ said David, raising one eyebrow. As the buy-out had happened on the penultimate day of business before Christmas many members of staff hadn’t been briefed about the news.

‘It’s good news all round,’ said Cassandra breezily. ‘Girard-Lambert are a huge company and they’re prepared to invest heavily in
Rive.
With this cover and Girard-Lambert’s muscle behind us, I’d say that this is the start of something wonderful.’

Lianne popped her head round the door.

‘I have Pierre Desseau on the phone for you. Says he wants to meet for lunch.’

Cassandra almost purred with contentment. It
was
the start of something wonderful.

Pierre was already sitting at their table at the Ivy when Cassandra walked in, his skiing tan set off by the crisp blue of his shirt. Under normal circumstances, Pierre might have been Cassandra’s type, but since Max had come into her life she had no desire for other men, however powerful. She sat down and took a menu from the waiter and allowed him to pour some mineral water into a glass.

‘So how does it feel being the new owner of Alliance?’ asked Cassandra, glad she had worn the winter-white dress.

‘There’s a lot to do, but of course it’s exciting.’

‘Well, the Feb issue is already flying off the newsstand,’ she said.

‘I’m sure,’ said Pierre coolly.

His tone of voice put Cassandra on guard.

‘Cassandra, we need to talk,’ he said, putting his glass on the white tablecloth.

‘About
Grand
magazine. Yes we do,’ said Cassandra. She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree I kept my side of the bargain.’

‘Actually, I want to discuss
Rive.’

He paused and put the palms of both hands on the table.

‘I believe the UK and the US editions were supposed to run simultaneous covers of the Georgia Kennedy shoot for March? As it is, the UK edition has gone early with it, leaving the US issue high and dry for one of their most important issues of the year.’

She felt her throat dry and took a swift sip of water.

‘So Glenda has got to you.’

‘This is not playground one-upmanship,’ said Pierre icily. ‘Her March issue is about to go to press and they have no cover.’

‘They’ll cope,’ said Cassandra tartly. ‘And if they have to use the Georgia cover in March, so what? Glenda is exaggerating the situation for her own ends. She’s quite happy for US
Rive
to run a month early with a cover the same as ours without thinking twice about
our
credibility.’

‘Your ego is fucking with your business sense,’ said Pierre in a low voice. The tables were close together and Cassandra glanced around, paranoid they might be overheard. It was really the most public, inappropriate place for a dressing-down.

‘Every minute of every day I think about nothing but UK
Rive,’
she hissed back. ‘I devote my life to it. I have turned it around and made it the hottest, most profitable fashion magazine in the country. Wanting the very best cover for
Rive-
an exclusive that I spent months successfully brokering myself, incidentally – has nothing to do with my ego and everything to do with consolidating our position in the market. Anyway, you wanted me to out-gun US
Rive.
That was the brief, wasn’t it? Well, that’s what I have done.’

‘Yes, but at what cost?’ said Pierre.

The meal arrived. Pierre looked at his plate before reaching into the inner pocket of his navy suit and pulling out a neatly-folded letter. He put it onto the table between them without a word.

‘What’s this?’

‘A press release that will be going out to the industry tomorrow.’

Cassandra picked it up and scanned it quickly. Her mouth dropped open.

Girard-Lambert incorporating Alliance magazines are sad to announce the resignation of Cassandra Grand as editor-in-chief of UK
Rive
magazine. Cassandra, who has been with
the title for over four years, is leaving the company to pursue other interests. Her replacement is to be announced shortly.

‘What’s this?’ she said, unable to stop the croak in her voice. ‘I hope you’re going to tell me this is a way of getting me off
Rive
so I can start
Grand?’

‘There will be no
Grand
magazine,’ said Pierre coolly.

Cassandra looked around again to make sure no one was listening to this grotesque pantomime.

‘We had an agreement,’ she snarled.

‘We did,’ he said flatly. ‘One that was checked out by your lawyer. He was apparently happy that my obligation would be null and void in the event of your gross professional negligence.’

She felt as if her lungs had been punctured.

‘And in what way have I been
negligent?’

‘You are a maverick, Cassandra. Creative, yes. Talented, of course. But not a team-player. I can’t trust you to behave professionally, respectfully.’

‘For instance?’

‘For instance, Phoebe Fenton’s husband Ethan has just bought Artemis cosmetics.’

Artemis was one of the biggest cosmetics companies in the world, almost rivalling L’Oreal in size.

‘Phoebe and Ethan reunited over the holiday period,’ continued Pierre. ‘Ethan has already informed me that no Artemis advertising will run in
Rive
so long as you are in charge. Your Phoebe story, I believe, was another instance of you thinking only of ambition and not of consequence.’

Cassandra snorted.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, how was I to know her husband was going to buy Artemis? If that’s what you call negligent, why not throw these in: circulation is up; ad revenue is up; our profile is sky-high. The industry love me. Fire me and you’ll have the biggest, noisiest unfair dismissal case you’ve ever heard of.’

‘You really must keep that ego in check,’ said Pierre quietly, ‘it will get you into trouble one day.’

Cassandra narrowed her eyes.

‘Don’t threaten me,’ she spat.
‘Rive
is nothing without me. You know I was the driving force in the US and when I left to relaunch
Rive
UK all Glenda did was copy
my
vision.’

‘Actually, Glenda has presented a very exciting new vision to me for the future of
Rive.’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ she snarled, standing up and walking towards the door; a hundred faces turned to watch her as she left.

Cassandra’s apartment felt unusually still in the middle of the day. Ruby was back at her grandmother’s before returning to school and the chaos she’d left in her wake had been replaced with Cassandra’s tasteful order – but suddenly she longed for Ruby’s careless abandon. She paced around the open-plan flat, aimlessly straightening books and cushions, still in her coat, clutching it tight around her body like emotional insulation.

She didn’t need
Rive,
she didn’t need Pierre Desseau, she told herself. She was Cassandra Grand! Any magazine or fashion house would kill to have her on board.
So why do I feel like I’m walking to the gallows?

She snatched up her mobile phone.

‘Max, can you come?’

She hadn’t seen him for two weeks or spoken to him for three days; she missed him so much it was like a physical pain. Right now she wanted him by her side more than she had ever wanted anything.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I need to see you about something. I’m at home. Come as soon as you can.’

She poured a vodka and slimline-tonic and took it out onto the balcony. She stared out at the city, not really thinking, just being, watching the clouds and traffic. She had no idea how long she was out there but she had watched the grey afternoon fade and now it was getting dark. Her skin was ice cold; she liked that. She wanted to be numbed – it was her way of coping. Max came at five, letting himself in with the key she had given him weeks before. He put the key on the table and walked across to her. Cassandra lifted her fingers to touch his lips, cupping his face before kissing him.

‘You’re cold,’ he said, frowning.

‘And you’re early,’ she smiled, pleased that he had rushed to her side.

‘I wanted to come early,’ said Max going over to sit in the Barcelona chair opposite her. Watching him, in the half light, almost made her forget about
Rive.
She wanted to climb into him, as if
he was a suit. She decided not to mention her troubles straightaway – she wanted to enjoy a little time together first.

‘So how was New Year without me?’

‘St Barts was OK.’

He seemed uneasy, distracted. Cassandra immediately felt nervous. The room felt charged like the air before a storm.

‘You were supposed to say how much you missed me,’ she said.

There was a long uncomfortable pause.

‘Laura is pregnant. We found out two days ago.’

She bit her bottom lip painfully.

‘You said you weren’t having sex.’

‘Cassandra, she’s my
wife,’
he said fiercely.

She tasted blood on her lip and licked it away, pulling herself up into her most majestic stance.

‘Well, let her have babies! That’s what trophy wives do, isn’t it?’ said Cassandra tartly.

Max stood up and started pacing back and forth across the rug; the same rug they had made love on so many times, planning their future together.

‘Cassandra, it’s more than that. We are having a
family,’
he said. ‘Another little me, I have to give it a go. I have to
try
and give it a go. At least for now. This child is the heir to Hildon.’

Cassandra walked to the table and poured herself another vodka, ignoring the tonic. He looked at her.

‘I’m sorry, Cass. You are a breathtakingly exciting woman. You are passionate and beautiful and sex is incredible. But…’ He hesitated.

‘That’s all I am to you,’ she said quietly, putting down the empty glass and walking towards him, ‘Sex? An easy fuck when your wife’s back is turned?’

He grabbed her hands but kept his distance.

‘No.
No.
You and I, we are the same creatures. We enjoy the thrill, we
want
each other but we don’t
need
each other.’

It was as if he’d punched her in the stomach. From that first night Cassandra had felt that she and Max were soul mates, that their similarities had linked them on a deep and intimate level, but Max had just managed to make their connection feel inconsequential, something he could take or leave whenever he felt like it.

She nodded slowly, determined not to show her feelings. She was Cassandra Grand. She didn’t
cry.

‘What about Clochiers?’ she asked, not daring to breathe.

Max shook his head.

‘I don’t think we should see each other any more. You tempt me too much.’

Their eyes met for a moment; then she looked away.

‘Just go,’ she said.

He hung by her side for a moment, for once unsure of what to do.

‘I saw the Georgia cover,’ he said. ‘It looks incredible. You see, you really don’t need me, do you?’

‘Clearly not,’ she replied.

He smiled sadly, looked at the key he had left on the table and walked out of the door. And for the first time in a very long time, she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.