turned to see Jean-Paul Benoit, chief executive of the Pellemont luxury goods house. Major advertiser. Major sleazeball.
‘Jean-Paul!’ she cooed, ‘I was just telling Giles how we need to get fashion’s most glamorous tycoon inside the pages of Rive magazine.’ She took his arm and steered him away from Sadie. ‘How would you feel about doing an “At Home”? You do still have your adorable house in Ile de Re? It’s one of my favourite places in the world. I’ve found this new photographer. I think he could be the new Testino. Someone like that could really do it justice.’
‘Will you be coming along in person?’ asked Jean-Paul, a wolfish grin on his face.
Cassandra smiled sweetly.
‘I’m sure something could be arranged …’
Am I mad? thought Emma as she stepped out of the taxi. Paris; the city of lovers. It had magic. She and Mark had talked about coming together at New Year. That seemed so long ago now and here she was outside a glittering party alone. She looked at the paparazzi crowding around the entrance, their flashbulbs lighting up the red carpet leading into the Rive party and thought that the gates of hell themselves might not be quite so intimidating. In front of her, a long queue snaked down the street while two girls with stern expressions and clipboards either waved people through or condemned them to ridicule. She shivered. What had made her come without a ticket? Desperation, she thought, moving towards the entrance, holding her clutch bag in front of her like a shield. Emma was in trouble with Milford already. After a long and heated meeting with Roger she had agreed to create the new position of Director of Bespoke Services for him. If she’d truly had it her way, she’d have dispensed with him entirely but as she’d definitely rocked the boat enough since her arrival, she’d decided that a sideways move for Roger was the best solution in the short term. That left the glaring vacancy of head designer to re-vamp the collection and if she’d thought it would be an easy appointment she was very much mistaken. In the last week, she’d make clumsy attempts at poaching big design names from other fashion houses, but despite hitting the phones for hours on end, she’d rarely made it past the company switchboards. At the factory, staff morale was low and the atmosphere around the village wasn’t just icy, it was glacial. Only yesterday she had driven up to the Milford factory gates to see that someone had spray-painted ‘Bailey out’ on the wall outside. Emma knew she needed to make changes fast if she was to head off a meltdown within the company, but she seemed to be banging her head against a brick wall: Milford’s image as a luxury brand was far worse than she had ever imagined. But there was one person she knew who could penetrate fashion’s inner circle: Cassandra. But even she had proved elusive. Every phone call to her cousin’s office was politely but firmly rebuffed. Cassandra was unavailable. Thinking laterally, Emma had contacted her aunt, Julia, but she had merely sent a message that Cassandra was in Paris for the week and would contact her on her return. Emma didn’t have a week. Production of samples for the Autumn/Winter line had been halted and could not begin until a new designer was in place. With a press show scheduled for six weeks’ time, they’d have to show Roger’s designs if she didn’t take action immediately – and she didn’t think the company would survive that. So when Ruan heard through the grapevine there was a Rive party in Paris she had booked her Eurostar ticket at once, telling herself she would sort out the details when she got there.
Well, now I’m here, she thought. Emma took a deep breath and walked as confidently as she could up to the clipboard desk.
‘Emma Bailey,’ she said, smiling.
‘Sorry. No,’ said the girl, dismissing Emma instantly and looking down the line to the next poor sap.
‘But I’m Cassandra …’ began Emma, then stopped herself, immediately realizing that ‘I’m Cassandra Grand’s cousin’ sounded like the whine of a gate-crasher – they’d probably already had a dozen people claiming to be relatives tonight.
‘Can you look again?’ said Emma politely, reaching into her clutch bag and placing her freshly-printed Chief Executive business card on the clipboard.
‘Perhaps it’s under Milford Luxury Goods,’ said Emma with an air of authority. ‘I might be on the advertisers’ guest list.’
The girl looked at Emma for the first time and she saw a cloud of doubt cross her face.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Bailey,’ she said, lifting the velvet rope. ‘Enjoy the party.’
Emma felt a little thrill of triumph. Maybe I can pull this off after all, she thought.
She walked into the impressive atrium mentally running through the questions she needed to ask Cassandra. Emma had even mulled over the idea of Cassandra joining the board as a non-executive director, although she had a nagging reservation. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to invite a fox into her henhouse.
Emma had never been to a fashion party before. She was surprised to see food. Waiters drifted by with trays laden with delicate bites: savoury tartlets, crab claws and mini Fauchon éclairs, although for the most part the guests waved them away, as if taking a single one would show weakness. Emma felt as if she had crossed into another world.
It’s only a party. They’re only human, she said to herself, but it was hard to believe. Everywhere she looked there were impenetrable cliques of beautiful and powerful-looking people, talking, laughing and drinking champagne. Had Emma a better grasp of pop culture, she would have recognized that she was surrounded by actresses, models and big-name designers. Up close, many of them weren’t actually beautiful, she thought with detached interest. But they had something, a worldliness and polish, a superiority. These people had ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was. And Emma most certainly did not. She felt a sudden sense of inadequacy she hadn’t felt since boarding school when she was known as Cassandra Grand’s geeky little cousin, a bookworm with mousy hair and clumpy shoes. That bookworm, of course, went on to get an MBA and work alongside the CEOs of multinational blue-chip companies. In Boston Emma had felt on a level pegging with even the most impressive businessmen because she knew her intellect and business skills matched theirs. But here! For a second, Emma felt so far out of her depth, she should just turn round and go back to America. ‘Bailey Out’ – that said it all. But she was not a quitter. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter and took a longer gulp than was polite. From a distance she could see Cassandra receiving guests like the Sun King granting an audience with the peasants.
‘You look a little lost, can I help you?’
Emma turned to see a tall man in a lavender woollen suit. He extended a hand with a genuine smile.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Emma, taking his hand gratefully.
‘Giles Banks. How nice to meet you.’
She smiled at his eccentric formality and relaxed. ‘Emma Bailey – very nice to meet you too. I was beginning to feel invisible.’
‘Oh, don’t worry!’ laughed Giles, leaning in as if to impart a secret, ‘I felt like that for years at fashion parties, then I realized that almost everyone feels the same way. They spend their whole time looking around for someone more important or famous than them, worried that everyone else is looking more fabulous or having a brilliant conversation with someone amazing on the other side of the room. No one ever is, they’re all talking about who else is here and who they’re talking to.’
‘So why does anyone come?’ asked Emma, fascinated.
‘Because you have to darling! This is the hottest party in town, if not the whole planet! Who wouldn’t want to be here?’
