bitch thought Cassandra. She exhaled heavily.
‘All right. Good accessories designers are hard to find,’ she said finally. ‘The best ones get poached to head up the womenswear of big houses like Frida Giannini at Gucci. The alternative is to recruit a big name stylist and team them with a technically competent designer.’
‘I want the biggest name we can get. Where do I begin?’
‘Unless you have personal contacts, which I suspect you do not, the big appointments are made through fashion and luxury head-hunters like Claude Lasner. He fixes up the right talent with the right company. Now I don’t wish to be impolite, Emma, but this is a working event. A very important night for me. I’m going to have to go.’ She looked down pointedly at the narrow gold watch on her wrist.
‘Can I tell Claude you told me to get in touch?’ asked Emma.
‘Of course. He’s a very dear friend. Now I really must go.’
As she turned, Cassandra walked straight into a body.
‘Do you mind if I join in?’ said a deep voice.
Jean-Paul Benoit handed Cassandra a glass of champagne and curled his fingers around her waist as he kissed her cheek. Cassandra pulled back from the strong scent of cologne.
‘Don’t worry, I was just leaving,’ said Emma.
‘And who was that?’ leered Jean-Paul, as he watched Emma’s behind disappear into the crowd. At the creative end, the world of fashion was largely homosexual. But the money men and the business brains were not. Jean-Paul had made it clear that he wanted sex with her. While sex, or the promise of sex, was a tool in Cassandra’s repertoire it was one that needed to be used with care.
‘That was my cousin needing advice on her little company,’ she said boastfully. ‘She fancies herself as the next Rose Marie Bravo.’
‘Really,’ replied Jean-Paul, looking after Emma with interest. ‘And what company would that be?’
‘Milford,’ she said quickly.
‘I didn’t realize that was in your family. A good heritage.’
She saw the interest on his face and felt a stab of panic.
‘A company in its death throes, I’m afraid.’
What was happening? This was supposed to be her perfect night, the pinnacle of her achievements so far and a springboard to the next stage, yet here she was, being ambushed by a mousy upstart, while the CEO of a major luxury goods conglomerate appeared to be interested in both Emma and the company. She felt like all her careful plans were coming unravelled.
Giles appeared and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm.
‘What?’ snapped Cassandra, not trying to hide her annoyance.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, flashing a look of disapproval in Jean-Paul’s direction, ‘you’re wanted at the door.’
‘Excuse me, Jean-Paul. Duty calls,’ she said, with a winning smile. ‘Perhaps we can take this up again later on?’
She walked towards the entrance and through the sea of faces she could make out her brother Tom, arguing with a security guard. Their eyes locked through the crowd. She saw him mouth something to her but she turned her head away from him. All people wanted to do was take, take, take, she thought bitterly. What had anybody ever given to her? Without a backward glance, she turned to Giles.
‘Make sure security throw him out onto the street. Publicly.’
Giles opened his mouth to object before he saw the fury in her eyes. He turned towards the door.
As Cassandra moved back in to the party, she saw Emma leaving the cloakroom with her coat. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Jean-Paul passed her without any sign of recognition. The last thing she needed was a major luxury goods conglomerate interested in Milford. Now Cassandra knew what needed to be done. She could not allow Milford to get off the starting blocks. It had to fail so she could rescue it and gain control of it herself. But how to begin?
Then she smiled; the answer was right in front of her. This room was packed with fashion’s power players: executives, agents, photographers, art directors, stylists, PRs, journalists. All people Emma needed, people who needed to know that Milford was in the hands of an amateur who wore ballet pumps to the hottest party in Paris. People who needed to know that Milford was on the edge of bankruptcy. Fashion was a fickle world; it couldn’t stand to be associated with failure. And she knew exactly where to start: in the distance she could see Claude Lasner. It was only fair to warn him, she reasoned. She thought of her mother’s small shareholding in the company and shrugged the idea away. She had things to do. She had to make the night count.
‘It’s useless,’ said Emma throwing down another portfolio on the oak kitchen table. ‘This one only left St Martin’s six months ago. How can I appoint someone like that to be the head designer of Milford?’
‘It doesn’t mean to say they’re not any good,’ said Ruan McCormack, pouring out coffee from the stove in the warm kitchen of Winterfold. Emma had invited Ruan and Abby Ferguson around for some supper, hoping to sift through the pile of applications for the job of head designer. Claude Lasner had politely but firmly told her that he only dealt with the ‘top end of the market’, while a contact of Emma’s friend Cameron, who had been deputy design director at Gucci, had turned them down flat.
‘I don’t understand how you can call this good,’ said Emma, holding up a photograph from one applicant’s graduate show. ‘This model is wearing a straight-jacket! She looks like she’s escaped from an asylum!’
‘St Martin’s is very creative,’ said Abby, taking the photograph from Emma and looking at it as if she really understood it. She had only just left university herself; her father was a friend of Saul’s which is how she got the job but Emma was now beginning to doubt the wisdom of having invited her along at all. Although Emma liked her a great deal, her bubbly enthusiasm couldn’t disguise her inexperience. In fact, so far she had brought very little to the evening’s proceedings beyond throwing the odd lingering look in Ruan’s direction.
‘Look, this is serious,’ said Emma. ‘Obviously we’ve got to make the right appointment but I’ve got meetings with the banks next week and they are going to want to know who our management team are.’
‘What about going back to Roger?’ said Abby, trying to fill the silence.
‘I’m not sure that’s the best way forward,’ said Emma diplomatically, although she knew the choice was narrowing between Roger and Mr Straight-jacket.
‘How about I open a bottle of wine?’ said Ruan looking in his bag. ‘I swiped this from the boardroom.’
‘Great idea,’ smiled Abby, jumping up to fetch some glasses. ‘By the way, did you find out who wrote “Bailey Out” on the wall outside Byron House?’ she asked as she was rummaging in a cupboard.
Emma shook her head sadly. She was beginning to find running her own company
