who was looking ready to leave.
‘You’ve got Les Fleurs,’ said Emma softly. ‘How wonderful!’
Cassandra smiled thinly. ‘I couldn’t have asked for better, could I?’ she said. Emma noticed that her eyes were not shining. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make an urgent call to the office.’
Emma flinched as Roger put his hand on her shoulder.
‘To the victor the spoils, eh?’ he said, with a forced jovial manner. ‘I know you have business experience, so I know you’ll weigh up the options and do what’s right for Milford. I know you’ll make the right decision. You take your time.’
He squeezed her shoulder and walked towards the door, leading Rebecca who was shooting daggers.
But Emma did not need to take her time. If Saul’s will had just made her a rich woman, then that was something to be thankful for. But had Saul expected her to come back to Milford and run the company? The whole afternoon had been ghastly and she could only imagine what a lifetime back here would be like. She wanted to go back to Boston, to Mark and her own life as quickly as she could.
Cassandra Grand had a dream, a dream that she had been nurturing since the age of thirteen. She wanted to be the greatest fashion legend since Coco Chanel, a style maven whose name was a billion dollar brand. She wanted to be fashion’s Martha Stewart, a female Tom Ford. She wanted it all and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in her way. Magazines were just the very start for Cassandra; she was already recognized as one of the top editors in the world and now she was ready to expand her empire. Some of the top luxury brands in the world had already come knocking, begging her to take on a consultation role, while her talent as a stylist meant she was still greatly in demand to style the hottest fashion advertising campaigns in the world. But there was one fly in the ointment: Emma Bailey. That bitch. Taking control of Milford had been a major part of Cassandra’s carefully laid plans. She’d known for years that the company was ripe for re-invention and had planned to rebrand it Cassandra Grand by Milford. Obviously, after a few years she would drop the fusty Milford label entirely, but by then, Cassandra Grand would be the hottest name in fashion. But of course, it hadn’t happened that way. Silly, foolish Saul had put a stop to that and it made her almost physically sick with fury; all the time, energy and expense she had wasted playing the dutiful niece! All those lunches at Claridge’s, the gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, the bottle of Petrus she had been sent by a French importer which had gone directly to Saul. And those dull family Christmas days spent with the family at Saul’s chalet in Gstaad when she could have been on a lover’s yacht in St Barts or at a friend’s villa in Mustique.
And hadn’t Saul promised the company to her? She remembered his words vividly.
‘One day, all this will be yours.’
He had promised her. He couldn’t just have meant the villa. Saul’s treachery, for that is how she viewed it, was like a body blow so hard it made her muscles ache. It was she, Cassandra, who was in fashion! She was the one with the contacts, the vision! She could have made Milford into a global force. The new Dior – bigger! And now it was over.
The lift pinged, the light flicked to ‘Floor 25’ and Cassandra was brought back to the present. This isn’t over, she thought, as the doors whooshed open and she strode into the Rive office. This is just a setback. Her spike heels clacked along as she looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the north side of the office. At least she had her job; it would see her through while she regrouped and planned how she would seize Milford back. And no jumped-up, middle-management nobody like Emma Bailey was going to stand in her way. Yes, she thought smiling, there was always another way.
‘Morning, Cassandra!’ said a voice to her left. The smile dropped from her face and she glared back, annoyed by the interruption to her thoughts. She was unusually late for a Monday morning and the office was already buzzing. Normally she would have been first in, usually before 8 a.m., but she had been obliged to start the day with a breakfast with the MD of Cartier. She enjoyed beginning the day alone, free from disturbances to collect her thoughts. To plan, to strategize. Cassandra was not a team player; she rated her talent and vision so far beyond the rest of her staff that she would gladly have crafted the whole magazine herself if time allowed. But even though she had cherry-picked her staff, she still sometimes felt as if she was dealing with amateurs and halfwits. As she passed through the glass doors into her plush office, her senior assistant Lianne met her halfway.
‘Art need to see you immediately,’ she said handing her a coffee; black, filter, scalding hot. Cassandra nodded and moved into her corner office to take her seat. It was a beautiful space, painted Dior grey and interior-designed to her specification, minimalist and chic. She sat down at her Perspex desk, uncluttered except for a white orchid, one in-tray full of layouts, another stuffed with party invitations and a pile of daily newspapers. Lianne had helpfully put the Time cutting announcing Cassandra as ‘twelfth most important woman in fashion’ in the centre of the glass. She picked it up and dropped it into the wastepaper bin without looking at it. Twelfth, she thought with annoyance.
Cassandra picked up the phone and punched Lianne’s extension.
‘Can you get Laura and Jeremy to step through as well. I want an update on the Friday’s cover-shoot.’
She was behind and it was a feeling Cassandra hated. She loved doing the shows; she never believed those editors who said the collections were a chore that needed to be suffered, but it kept her out of the office for days at a time. Cassandra was a control freak, she hated even the smallest detail of Rive being passed to the printers without her express permission and she didn’t let a minute go by when she didn’t know exactly where the magazine was up to. She looked up at the wall in front of her where miniature pages from next month’s issue had been pinned up: pages of glorious fashion by some of the world’s best photographers, opinion pieces by some of London’s most celebrated columnists. But there was one glaring hole: the cover story. She glanced at her calendar. It was down to the wire.
David Stern, Rive’s art director, came in first, wearing a black polo neck and holding a thick stack of photo paper.
‘I hope that’s the Phoebe shoot you have in your hands,’ said Cassandra.
Stern nodded.
‘I got Xavier to send over what he had. Awkward bastard. Said he wanted to retouch his selection before he would send anything.’
‘To which you replied …’ asked Cassandra.
‘Send over everything you have tout suite before Cassandra makes sure you never work for any magazine in the company ever again.’
‘Good answer,’ she said with a thin smile. She hated the power which photographers seemed to bestow upon themselves. If it wasn’t enough dealing with stroppy publicists, managers and agents, now she had photographers throwing diva hissy-fits. Well, Cassandra employed a zero-tolerance policy. If they wouldn’t play ball – her ball – then they would be dropped without a backward look. Rive was bigger than the sum of its parts; they could get a pensioner with a Brownie camera to shoot a fashion story and he’d be hailed as ‘the next big thing’.
David reverently laid three A4 prints on Cassandra’s desk, the pick of the shots from the Phoebe Fenton shoot. She stood up, and rested the palms of her hands on the Perspex
