Guilty Pleasures. Tasmina Perry
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amend the copy to say Phoebe and Romilly were all over one another if you like,’ said Jeremy, ‘but she wanted to run it past you first.’
Cassandra knew she had more than a cover story here. Her passion and her expertise was fashion, but her journalistic skills were much wider than that. Ever since she had been parachuted in to British Rive three years earlier with a mission to bring the magazine back from the edge of extinction, she had constantly surprised the industry with what legendary Vanity Fair editor Tina Brown referred to as ‘the mix’, running beautiful fashion pages next to heavyweight intellectual essays, shopping tips next to campaigning reportage. Aware that the UK market was something of an also-ran in the fashion magazine arena compared to the mighty American publications, Cassandra had worked hard to harness London’s creativity, mixing high society with high fashion and street-level cool, bringing in artists, philosophers, DJs and schoolgirls, including them all in the super-luxe Rive world. Each month she made Rive an event, each issue contained a surprise, whether it was running shocking photo-spreads among Moscow tenements, or convincing Damien Hirst to design the sets for her couture shoots. At a time when magazines were getting more anodyne with airbrushed photo-shoots and fawning celebrity interviews, Cassandra dared to push her luck, constantly delivering the surprising and the innovative. It was an audacious, not to mention expensive and highly risky approach, but it had paid off. Rive wasn’t just the number one fashion magazine, it was the number one women’s glossy. And this month Phoebe Fenton was going to take them to a new level.
‘This is absolute dynamite,’ said Cassandra in a low voice, eager to now end the meeting and run the copy past the company lawyer.
‘OK, back to work,’ she barked, waving a hand in dismissal and swivelling around in her chair. She snatched up the phone and was just about to call the legal department when she noticed the red light on her second line was flashing.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you while you were in the meeting,’ said Lianne apologetically, ‘but Phoebe Fenton has been on the phone twice in the last ten minutes. She’s still holding.’
Cassandra groaned, holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece as she debated whether to wait until she had called the lawyers. But curiosity got the better of her and it was nothing she couldn’t handle.
‘Put her through.’
There was a click, then Lianne’s voice.
‘I have Cassandra Grand for you, Ms Fenton.’
‘Phoebe, darling,’ purred Cassandra settling back into her ergonomic chair. She knew Phoebe a little, as they had met at numerous shows and fund-raisers over the years, but she wasn’t a real acquaintance. Cassandra couldn’t afford get too close to celebrities, for obvious reasons. One week they could be hotter than the sun, the next in fashion Siberia.
‘Cassandra, honey, how are you?’ said Phoebe warmly. ‘Did you enjoy the shows?’
‘Vintage Kors. Calvin was a little predictable. Some wonderful colours at Matthew Williamson and Zac Posen. It was a shame you were in London but then I’m sure you had great fun on our shoot.’
‘Actually that’s why I’m calling,’ replied Phoebe.
‘Yes, I’m so looking forward to seeing the shots,’ said Cassandra enthusiastically. ‘I love Xavier’s work.’
There was a brief pause before Phoebe began again. Cassandra could tell Phoebe was picking her words very carefully.
‘Cassandra … I’m a little concerned about how things went.’
A little late for that, darling, she thought.
‘Oh, really?’ said Cassandra, feigning surprise. ‘I heard it went well. Xavier is a genius. We were very lucky to get him in London when the New York shows were on. He makes women look so strong. So beautiful.’
‘Yes, I was wondering if we could talk about that. I’m nervous about the shots and the implications of the interview. I was wondering if I could …’
‘Darling, you know we never give copy approval. Once we start, everyone wants it and then the whole magazine grinds to a halt,’ replied Cassandra, cutting her short.
Phoebe paused again.
‘Yes, I realize that. There’s just a few things I’d like to explain. In private? I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel for lunch.’
‘I’d love to, Phoebe,’ said Cassandra, beginning to enjoy herself, ‘but it’s London Fashion Week now. I’ve got to see the Paul Smith show and I have crisis after crisis to deal with here.’
‘Cassandra,’ said Phoebe, failing to disguise the annoyance in her voice, ‘we go back a long way and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t want to get lawyers involved when we don’t have to.’
‘Lawyers?’ laughed Cassandra. ‘Why on earth would we need to involve lawyers?’
‘Can you come to the Met for one o’clock? I’m in the penthouse.’
In that case I don’t feel too sorry for you, thought Cassandra.
‘I have a lunch at Cipriani but I could drop by at 12.30.’
‘See you then.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
You have no idea how much, thought Cassandra, and hung up.
Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, Cassandra flipped open her compact and put on some lip gloss. She allowed herself a small smile at the face looking back at her. Many women would feel inferior meeting a supermodel for lunch but Cassandra honestly didn’t feel that way. She didn’t have their freakish symmetry or gangly frame, but she was undeniably a beauty, with high cheek bones and a feline slant to her vivid green eyes. Her nose was a touch too long, her chin a little too pointed and at five feet eight inches tall she tipped the scales at eight stone dead – to go a pound over might mean not fitting into the sample clothes. And as a modern style icon, that would be career suicide. Not that she didn’t have to work hard at it. Daily Pilates. Twice weekly tennis lessons. Three times a week Joel, the top session hairdresser, came to her Knightsbridge apartment at 6.30 a.m. to blow-dry her long dark glossy hair. Plus she visited the Mayr Clinic in Austria once a year to eat spelt bread and Epsom salts for ten days, returning with glowing skin, a flat stomach and an uncontrollable desire for ice cream. No, Cassandra Grand was not a drop-dead beauty, but she was the pinnacle of chic. Impeccably dressed in a simple, understated style, she wore no jewellery except for a large diamond stud in each ear lobe, a gift from a lover. In fact, except for the La Perla underwear, she had paid for nothing she was wearing; her entire outfit were gifts from fashion houses and luxury goods companies desperate for endorsement from one of the world’s most stylish women.
She snapped the compact shut as the car pulled up on Park Lane.
As Cassandra stepped out of the lift on the 10th floor into the penthouse of the Metropolitan, she could see the smudge of Hyde Park on the horizon through floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe was sitting on the cream couch wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. Long wavy hair the colour of coffee beans was tied in a ponytail. In her late thirties, Phoebe Fenton was still extremely beautiful, but her eyes looked tired and distracted.
‘Phoebe, darling! You look wonderful,’ said Cassandra, kissing her lightly on both cheeks.
‘Mineral water?’ asked Phoebe, reaching for a crystal tumbler.
Cassandra nodded. ‘Still.’
Cassandra sat carefully on the sofa opposite Phoebe and crossed her legs elegantly under her. I think I’m going to enjoy this she thought, accepting her drink with a smile. Phoebe no longer had an agent – in fact negotiations for the cover shoot had been done through her PA – and that instantly gave Cassandra the upper hand. A big Hollywood publicist could get you over a barrel. If you upset one star on their roster, they could and would refuse access to any of their charges. You wouldn’t even get photo