Guilty Pleasures. Tasmina Perry
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shook her head.
‘Wasn’t the interview on Friday night?’ she asked, ‘Vicky won’t even have transcribed the tapes yet. You need to give these big-name journalists at least a fortnight to get their copy in.’
Phoebe ran a finger around the edge of her tumbler.
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve been told already, but I was a little, well, manic at the shoot on Friday.’
Cassandra raised an eyebrow.
Phoebe looked down at her glass again.
‘You see, my friend Romilly popped by, she often comes to shoots with me. She dresses me for the red carpet and I feel comfortable with her, but she can be a bit … a bit wild. But she’s a good friend and I need all the ones I can get at the moment.’
Phoebe looked up at Cassandra and the look of sadness in her brown eyes almost melted Cassandra. Almost. Phoebe sighed and continued.
‘We had some drinks and I guess I was a little too loose-lipped.’ She leant forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘Cassandra, I’ve just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,’ she said quietly.
‘Manic depression?’ said Cassandra. Phoebe nodded.
‘I don’t know if the separation triggered it, but the doctors say it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a vicious circle. I’m depressed so I’ve been drinking, but drinking seems to bring on these extreme mood swings. I go a bit crazy. I say things I don’t mean. I’ve just been put on lithium to keep it under control but it doesn’t seem to have stabilized me yet.’
She stood up and walked over to the huge window.
‘I’ve never met Vicky, your journalist before. She seems a nice woman but you never know, right?’
‘Vicky is one of the best celebrity profilers in the UK,’ said Cassandra with a hint of reproach.
‘I’m just thinking she could paint an untrue picture.’
‘I’m sure Vicky will be fair.’
Phoebe went over and sat down next to Cassandra, so very close that Cassandra felt uncomfortable.
‘Cassandra, please,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Ethan is fighting for custody of Daisy and he’s fighting hard. Falling around in night-clubs, doing nude photo shoots. If I look like a bad mom his team of very expensive lawyers are going to tear me apart. I did this shoot as a favour to Rive. I don’t want it to make them take my baby away.’
Cassandra suppressed an internal snort. A favour! No one did anything in this industry without some ulterior motive. No doubt Phoebe wanted a set of sexy pictures to make her husband see what he was missing and come back to her. Well, the plan had backfired.
‘Phoebe honey, don’t worry,’ said Cassandra. ‘I haven’t seen the copy, but when I do, I’ll make sure it’s all completely complimentary. Our readers are going to love you.’
Phoebe huffed like a little girl denied her pony.
‘Well I hope so, because I don’t want to get difficult.’ She flashed Cassandra a look that betrayed her simpering, girl-next-door persona. After all, thought Cassandra, no one got to the top of the tree in modelling by being a walk-over.
‘I’m sure my attorney would go mad if he knew I was even talking to you. But I’ll get an injunction on the magazine if I have to,’ she said fiercely.
‘Listen, I think we’re all getting a little carried away,’ said Cassandra smoothly, putting out a placatory hand. ‘So you were a little drunk at the photo-shoot. Your friend may have been a little badly behaved. So what? Rive is a fashion magazine not the National Enquirer. We are here to celebrate people, darling, not destroy them.’
Phoebe looked a little more at ease.
‘If you like I can email over the shots when I get them.’
‘Is it all right if I look at the copy too?’
‘You know we don’t do that, Phoebe.’
‘Please. For me?’ she said, putting her head on one side.
Jesus, this woman is 38, thought Cassandra. She’ll be saying ‘Pretty please, with sugar on top’ next!
‘When are you back in New York?’
‘Saturday.’
‘We won’t have layouts for at least a fortnight. How about I Fed-Ex something over to you then. Just so you can have a look at it?’
‘I’m really grateful, Cassandra. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My shrink says Romilly’s not good for me. But it was tough being in that marriage. Claustrophobic’
Cassandra touched her on the knee gently.
‘He’ll be sorry when he sees these photographs. You’ll look amazing and everyone will be jealous. Trust me.’
In the back seat of her car Cassandra took out her phone. An alcoholic, drug-taking bisexual and she blames it on bipolar! The nerve of it! She punched in David Stern’s number.
‘David, I have a lunch and then the Paul Smith show so I won’t be back until at least 3 p.m. But in the meantime there are a couple of things I want you to do.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Talk to Jeremy, talk to the subs. Tell them to rush the Phoebe Fenton copy through as it is. Then I want you to work on the cover. Go with the bare breasts image. Main cover-line: “Phoebe Fenton Bares All”. I want “Bares All” in gold block foil across the cover; make sure it covers her nipples. I want this issue to fly off the shelves, not be taken off it.’
There was a silence at the other end of the line.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked David.
Cassandra had asked herself that very question. It was a gamble, certainly. Some advertisers wouldn’t be happy and some of her more conservative subscribers would be on the phone. But the fashion market was just the same as any other market: sex sells, and after a disappointing audit on last month’s issue she needed to pull something big out of the bag. For, despite her position of power and influence as editor of Rive, Cassandra knew her kingdom rested on shifting sands. Editors were expendable, pawns used by management to cover their failings. And more than anything, UK glossy editors had a shelf-life; after forty, maybe forty-five, they tended to mysteriously disappear. It was a little better in the States. So the US Rive boss Glenda McMahon was still wielding her power at 50, but a few dud issues and even she was instantly replaceable. What Cassandra was painfully aware of was that with the exception of perhaps Carmel Snow and Diane Vreeland, editors rarely left a legacy beyond their tenure. And it was a legacy she wanted.
‘What do you mean “is this a good idea”?’ snapped Cassandra.
David paused again, weighing his words carefully.
‘Is this not going to crucify Phoebe? The tabloids will take this and rip her to shreds. I didn’t think that was our agenda.’
‘For a queen, you’re very uptight, David,’ she sneered. ‘Our agenda is to set the agenda. To sell issues we have to be bold, we have to be provocative. We have to take chances.’
‘Well this is certainly that.’
‘Just do it, David,’ she barked and snapped the phone shut.
And finally, after one hell of a gruesome week, she allowed herself a laugh.
‘Good morning, Gretchen.’
It was 7.45 a.m. Although