Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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that the road was banking sharply left. Camilla slammed her feet onto the pedals, but it was too late. The car ploughed straight into a hedge.
In a split second, a decade-old memory dislodged itself from the back of Camilla’s mind. Another night, another country lane, another car out of control. Traces of blood smeared on the headlights of an old Renault. Her father’s face staring at her in fury. No! She screamed out loud, her body jarring against the steering wheel as the car skidded to a halt.
At first, she felt nothing. Then she was sucked back into the moment with a jolt. Physically, she was unharmed. The car had brushed the bushes aside and bounced to a halt in an open field. But she felt shattered. The memory had been unlocked, an awful truth that she realized in a flash could devastate her future. A flood of nausea seized her body as she yanked the car door open, vomiting violently on the grass. No one could ever know what happened back then, no one. She had not worked so long, so hard, to let it bring her down.
Behind her a car stopped at the side of the road and an old lady approached her battered Audi. ‘Are you all right, love?’ she asked cautiously, skirting around to the driver’s side where Camilla was sitting, her head hung hopelessly between her knees.
She nodded weakly and wiped her mouth with a proffered tissue, breathing deeply and rubbing her eyes as if erasing an image she did not want to see. She looked at the woman, then turned away, her eyes drifting off to the horizon where the sky was turning midnight blue.
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Camilla softly, her fingers squeezing into a tight fist. ‘I’ll be all right.’
It was simply not possible to squeeze another computer, pot plant or Post-it note into the Sand offices, thought Cate, looking round her new workplace with a grimace. Every inch of floor and shelf space was crammed with boxes, piles of magazines and press releases. She pushed her chair away from her desk, only moving two feet backwards before it collided with a filing cabinet. She rubbed her eyes, needing a moment or two away from the blank stare of the computer.
It was only noon but she was already exhausted. The late nights and fifteen-hour working days were catching up with her. Still, it was worth it, she thought, looking up at the magazine layouts they had pinned to every inch of wall-space. It was better than she could have dreamed, a feat made all the more remarkable by the fact that it had been put together by the nine people crammed behind the jumble of desks in front of her. To think she’d had a staff of forty at Class magazine – and she had thought that was difficult.
‘Here’s everybody’s itinerary for the cover shoot,’ announced Sadie Wilcox, moving around the office, putting sheets of A4 paper on desks. How strange it was being back working with her old PA, who had been fired within a month of Nicole Valentine becoming editor. Of course, Sadie wasn’t her PA this time round: there were no luxuries like that at Sand Publishing. Here Sadie was junior writer/office manager and general lifesaver rolled into one rather poorly paid package. Not that Sadie seemed to mind; in fact she seemed to be thriving in the tiny office. The same seemed to be true of the entire Sand team, and Cate was touched on a daily basis by the hard work and commitment the whole staff was channelling into the magazine. She made a mental note to buy some pink champagne for their Friday night drinks.
The phone rang. It was Nick, calling from the luxury of his office. ‘Cate, can you just pop through for a minute?’ he said.
Cate smiled. Nick’s workspace was only on the other side of a thin plasterboard partition, and he could just as easily banged on the wall to get her attention. Cate walked through to the office, a space no bigger than the gun room at Huntsford, where Nick sat behind a desk looking at a copy of Sadie’s cover-shoot budget.
‘W’sup?’
Nick pulled a face that Cate instantly recognized was about money.
‘This cover shoot is costing a bloody fortune,’ he said, punching a bunch of numbers into his calculator.
‘Yes, well cover shoots cost money,’ said Cate, ‘especially when we want it to be as good as a Vogue cover. Agius is shooting for free; we’ve got the rooms at a fifty per cent discount in return for some coverage – and the rest? Well, the rest costs money, Nick. Sybil Down is one of the world’s top models at the moment, and when you do something with her it has to be a big production.’
‘Yes,’ said Nick impatiently, ‘but does she really have to go business class? I mean, the flight to Nice is only about an hour and a half. All you get in business class on those short hops is a curtain and your lunch served on a porcelain plate. I’m not paying an extra three hundred quid for that!’
Cate smiled indulgently. ‘What do you expect? Do you expect Sybil to travel down on EasyJet?’
Nick waved a hand and then pressed its heel against his temple. ‘OK, I get the picture. Just don’t forget that our entire editorial budget for one issue is about the same as a Class fashion shoot, OK? Just be careful, you know?’
Cate looked at him and raised one eyebrow warily. ‘It’s my money, my business too, you know, Nick.’
His face softened and he smiled. ‘I know, I’m just being a budget Nazi. It took so long to get this bloody money – I hate to see a penny wasted.’ He took a deep breath and pushed the paper away from him. ‘Anyway, fancy going for lunch in about half an hour? We could take a walk to Borough Market. They do the world’s best falafel.’
She hesitated. Cate was still trying to avoid situations where the two of them would be alone, but the sun was pouring through the small window and the first issue was nearly finished. ‘Just let me go and get my bag,’ she said.
‘Before you go, boss!’ shouted Sand’s fashion editor Vicky Morgan, clutching a huge white floppy-brimmed hat. ‘D’you wanna look at the rail of clothes for the cover shoot?’
Cate walked over and pulled a handful of skimpy fluorescent tropical-print bikinis from the pile. ‘I love these Missoni and Pucci prints. Honestly, Vicky, thank you so much for sorting out this shoot with Sybil. She is such a perfect cover girl for us.’
Cate had been very lucky to get her old friend to work at Sand. Vicky’s fashion eye was the best in the business, and her contact book of model agencies, photographic studios and top photographers was bulging. From Vicky’s point of view, the flexible working week suited her; she could still freelance as a stylist to a long list of actors and pop singers, and she knew a stunning magazine idea when she saw one.
‘Yeah, well, I did that Victoria’s Secret campaign with Sybil six months ago,’ shrugged Vicky modestly, ‘and she said she really wanted to work with me again. I gave her a ring, and here we are. It’s going to be fabulous!’ she laughed, holding a leopardskin bikini top up to her chest and posing.
‘This just came for you,’ said Sadie, bustling in and passing Cate a large white bag tied up with a black ribbon.
Cate put down an espadrille and grinned at Vicky. ‘We may not be Class magazine, but looks like you’re still getting the perks of the job,’ said Vicky. Cate pulled off the ribbon and peeked inside. There was a message on a compliment slip: ‘For all your hard work. Good luck. Rebecca.’
‘What the hell is this?’ whispered Cate, pulling crumpled handfuls of white tissue paper out of the bag.
‘Rebecca? Not Rebecca Willard from Mode PR?’ said Vicky, reading the card.
‘The very same,’ said Cate, raising an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And also Nick Douglas’s girlfriend,’ she whispered.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Vicky, her hand over her mouth. ‘I would never have put those two together in a month of Sundays. Anyway, what have you got? She’s just got the account for Alexander Dupont, maybe it’s something from him! Ooh, let’s see!’
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