‘So what are you going to do about it? We have’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘approximately twenty-two hours to salvage something from this.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Lucinda. ‘Maybe I could get Greg Nicholls’ girlfriend to wear one of your dresses?’
Sasha put a hand over her eyes. A girlfriend?
‘Who is this girlfriend?’ she sighed.
‘Giselle Makin.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She’s an actress and model, absolutely beautiful. And Greg is the movie’s leading man. She’ll be very visible on the red carpet.’
As if the tabloids would be interested in a nobody like her, thought Sasha. She looked across at Philip who was desperately making ‘What the hell’s up?’ gestures. But then she noticed something behind Phil. Propped up in the corner of the office was a roll of blush-pink silk georgette. And Sasha had a sudden flash of inspiration.
‘Visible on the red carpet, you say?’ she said, smiling.
Sasha and Ben worked around the clock. At 3 a.m., when Ben started making irritable noises about needing to leave, Sasha took the only key they had to the studio door and flushed it down the toilet.
‘We’re not getting out of here until Philip lets us out at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she told him sternly. Sasha could sympathise, of course. It was impossible to make a bespoke dress to Ben’s exacting standards in eighteen hours – usually it took weeks – so they were adapting an existing sample instead. Carefully Sasha unpicked a long satin-faced organza skirt from the old dress while Ben got to work constructing the bodice. It was Ben’s design but Sasha’s vision; she knew exactly what she wanted the dress to achieve.
By the time the birds starting singing in the street outside, the gown was taking shape, and at nine thirty, black rings under her eyes, Sasha took the dress directly to Giselle Makin’s Notting Hill apartment where she met Lucinda. Sasha wasn’t entirely surprised by Giselle’s reaction the first time she tried the dress on; clinging to every generous curve of the actress’ body, it left very little to the imagination.
‘Oh God,’ she said as she looked in the mirror, her eyes wide. ‘Greg is going to kill me.’
‘Greg won’t be able to keep his eyes off you,’ said Lucinda reassuringly as Sasha made some adjustments with her stylist’s pin box and sewing kit. Giselle did indeed look sensational. Her deep strawberry-blond hair looked like the most precious amber against the natural pink blush of the gown. Sasha just knew the media were going to go mad for her – hell, she was even going to have Hollywood knocking on her door after this red-carpet appearance. Lucinda was obviously thinking the same thing.
‘She looks incredible,’ she gushed. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘You can start by sorting out a couple of VIP tickets for the premiere,’ she said. ‘I need them biking around to Holland Park immediately.’
Lucinda looked puzzled. ‘You and Phil have tickets, don’t you?’
‘Oh, they’re not for us.’ Sasha smiled. ‘They’re for another very important guest.’ The second stage of her plan was about to begin.
The two most sensational women on the red carpet at the By Midnight premiere were wearing Rivera. One of them was the fashion company’s CEO. Striding out confidently in her silver minidress, Sasha bathed in the blinding light of the paparazzi’s flashbulbs, knowing this was the start of the media’s serious interest in her. But it was Giselle who made the press erupt into a feeding frenzy. As she followed Greg out of their limousine, she kept a respectful two paces behind him, but not for long. The silk georgette corset of her dress, which in the car had looked merely a soft pink, appeared to turn completely transparent in the glare of the flashbulbs. The roar of the crowd in Leicester Square was deafening.‘Giselle! Giselle! Over here!’ they yelled, ignoring all the other stars walking up to the theatre. She played her part brilliantly, a half-smile on her face as she moved slowly along the red carpet, the wide graceful skirt of the dress billowing like a cloud of apple blossom, her semi-translucent corset revealing her dark brown nipples. It was an incredibly flattering dress, one that made Giselle look part saint, part sinner, a beautiful fallen angel caught between heaven and hell.
‘I think we can call that a job well done,’ whispered Philip, planting a warm kiss on the back of Sasha’s neck.
‘Not quite yet,’ said Sasha, looking back down the carpet, her eyes searching for new arrivals. Then finally she spotted them: Robert and Connie Ashford hurrying past the photographers.
‘What have you got up your pretty little sleeve this time, Sinclair?’ Philip chuckled as he watched a satisfied smile spread across Sasha’s face.
‘We’re going to expand into America,’ she said simply, ignoring his confused expression.
‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘We have meetings with Neiman Marcus and Saks in a week’s time.’
‘No, I mean really take America. I want our own Rivera store on Fifth Avenue, Phil,’ she said, turning into the cinema.
‘But we can’t afford—’
She cut him off. ‘And I want it by this time next year.’
The next morning, Giselle Makin was on the front of every major publication, although her erect nipples had been discreetly airbrushed into respectability. And from the Sun’s women’s pages to the Telegraph’s fashion column, they were all asking if the designer of Giselle’s dress, Rivera, was the New Dior. Not since Gianni Versace had sent the four supermodels down his 1990 Autumn/Winter runway had a designer made such a splash. It was better than Sasha had dared hope. Lucinda Clarke was calling her every five minutes with another request for an interview or a quote from the new fashion sensati
on, but Sasha had something else to do first. For a moment she let her hand rest on top of her battered old 1990 Filofax. Miles had given her Robert Ashford’s direct line just before their holiday to Angel Cay that summer. It’s strictly for emergencies, Sash. Well, five years later, Sasha felt it was time to make the call. Not an emegency per se, but important enough.
‘Robert. It’s Sasha Sinclair.’