Guilty Pleasures

‘Did they give any clues?’

‘I’m just guessing, but there was a letter from a London solicitor acting for Phoebe Fenton in today’s post. It’s quite angry.’

Cassandra gave a long hard sigh.

‘Fine. Tell Toxic and Greg I will meet them at twelve. But first, I need you to do something for me …’

Cassandra stood in front of the mirror, touching up her make-up. She had made a detour from the lift to the bathroom before she went into the Rive office. A sweep of mascara and a slick of gloss was all she needed to look like a model who had just stepped off the catwalk. There was a light smell of vomit coming from the cubicle behind her. It was a familiar smell at noon; there were at least half a dozen bulimics in the office. She took a little vial of her bespoke scent out of her purse and dabbed it on her pulse points. She was as ready as she’d ever be.

‘Cassandra. Busy day?’ said Jason obsequiously as she joined the two men in Greg’s corner office. It was a wonderful space – B&B Italia furniture, walls painted a delicate shade of cornflower and fabulous views over the Thames, views Greg rarely got to enjoy as he spent 90 per cent of his time in New York.

‘How are you, Cassandra?’ said Greg, neglecting to rise. Greg was a tall man and even sitting down he looked powerful and capable, a grey three-piece suit matching his swept-back hair and implacable eyes. He seemed very serious.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Cassandra, giving him the full wattage of her smile. ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?’

‘Don’t screw around, Cassandra,’ said Greg, an edge to his voice. ‘You know what I’m here for. Jason has been good enough to bring me up to speed on the Phoebe Fenton situation …’

The snake, thought Cassandra, noting his smug smile.

‘It’s a wonderful issue, isn’t it,’ she replied evenly. ‘Looks very strong on the news-stand and every major newspaper has carried at least part of the interview on their front page. It’s too soon for EPOS figures,’ she continued, referring to the weekly electronic sales figures the magazine received from newsagents using barcode-readers, ‘but with this sort of publicity, I feel we have a chance of breaking Rive’s previous sales record.’

Greg laid one hand carefully on the table.

‘That may be so, Cassandra,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘The problem is that we have Phoebe lawyers crawling all over us.’

‘But, why …’

He lifted the hand briefly to silence her objections.

‘Phoebe is claiming that we’ve “sexed up” the interview. They say that the journalist was creative with the facts and that any reference to Ms Fenton’s depression was made to you in passing conversation and has been taken completely out of context.’

‘I would dispute that,’ said Cassandra coolly. ‘If Phoebe’s people …’

‘I’ve taken the liberty of phoning Phoebe’s people already,’ interrupted Jason leaning forward in his chair, ‘and they have made a proposal, a rather generous proposal in the circumstances, I would say. They say they won’t pursue us for damages if we pulp the issue.’

‘I don’t need to remind you of the financial implication of pulping the issue,’ said Greg. ‘Not to mention the impact on the next circulation figures.’

Cassandra let them speak, determined not to lose her cool and intrigued to see how far Toxic was prepared to push it. I can’t believe he’s actually using the magazine as a sacrificial lamb, undermining his own sales figures, just to twist the knife in me! Cassandra knew she had underestimated the extent of his ambition. She looked across at him; despite his stern face she could tell he was enjoying it, enjoying having blind-sided her, enjoying being teacher’s pet.

‘Pulp the issue?’ said Cassandra calmly. ‘How can you call that a generous proposal? It is simply not an option.’

Greg brought his hand down on the desk, making both Jason and Cassandra jump. ‘I will decide what is and is not an option for this company, Cassandra,’ he said in a low voice. If nothing else, Greg Barbera was clearly pissed off at having been dragged to London to sort this mess out. ‘Our legal department thinks it might be the best way forward and Jason seems inclined to agree. I, however, am keen to hear what you have to say on the matter.’

Cassandra paused, nodding slightly, before picking up the yellow Tanner Krolle handbag she had left next to her chair.

‘I’m sure you are both aware of the libel laws in this country?’ she asked, reaching into the bag. ‘It’s rather like the conundrum of the tree falling over in the woods: if no one is there to see her take cocaine, did it really happen? The burden of proof, therefore, is on the publisher, i.e. Phoebe Fenton may well have a mental illness, but if we can’t prove it, we are libelling her. If we can, however …’

Cassandra placed a small silver Dictaphone on the table and turned it on.

The voice was tinny but unmistakably the New York drawl of Phoebe Fenton.

‘… I have bipolar disorder. It’s been making me a little crazy.’

Greg’s face softened with the smallest of smiles as she let the tape run.

‘You make sure your back is covered,’ he said approvingly.

Cassandra merely smiled. She had found the tiny buttonhole micro phone she’d used to tape her conversation with Phoebe useful on numerous occasions. Greg Barbera’s smile might not have been quite so wide if he’d been aware that Cassandra also had numerous tapes of her conversations with him: his promises of pay-rises and career advancement, his bitter attacks on his own company and indiscretions about his colleagues. It was all just ammunition – for now.