‘Meredith. Give me a name,’ said Cassandra pointing at her beauty director.
‘Julia and Cameron don’t do much. It’d be good to get them.’
‘Are you people not listening to me?’ she said, her voice raised. ‘We want somebody we have never seen on the front cover of a magazine. Somebody new, somebody exciting.’
Deborah Kane shuffled uncomfortably in her chair.
‘When you think about it Cassandra, there are only so many celebrities in the world and everyone has taken a bite out of them. We could look at doing an ensemble cover, maybe? Five of the hottest new actresses breaking through. Do it as a gate-fold?’
‘And copy Vanity Fair’s annual Hollywood issue?’ said Cassandra. ‘Come on, we are Rive, we lead, we do not follow. Who else?’
There was a long, uncomfortable pause, while all the staff avoided her gaze.
‘Where did we ever get with Georgia Kennedy?’ Giles said finally. Now that was a name, thought Cassandra. Georgia Kennedy was the twenty-first century’s Grace Kelly. An Oscar-winning actress, her acting talent was only matched by her beauty and her sense of style. She’d burned brightly in Hollywood in the early Nineties, scoring half a dozen near-legendary leading lady roles in some of the biggest hits of the decade. She had been a true superstar. But five years ago, at the peak of her fame and desirability, she had met and married Sayed Jalid, the ruling prince of oil-rich country Sulka, and had effectively disappeared from view. There were occasional photographs of her doing charity work, visiting land-mine victims in Angola or orphanages in southern Africa, or a rare appearance at a gala dinner or royal wedding but, in celebrity terms, that made Georgia Kennedy a recluse.
‘Now we’re talking,’ said Cassandra, the hint of a smile on her lips. ‘I want her on our March cover. And not just the cover. I want Georgia Kennedy – At Home.’
Deborah stifled a surprised little laugh and Cassandra immediately rounded on her.
‘You find this funny, Deborah?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but you’re asking for the impossible. I’ve tried at least a dozen times to get her and it’s always a polite no. There’s a reason she hasn’t been on a single magazine cover in the last five years – she doesn’t want to be. She doesn’t do photo-shoots and she doesn’t do interviews, not even about her charity work.’
‘I don’t want to hear this!’ spat Cassandra. ‘All I’m hearing is “can’t” and “won’t” and all I’m getting is excuses and easy options. Doesn’t anyone in this room have any ambition? A
ny passion? Doesn’t anyone want Rive to be the best fashion magazine in the world? Well, I do. In fact, forget fashion, I want Rive to be the best magazine in the world! Now get out there and get me Georgia Kennedy.’
The other members of staff looked nervously at each other as Cassandra closed her notebook to signify the meeting was over.
‘Perhaps we should have a backup plan as well?’ said Giles politely.
‘And perhaps we need to rethink various members of staff if they can’t deliver,’ said Cassandra, already walking to the door.
32
Cassandra Grand was not a woman to take chances, not unless she had no choice. She knew she had to make Rive as talked-about as Pierre wanted but she had little faith in her staff to pull a world-class exclusive out of the bag. Which was why she was sitting in a velvet booth in a quiet bar in St James’s, facing a man who did not look as if he belonged in SW1. Nick Bowen was a retired New York cop who had married a Brit and left the States – and the force – for better-paid work in the private sector. He specialized in divorce cases: following the billionaire husbands of stay-at-home wives who were hungry for fat divorce settlements. He had strong international connections and a reputation for delivering whatever you wanted at any cost. She had called him the day after her editorial meeting and given him two weeks and an unlimited expense account.
‘Please tell me you have something of interest,’ said Cassandra, waving away the waiter.
‘If you’re looking for dirt on Georgia Kennedy then you’re going to be disappointed. She’s as clean as a whistle,’ said Bowen, trying hard to avert his eyes from Cassandra’s cleavage. One thing he liked about high-level divorce work was the good-looking women. The wives of rich men were almost always gorgeous. Too skinny for his liking, of course and they had the sort of attitude he could only stand in ten-minute, well-paid bursts but damn, it sure beat pulling stiffs outta the Hudson.
‘There must be something,’ frowned Cassandra. ‘You don’t get to be big in Hollywood without doing something underhand or illegal to get there. Casting couch? Drug parties?’
Bowen shook his head.
‘Two weeks isn’t a long time for a comprehensive report, Ms Grand.’
‘Well, it should be, the money I’m paying you,’ snapped Cassandra.
Bowen’s face was impassive. He’d taken abuse from professionals; another pissed-off broad didn’t dent his armour.
‘Ms Grand,’ he began patiently. ‘One of the reasons Sayed Jalid took her as a wife is because her closet is skeleton-free. She was an honours student in Missouri. Worked her way up through adverts and bit parts in films. No reputation of the casting coach. No scantily-clad magazine shoots. Very professional, very focused. Two long-term boyfriends, both respectable, both drug-free. Then she married Jalid and since then, no playing around and by all accounts they have a very happy marriage.’
‘Shit,’ said Cassandra quietly, tapping her fingers on the table. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s a decent guy. Oxford scholar, Sandhurst. Georgia is the second wife, his first died in childbirth. Besides, even if we had something we can’t touch him. He’s super-protected 24/7 and surrounded by the sort of powerful friends and associates who could make any scandal disappear before you typed the first word.’
‘So you’re saying I’ve wasted my money?’