‘Look, there’s the first assistant,’ he said pointing through the window to a man with a pair of headphones hanging around his neck. ‘How do you fancy a tour around a movie set?’
‘Only if the tour guide is you,’ she said standing up and pulling his hand.
It was almost six by the time Stella left the set. Johnny went back to his trailer to re-read the script for a night scene the director wanted to get in the bag. He lay back on the day bed, propped his head up with a cushion and popped open a bottle of Peroni. There was a knock at the door, and he sat up, expecting it to be his call for make-up. The door opened and Lisa Ladro was standing there in a white towelling robe, her face freshly made-up. She tossed back her mane of copper hair as she stepped into the trailer.
‘I’m not disturbing anything?’ she said in her faint Southern accent.
‘No, she’s gone. Finally,’ said Johnny smiling and putting down his beer.
‘She seems sweet.’
‘She is,’ replied Johnny holding out his hand.
The actress locked the trailer door behind her, checked that the window blinds were down and unfastened her robe in such a seductive manner it made Johnny instantly hard.
She was fucking sexy for an older bird, he thought, his eyes raking over her bronzed naked body, in perfect condition except for a bit of cellulite on her thighs and a slight crepeyness around her cleavage. The fact that she’d fucked a load of Hollywood legends turned him on too. There had been chemistry since the first day on set. She’d flattered him and stroked his ego, comparing him to a young Paul Newman. By the end of week one of filming, she had been stroking something else entirely.
‘Now why don’t we finish what we started earlier?’ she purred, walking over and straddling him on the bed. Johnny groaned as she unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down his trunks. His cock sprang free and she took it between two warm soft hands. For Johnny, networking had never been so enjoyable.
38
‘That’s it, Xavier has the shot,’ said the photographer, stepping away from his tripod and tossing his grey hair back dramatically. Cassandra allowed herself a small smile. Putting aside the Frenchman’s annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person and overlooking the small fact that she dictated when they had the right cover shot in the bag, Cassandra was still pleased. Standing there in front of them, framed by a backdrop of virgin rainforest, Georgia Kennedy looked like an exotic bird of paradise, her apricot couture gown iridescent in the fading afternoon light.
The shoot had gone even better than she had hoped – wonderfully, in fact – despite the fact that Sulka had caught her completely by surprise.
Although Cassandra knew the precise location of every YSL boutique in the Western world, geography was not her strong point. She knew little about the country, except that it was an oil-and gas-rich Muslim state and Georgia Kennedy was the ruling prince’s wife. Picturing her Rive cover, she had imagined Georgia against a dramatic backdrop of tawny Arabian sand dunes. She had instructed Laura Hildon, who was styling the shoot, to bring dresses in shades of nude and camel ‘so Georgia looks dip-dyed in the sand’. It had been a rare oversight. After a 15-hour flight via Singapore, they had stepped out onto a lush, tropical island nestled in the Java Sea. The colour and texture of the jungle backdrop was going to make it difficult to put any cover-lines on the image at all, but Georgia’s beauty and regal poise were such that Cassandra knew no words would be necessary.
‘Georgia. You were absolutely wonderful,’ said Cassandra, going over to the actress. She was about to give her the traditional air-kiss but catching the warning glance of a stern-looking courtier, she gave her a short respectful nod instead.
The shoot had taken place on the wide terrace of the Royal family’s summer palace, an enormous wooden lodge that clung to a tropical hillside and which had views over the whole principality; thousands of acres of jungle, a grey stripe of sea, and the capital city of Sulka Town shimmering miles away in the hazy distance.
‘I
’m surprised how much I enjoyed that,’ smiled Georgia, taking a sip of iced water, offered to her by a waiter from a silver tray.
‘You should,’ said Cassandra, ‘the Ellie Saab couture looks divine on you.’
She had specially commissioned the gowns from Saab, not only because she loved the beautiful craftsmanship of his evening dresses but because the couturier worked out of Beirut, which she had assumed was just a short hop to Sulka. Instead the gowns had had to travel across an entire continent and had arrived by a Fed-Ex van grumbling out of the jungle minutes before the first shot. Georgia smiled. She had a few lines collecting round her eyes but otherwise she was still exquisite.
‘My life may have changed but there is still a little bit of the girl from Kansas City in me who loves dressing up in wonderful gowns.’
Cassandra turned to see Giles waiting patiently behind them, ready to conduct his interview with Georgia. She was of course hoping that Georgia was about to give them an intimate portrait of palace life, but she suspected that the princess was too clever and dignified to do that.
‘I’m also grateful that this shoot will highlight some of the causes close to my family’s heart,’ said Georgia, looking straight at Cassandra. ‘And you know how much Alex is grateful. I’m so glad his new charity has given him some focus.’
Feeling the piercing gaze of this elegant woman, Cassandra suddenly felt a stab of fear that Georgia Kennedy knew exactly why and how this shoot had happened.
Surely not, she told herself, feeling rattled nonetheless. Surely not.
The Rive crew waited around the Summer Palace until Giles had finished his interview and Laura had packed away all the clothes, after which a 4×4 took them on the long bumpy journey through the jungle and back to the capital city.
‘I might start writing this up while it’s still fresh in my mind,’ said Giles as they walked through the cool marble lobby of their hotel.
‘Good idea,’ replied Cassandra. ‘I think I’ll go for supper with Laura. Maybe you can join us in the bar for drinks later?’
Laura looked exhausted. Without the luxury of an assistant, which Cassandra had vetoed on the grounds of secrecy, Laura had had to carry, unpack, press and pack all the clothes herself, which she had done with very little grumbling – a remarkable achievement given her seniority; in the world of fashion, the chain of command was as rigid as the army and any deviation invariably ended in a hissy-fit.
‘Supper?’ said Laura wearily. ‘I have rather a lot to do,’ she said, glancing at the suitcases of clothes.