Cassandra sat and listened as Guillaume filled her in on the industry gossip. Glenda McMahon had been named editorial director over all international editions including UK Rive and, as they were planning a September relaunch, Glenda had been in the UK for the last twenty-four hours, presenting her vision to the team.
‘They all hate her, of course,’ said Guillaume kindly. ‘To be honest, it’s just not the same for anyone. I really missed you at couture, darling. Le Grand Palais was a less glamorous place without you.’
‘I’ll be back,’ whispered Cassandra and hung up, her hands shaking.
Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, her head was buzzing with thoughts.
How could she have been so stupid? Francesca was more ambitious and reso
urceful than she had given her credit for. Francesca had been suspicious about an ‘off-flat-plan’ shoot at the Milan collections and she must have seen an opportunity and gone digging deeper. Cassandra had warned Laura to be discreet, but she was a stupid, naïve girl and Francesca had found out. Francesca must then have told Glenda and cut a deal for the editorship. Cassandra took a deep breath and looked out over the pool. It was as if the anger had burnt away a fog surrounding her. She was seeing clearly now. Very clearly. Suddenly it occurred to Cassandra that the Berkeley was one of the favoured London hotels for the international fashion community and it was where Glenda always stayed when she was over for the London shows. I’ll bet that bitch is here now! she thought, getting quickly dressed and marching down to the front desk.
‘Ms McMahon, please. I believe she’s staying in the Wellington Suite?’ said Cassandra in her ‘do-not-fuck-with-me’ voice.
‘Just a moment,’ said the blonde clerk nervously, obediently turning to her computer.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a Miss McMahon in that suite.’
‘Well, can you try your other rooms? This is urgent.’
‘I’m afraid Miss McMahon isn’t staying with us at all at the present time,’ said the girl. ‘I’m sorry.’ The look on her face told Cassandra she was telling the truth.
Retreating into the hotel’s Caramel Room, she ordered a mint tea to calm her, before ringing Lianne. Her old assistant sounded uneasy speaking to her but confirmed that Glenda had been in the office but had already left. Apparently, Lianne hadn’t been taken into her confidence over her sleeping arrangements.
Cassandra rang every top hotel looking for her, but failed to track Glenda down. Frustrated, she pushed through the revolving doors and jumped into a black cab. Then suddenly she had a moment of clarity. Of course! She would be staying at the Alliance company flat. It was so typical of a brown-nosing company toadie like Glenda to stay there to show the new management how she was saving them money. She redirected the cab to the anonymous red-brick block behind Harrods and strode up to the door. Cassandra still had keys which admitted her to both the building and the flat. In the lift, however, Cassandra began to doubt her instincts – what if she walked in on some French family using the flat while their fat papa was out dealing with some paper crisis at the printers? With this scenario in mind, she knocked on the door several times but there was no reply. She was about to leave when she heard a muffled laugh coming from inside.
Suddenly sure she had been correct about Glenda, she slid the key into the lock and opened the door. She immediately recognized Glenda’s fur cape hanging up in the hall. Her heart was pounding. She cautiously ventured farther into the flat, her ears searching for signs of life. There was a rustle coming from the living room doorway – then there she was, Glenda, dressed in a long silk kimono.
‘Cassandra!’ she almost squealed, then regained her composure, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Getting some answers,’ said Cassandra, taking a step forward, her voice dripping with loathing. ‘It was Francesca who told you about Georgia Kennedy, wasn’t it? Not Giles at all. You just blamed it on him so I would get rid of my best member of staff.’
‘Cassandra. You’re being emotional,’ said Glenda, backing up slowly, a look of real fear on her face. ‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you but you brought it on yourself. I’d love to talk about it more but I’m in a hurry, so I’d be grateful if you’d leave.’
Cassandra advanced on her, stabbing the air with her finger.
‘What did you do to get Pierre Desseau on your side so quickly? Fuck him?’
Her voice was low and uneven. Until now she had ignored the sound of a shower running in the background, her instincts blunted by anger. The sound of gushing water stopped and Cassandra kept silent, her nerve endings prickling, knowing now that Glenda was not alone. The bathroom door at the end of the corridor opened and out stepped Pierre wrapped in just a towel. Without conscious thought, Cassandra screamed and, all sense of control completely gone, she hurled herself on Glenda, her fingers like talons, grabbing at her silk kimono and tearing it open.
‘You scheming bitch!’ she yelled, her manicured nails sinking into Glenda’s face and neck, her hands clawing at her hair. Pierre leapt forward to separate the women.
‘Stop this!’ he shouted, struggling to restrain Cassandra who kicked and flailed, her whole chic façade completely gone. Pierre finally managed to grab Cassandra’s wrists and push her against the wall, manhandling her into a bear hug. Realizing she was beaten, Cassandra gave one last primal scream, then went limp in his arms. With glassy eyes, she looked at Glenda cowering in her torn kimono, the front of her body exposed. She did not look good naked, she thought in a detached way. The skin around her belly was crumpled like chamois leather and her nipples, clearly the result of a botched boob job, were terribly uneven.
Cassandra laughed cruelly. ‘Your tits. They look cross-eyed!’ She giggled hysterically. Gasping, Glenda quickly pulled her kimono about her, fled into the bathroom and locked the door.
‘You’re mad, Cassandra, mad,’ said Pierre, releasing her from his hold.
She straightened up and pushed her hair away from her eyes.
‘I was mad for ever getting involved with you,’ she replied as calmly as she could. ‘You two deserve each other. Your weekly “vision”’ – she spat the word – ‘will flop by the way. You clearly have no understanding of why women buy Rive. But I’ll let you learn that the hard way.’
She turned her back on him and walked out of the front door without looking back. When she got out onto the cold street she sank onto the step feeling hollow, raw and completely and utterly betrayed and wondered how things could possibly get any worse.
59
Stella’s debut womenswear collection for Milford, held on the final day of London Fashion Week, was a sensation. She had channelled all her unsettled emotions into her work and the result was a clever yet sumptuous show that had made even the most jaded fashion editor sigh with joy. Reports of the show in the next day’s broadsheets talked of Stella’s spectacular use of colour and coined the phrase ‘stealth-wealth’ – Milford’s clothes, they gushed, needed no garish logos or labels to show they were the best. Milford, they said, had redefined the words ‘luxurious’ and ‘classic’. Stella’s vision had worked. She had taken her lead from the masters and it showed; the gowns were cut as beautifully as the best Schiaparelli and floated round the body as fluidly as fresh air. The bouclé day jacket had its seams weighted with fine chains, like the finest Chanel couture, to ensure that it hung perfectly. More importantly, the whole collection was wearable. The clean-line dresses, skinny trousers and scoop-neck sweaters were just what every woman wanted because they would flatter any figure. Stella had used the very best fabrics: the gossamer-fine cashmere tank needed the barest of design twists to look exquisite while the pencil skirt in the softest midnight-blue nappa leather looked and felt like the last word in super-luxury. When Stella took a bow and the whole audience of Covent Garden’s Paul Hamlyn Hall erupted, Stella felt as if her life was finally turning a corner. Emma launched herself backstage as soon as the show was finished. She hugged Stella tightly, the two women knowing that in years to come they would look back on this show as the defining moment in the company’s history.
‘We did it,’ laughed Emma feeling light-headed with relief and glee, her own troubles temporarily put to one side.