Cassandra shuddered. ‘Great. Put the wolf in the henhouse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s just say he makes me uncomfortable. Leering at women, making off-colour comments. In fact earlier he said I should wear shorts more often to the office. Just think of him at Smile with all those vulnerable girls.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Isaac, rubbing his chin. ‘Maybe he’d be better off at Rural Living. The staff there are mainly over 50 and male.’
He will hate it! thought Cassandra with well-disguised glee. Urbane Jason, with his Gucci suits and love of London’s nightlife, talking to the hunting set about fly-tying and carriage clocks!
Cassandra smiled and touched Isaac’s shoulder.
‘Let’s get the ball rolling with all of this, then I’ll put the call in to Charles and let him down gently.’
The gardens were dark when Cassandra came down the fire escape of the main house so she wouldn’t be noticed. She could hear the rhythmic croak of frogs in the undergrowth and the background swoosh of the sea lapping onto the beach.
As she turned the corner of the path towards her cottage, she bumped into a tall elegant woman carrying a cocktail glass. It was Françoise Caron, Rive’s French editor. Cassandra smiled, thinking how close the woman had come to losing her job only minutes ago.
‘Going to bed so early?’ asked Françoise.
‘I’m tired,’ smiled Cassandra. ‘It’s been an exciting day.’
‘Oh, we are all going to Glenda’s for drinks. Did she not invite you?’
She had, but Cassandra had declined, having no desire to listen to a group of women compare salaries. But now she looked at Françoise and felt something. What was it? Pity. Isaac had clearly marked the French editor’s card; he had axed editors in the most brutal and public ways in the past, and this time next year Françoise would probably not be coming to the conference. Still, she was well-connected and would probably go on to a job with a fashion house, but… it never did any harm to network, thought Cassandra. You never knew when they might kick the chair out from under you.
Silvia Totti, Charlize and Sheri were already on the veranda of Glenda’s vanilla-coloured cottage when Françoise and Cassandra arrived. Glenda’s accommodation had a jacuzzi and a long deck that looked out to the darkness of the ocean. They all sat around a table and helped themselves to Glenda’s generous spread of drinks and canapés as they talked. Five of the most important women in fashion. They dictated to millions of other women what to wear, they had the power to make or break designers, fashion houses, whole brands. They were the focal point for an entire industry.
Throughout their conversation, Cassandra had noticed Glenda pouring herself generous measures of vodka. She had also filled her guests’ glasses and put two bottles of champagne in buckets next to the table. Then Sheri had asked Glenda about Armani’s latest collection and she had smiled thinly.
‘Who cares?’ she said, tossing back her drink.
Cassandra flinched. She knew that Glenda liked to drink, but only ever in private. Glenda was a master of image and Cassandra had never seen her mask slip once. At lunchtime meetings with PRs or advertisers she was strictly teetotal, even at parties in front of industry figures or staff, she stuck to Perrier. But safe in her inner circle, away from prying eyes, Glenda would let her hair down, usually via vodka and tonic. Cassandra had asked her about it once and she had shrugged. ‘I’m from a big drinking family.’ It was the only time she had ever referred to her past, a past that she had wiped away like a smudge on a piece of French linen.
But now, in front of the international editors, this was a serious slip. If she was showing weakness, that meant she didn’t care. What’s going on here? thought Cassandra.
‘Come on ladies, drink and be merry!’ said Glenda, a slight slur in her words. ‘For tomorrow we die.’
The other women exchanged looks.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Silvia Totti.
‘Haven’t you heard? Alliance is up for sale,’ said Glenda. ‘Or will be soon. My husband works on Wall Street. Rumour has it that the company is looking for a buyer. Seems like Uncle Isaac wants to cash his chips in. So if we get bought by another company, little perks like this may well stop.’
Cassandra did not doubt what Glenda said, but she was bemused. She knew that it had always been Isaac’s dream to overtake Condé Nast. The company had been doing very well over the past few years. It wouldn’t be long until his dream became a reality; why would he sell now when he was so close?
‘So do they have any interest?’ asked Cassandra, cautiously.
‘Someone said they are being courted by Girard-Lambert.’
As the women excitedly discussed the possibilities, Cassandra sipped at her pomegranate juice and considered Glenda’s revelation. Yes, now she thought about it, it actually made sense. Isaac hadn’t seemed overly concerned about the launch of AtlanticCorp’s magazine and had shot down Silvia’s suggested dirty tricks campaign. Normally he would have gone on the offensive with the enthusiasm of a pit bull terrier let off the lead. She kicked off her sandals and reached for the champagne.
‘Well, we might as well enjoy it while it lasts.’
17
‘Cam! It’s so good to see you,’ said Emma, embracing her friend warmly. She had been looking forward to Cameron’s arrival for a week, counting down the days until she would be able to talk to a friendly face. Emma sat back down on the banquette and rearranged her napkin. They were meeting in Nicole’s restaurant on Bond Street, convenient for Claridge’s round the corner where Cameron was staying. She had flown over to speak at a convention on ‘The Future of the Luxury Goods Market’ and Emma had nearly snapped Cameron’s hand off when she had suggested lunch. It wasn’t every day you could pick the brains of a six-hundred-dollar-an-hour management consultant for the price of a Caesar salad.
‘How was the conference?’ asked Emma.