‘I see she was only one place above you in Time’s“Most Powerful Women in Fashion” …’
‘Will people stop mentioning that silly list?’ replied Cassandra, standing up and handing her coffee cup to a make-up artist.
‘One place,’ said Guillaume gleefully. ‘She is surely going to feel the breath on the back of her neck.’
‘Guillaume …’
‘My prediction is that in twelve months’ time that job will be yours.’
‘Guillaume, stop it! Glenda is a very gifted editor.’ But not as good as she was, added Cassandra silently. As close a friend to Guillaume as she was, she simply couldn’t admit that she wanted Glenda’s job – Guillaume was as indiscreet as he was gifted. US Rive was where Cassandra had started her magazine career and it only seemed right that she should finish it there because New York was undeniably the centre of the media world, where money men, models and insiders collided and formed alliances. That was where she would make her next move, she was sure of it. She’d been at UK Rive for three years and knew it was already too long. She often lay awake at night thinking ahead to the day when she would be given the US Rive job, planning how she would finally take it beyond US Vogue to become the greatest fashion magazine on earth – and how she would make herself a legend at the same time.
‘Well, if you are not interested in that job,’ said Guillaume slyly, ‘what about another one I hear of in New York?’
Cassandra looked at him curiously. She thought she knew every magazine move that was being made or plotted. She thrived on gossip, it was the lifeblood of the industry, running up and down the front row, crackling between the tiny tables of the fashionistas’ favourite Parisian restaurant Chez George, at art previews and society weddings. For Cassandra it was not just idle tittle-tattle, it was professional ammunition.
‘And what job would this be?’ she asked.
‘The launch of the AtlanticCorp’s US fashion weekly,’ said Guillaume, ‘they have an editor-in-chief already but…’
‘Carrie Barker – I know. She was drafted in from their newspaper division.’
‘Yes. But they are not happy at all with the dummy and frankly my darling, I’m not surprised. The publishers presented it to me last week and it was … How do you say, shit.’
Cassandra caught her breath. This was gossip of the highest quality.
‘So they are firing her?’
Guillaume nodded. ‘I told them they could do better.’
He clapped his hands as if he was already bored with the conversation and an assistant appeared carrying a long plastic bundle.
‘Now, ma cherie. What are you wearing to the party?’
‘What? Oh, I haven’t decided …’ said Cassandra, still lost in thought.
‘Well perhaps I can help,’ said Guillaume with relish, tearing the layer of plastic off the package. Cassandra gasped.
‘For you,’ smiled Guillaume. It was a beautiful sculpted tulle gown, the very same show-stopping gown Guillaume had used to end the catwalk show, except this version had been created in the most glorious pale biscuit colour, its neckline sprinkled with delicate seed pearl embroidery. She reached out a finger to touch the beading.
‘Lesage?’ she said recognizing the work of the great French artisan house.
He nodded and she beamed. The colour was the perfect complement to her skin.
But it was more than that: this was a dress that would be fêted by journalists in thousands of column inches and be worn by A-list stars on the red carpets of the Oscars or Cannes – except they wouldn’t be the first to wear it. Cassandra Grand would be, even before it had its official debut at Guillaume Riche’s Autumn/Winter collection.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘just so, so, beautiful!’ Carried away by the moment, Cassandra dropped her guard and embraced Guillaume, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘And it will fit perfectly.’
Cassandra smiled. She knew it would. It would fit her lithe body perfectly and it would fit her new plan perfectly, her new plan which started tonight.
‘Maintenant,’ screamed the sexy blonde, grabbing onto the bed-sheets.
‘Sure thing, baby …’
Tom Grand had dropped French as soon as he could at Shrewsbury school and he could barely remember how to say hello let alone decipher the ramblings of someone in the throes of orgasm, but he didn’t need a dictionary to know the girl currently astride him was having a good time. Her small tits, glistening with sweat, were jiggling up and down as she slid herself along his cock, twisting her pelvis to grind her springy bush into him. Frankly, she was a wild-cat. Her name was Sophie. She was French, an actress, and when he had met her that afternoon in a café in the Bastille, where she’d been drinking espresso and painting her fingernails black, he’d suspected she’d be a right goer. He hadn’t minded that she wasn’t the most groomed girl he had ever seen. She had stringy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and had been wearing a green parka coat and flip-flops despite the cold. But she had a delicious way of holding her cigarette, a filthy laugh and beautiful, dark, flinty eyes. Almost immediately he’d wanted to take her back to his swanky room at the super-chic Hôtel Costes. It was being paid for by Rive magazine and he wanted to make full use of the mini-bar and room service. But Sophie wasn’t impressed and besides, she wanted to feed her cat. So before Tom knew where he was, they were in bed in her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Montmartre improving Anglo-French relations.
Sophie lifted herself off him, stroking her clitoris with the tip of his throbbing cock. When Tom could stand it no more he grabbed her hips, pulling her back down so that they were rocking in tandem harder and faster until they both came together in a spine-jolting explosion that made Tom cry out so loudly, it made his throat hurt.
‘You’re fucking good,’ he said finally, exhaling deeply and collapsing onto the mattress.
‘Good at fucking?’ she replied in rather rickety English.
Tom laughed.
‘Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what I meant,’ he said, propping his head up on the pillow and thinking that if it hadn’t been for his mother he’d be halfway to India by now. He’d been finally evicted from his Camden flat for non-payment of rent just before Christmas and while he’d managed to extend his time in London looking up old girlfriends, he’d finally accepted his fate and moved back in with his mother just before Saul’s funeral. When the chance of a trip to Goa came along-his friend Mungo said he could get him work at an ‘amazing’ full moon party – Julia had given him such a hard time about it all that when Cassandra had asked him to DJ at some do in Paris he’d quickly accepted. He knew his mother would have put her up to it, but he was slightly less angry when Cassandra had indicated that she could introduce him to fashion show producers and other people who might finally get his music career going. Plus, Rive were putting him up at the Costes, which was never a chore.
Although he and his sister weren’t particularly close – Cassandra was too wrapped up in her shallow little world to really care about anyone else – every now and then she would throw him a bone. His mother and his friends were forever reminding him how lucky he was to have someone that connected and that powerful as a sibling, but Tom didn’t see it that way. Yes, he had a wardrobe full of Dior Homme suits, Tom Ford shirts and Bill Amberg bags, none of which he had paid a penny for. His friends called him the best-dressed loser in town and that was exactly the point. Every opportunity Cassandra gave him, simply fuelled his sense of inadequacy and every job he fucked up just showed him up in sharp contrast to his sister’s brilliant career. He used to think that he was just as creative as Cassandra and that he just hadn’t found the right outlet yet, but at 26, finding himself jobless and back at his mother’s, well, maybe