‘Forget the money for a minute,’ said Cate irritably, ‘we have no cover. Ruth is looking for an image we can buy in, but that’s a last resort. If our first cover isn’t an exclusive, then the industry is going to think we’re amateurs, just another run-of-the-mill magazine with no pull in the world of fashion.’ She paced around Nick’s office, her brow furrowed.
‘As soon as Vicky gets back, she can ring around all the other model agencies and see if there are any other big girls around next week. I’ll call some publicist friends, although offhand I can’t think of any Brits who’d be right for the cover. We need it to be glamorous. It’s only really the Hollywood stars or the big, big models that really sell.’
‘What about Serena?’ asked Nick, looking up at Cate. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be in London and Cannes over the next week or so?’
Cate started nodding absent-mindedly, gazing out of the office’s tiny window overlooking a car park. Of course she had thought about asking Serena, who was arriving in London the following day en route to Cannes, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. Everyone was expecting her to put her sister on the front cover, and Cate didn’t want to be predictable. She wanted to show that – while she might be a Balcon sister – she could do things her way; edit this magazine on her own terms without resorting to family connections.
‘So …’ said Nick, ‘give her a ring.’
Cate turned to face him and placed her hands on the desk. ‘Look, I’d rather not,’ she said. ‘You can understand why I don’t want my sister on the first issue.’
‘Christ, Cate,’ said Nick anxiously, ‘we’re in a fix. We don’t want to put me on the cover, do we? We’ve got less than ten days! You know that.’
‘Look, just give me a couple of hours,’ Cate said evenly. ‘First thing I need to do is get back in touch with Sybil’s booker. I’m going to tell her that we’re going to invoice her for all the flights and hotels and that I’ve seen pap shots of Sybil in Cannes. Maybe we can change their minds.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ said Nick.
Damn the Cannes film festival, thought Cate, slamming the telephone receiver down for the dozenth time. Hardly anybody seemed to be in the office that Friday afternoon. She’d left countless messages at the film publicist’s offices in Cannes, but nobody seemed to be getting back to her. Well, no wonder, she thought, calming herself a little: it was a frantic time for everyone in the business. Vicky, meanwhile, had drawn a blank with the model agencies. All the top three agencies had said in the nicest way possible that they wanted to wait to see the first issue before they would commit to sending their top girls. It was still too early to ring the LA publicists, thought Cate, checking her watch – only seven in the morning over there. Anyway, she doubted she would pull off any miracles in that direction. LA shoots usually took three or four weeks to organize, and they had hours, not days. Her phone rang again and she picked it up expectantly.
‘Cate, it’s only Nick. D’you wanna pop through a minute? Rebecca’s here.’
Cate groaned and stalked through to Nick’s office. Rebecca was perched on the edge of Nick’s desk in a barely-there sundress, brown leather boots and a big pair of aviator sunglasses, her glossed-up lips glistening.
‘Hi darling!’ she gushed, reaching over to kiss Cate on both cheeks. Cate flinched both times. ‘I just called Nick,’ she explained, waving her hands around in the air for dramatic effect. ‘And he mentioned you were in a bit of a fix. I was only in Covent Garden, so I got a cab straight over, because I think I might be able to help you out. Either way, did you love the jacket or did you love the jacket I sent over?’
Cate looked at her, trying to plaster a smile onto her face. ‘Yes, I really loved the jacket, thank you so much.’
‘Anyway,’ said Rebecca, lifting her sunglasses off and fixing them on top of her head, ‘I’ve just heard what a witch Sybil Down’s been, but I think I’ve got the solution. We’ve only just confirmed it, but we’re taking on someone terribly exciting for the face of one of my clients – Flaubert jewellery – and she just so happens to be in Cannes next week, hosting the party for the client. I’m not totally sure yet, but I think I could get you two or three hours for a shoot as long as she will be wearing some Flaubert jewellery.’
Rebecca grinned triumphantly.
Cate cleared her throat. ‘Sounds great, but who is it?’
‘It’s only Rachel Barnaby!’ gushed Rebecca, turning to fix a dazzling smile on Nick. ‘She’d be perfect! You know she was Vogue’s biggest-selling cover girl of last year, don’t you?’
Cate groaned inwardly. Even though she knew this was the perfect solution to their problems, she felt her heart sink as Nick smiled up gratefully towards Rebecca. In the small confined space of Nick’s office, she felt trapped by Rebecca’s gloating. Cate dug a thumbnail into her palm and tried to stop feeling so uncharitable. After all, Rebecca was helping them out of a hole, wasn’t she? But why did it have to be Rebecca?
Nick stood up and walked over to where Cate was standing. ‘You OK, Cate?’ he asked, putting a concerned hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? Rachel Barnaby. She’s good, even I know that!’
Cate smiled weakly. ‘Yes great. She’s perfect. And it doesn’t look like we’re getting very far with Sybil’s people. No, she’ll be perfect. Thanks, Rebecca, thank you.’
As Nick turned to sit back at his desk, Rebecca flashed a look at Cate, one eyebrow raised and the edge of her lip curled up into a slightly malevolent smile. It was the face of a child who had successfully shifted blame for their mischievousness onto a hated sibling, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Cate was instantly filled with suspicion.
Could Rebecca have planned all this? Surely she couldn’t have sabotaged and then saved her cover shoot? But that would just be too … well, insane. She looked up at Rebecca smiling sweetly and pulling her bag over a shoulder ready to leave. No, she was just paranoid, how could that be?
‘Well, I’ll leave you two worker bees to it,’ purred Rebecca as she reached the door. ‘I’d better rush back and get all this sorted for you. Of course my client will be picking up Rachel’s expenses so you’ve no worries there, but I’d better book a flight for myself. The client will definitely want me there to supervise it all. And Nick, sweetie, I can slip into your hotel room, can’t I?’
Cate stared after her, mouth agape, suddenly feeling that she’d had the whole operation snatched from beneath her. And something told her that her conspiracy theory was right.
From seat 1a, the only seat Serena would consider when travelling by commercial airline, she had a clear view of the Home Counties. She watched the fields of Berkshire drift into view and, beyond them, the sprawling metropolis of London, today looking green and inviting, unobscured by the smoggy drizzle that often hung over the capital whenever she flew in from New York.
‘Ten minutes to landing,’ said an upright British voice over the PA system as Serena drained off the last of her fruit juice, popped her seat into the upright position and moved her cashmere pillow to her lap. She had mixed feelings about coming home, even if it was just a pit stop on her way to the south of France. She was mainly here for business: there was the sale of the Cheyne Walk house to complete and an important meeting to attend – her contract with Jolie Cosmetics was due to be renewed any time now, and she felt she could push up her money if she went to see the British chief executive of the company personally at his Eaton Square home.
It was all pretty tedious stuff, although if she was totally honest with herself she could do with a break from the New York scene anyway. For the past few weeks, her days had been filled by endless trips