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TASMINA PERRY

Guilty Pleasures

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishersLtd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Tasmina Perry 2008

Tasmina Perry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007264957

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007292950

Version: 2017-09-14

Dedication

To Fin with love

Epigraph

Whenever you confront an unbridled desire you are surely in the presence of a tragedy in the making.

Quentin Crisp

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

Also by Tasmina Perry

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Sometime in the 1980s

The residents of the South of France are too chic to consider themselves socially competitive, but in the villas that pepper the Côte D’Azur, one-upmanship was rife. Saul Milford, a man of not inconsiderable self-assurance, liked to think that he had the best villa in the whole area. An old mas in the foothills of Provence, Les Fleurs was not the biggest house but with its turrets and bright blue shutters, it was certainly the prettiest. Already that summer he’d had Princess Margaret, Mick Jagger and various other members of London’s beau monde round the kidney-shaped swimming pool. They’d all seemed to enjoy themselves and it was easy to see why. The grounds were studded with fabulous bronzes, sculpted by his dear friend Christopher Chase, one of England’s most prominent artists. There were olive groves, an abundance of poppies on the hillside, and in the sunshine, the Mediterranean sparkled like a sapphire in the distance. This evening, as dusk was settling on the grounds with a honey glow, it looked even more spectacular. It was excellent timing: tonight there was to be another party. Staff in white suits scurried around the pool plumping up cushions and filling silver ice buckets with champagne. The smell of spices from the kitchen mingled with the strong scent of lavender and the air crackled with anticipation of a fabulous evening ahead.

Saul smiled to himself, sipping lemonade freshly made from fruit in his orchard, silently congratulating himself that his purchase of the villa the previous summer had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. He could certainly afford it. His company, the luxury goods house Milford, was doing well. For years the company’s sumptuous leather products had been the preserve of the upper classes who ordered bespoke luggage for their exotic holidays. But the Eighties had seen the rise of a new, more democratic wave of millionaires riding on stock market killings. The City was awash with money and it was making Saul rich. Very rich. And what was the point of taking money to your grave?

Saul looked down from the terrace to where his two nieces Emma Bailey and Cassandra Grand were playing. From this distance, he could just about make out the dialogue between the two cousins. It was funny how personalities were set at such a young age. While the girls were similar in many ways, their differences were equally marked. So marked in fact, that Saul felt confident he could predict how their lives would unfold and the direction in which their desires and ambitions would take them.

Dangling her feet in the swimming pool Emma put a bookmark in her copy of Jane Eyre. At seven she was tall for her age, with clever, grey eyes that posed questions without the need to open her mouth.

‘Do you want to play chess?’ she asked her cousin.

‘No,’ replied Cassandra, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘What about hide-and-seek?’ Emma persisted.

‘No,’ snapped Cassandra impatiently.

‘Why?’

‘It’s for babies,’ said Cassandra painting a coat of red polish on her stubby square fingernails. The twelve-year-old had been excited about the holiday for months. She loved hearing Saul’s stories about rock stars and princesses and wanted to look perfect if she happened to meet any of them that evening.

‘Why don’t you go and ask Tom,’ she added coldly, pointing to her three-year-old brother who was busily rummaging in a flower bed getting soil in his hair.

‘Tom’s too young to play,’ replied Emma, refusing to be fobbed off.

Cassandra looked up at her cousin, her eyes squinting up in the sun.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

‘Come on, Cass,’ Emma persisted. ‘There’s loads of places to explore. We could go and look for butterflies. I bet there are millions in this garden. I’ve got a book in the villa that tells you how to identify them.’

‘You are such a swot,’ tutted Cassandra, smoothing down her long dark hair. ‘We’re on holiday. Can’t you just relax by the pool like a normal person? Listen, I’ll paint your nails if you give me fifty pence.’

‘I haven’t got fifty pence.’

‘Well, you’d better go and find something else to do then,’ said Cassandra, ‘on your own.’

‘OK then. I will,’ said Emma. Above her on the terrace, Saul Milford smiled and then walked back into the house to get ready for the party.

She hadn’t been able to sleep. How was she expected to with the music and turquoise light reflected from the swimming pool seeping through the shutters? She had crept out of bed and gone to watch the party from the safety of the terrace. In the glow of a thousand tea-lights the whole scene looked spectacular as hundreds of impossibly glamorous people were laughing, drinking and dancing under an umbrella of moonlight.

Minutes earlier she’d been on the verge of going down to find her parents when Saul, taking a break from the action, had caught her.

‘What are you doing here, I thought you went to bed hours ago,’ he’d said sitting on the terrace next to her.

‘How can I sleep with all this going on? It all looks so beautiful,’ she had explained.

‘There’ll be time to enjoy all this when you’re older,’ he’d smiled putting his arm round her. ‘One day all this is going to be yours.’

‘Really Uncle Saul?’

‘Really,’ he’d laughed, draining the last of his champagne and standing up. ‘Now come on, off to bed! You know I can’t protect you if your father finds out you’re still up.’

What a wonderful holiday it had been! As it was the last night of the trip she had no desire to go back to bed. She waited until Saul had returned to the party and then wandered away from the house, walking deeper into the grounds, wanting to make the night last as long as she could.

The further she walked moving away from the candles around the pool and the buttery light spilling from the villa, the darker it became, only flecks of starlight peppered the tarry sheet of sky above her. The high rasp of frogs in the trees replaced the chirp of crickets and the air began to lose its floral scent. Still she carried on walking, the damp grass tickling her bare feet, drawn by a faint light in the distance. As she approached the light, she saw it was coming from the little wooden house she had explored with her cousin earlier in the week. She had wondered then what might be inside it, but it had been locked tight. She was not easily scared but for a moment her steps slowed as she wondered whether to turn back to Les Fleurs, now so far behind her that it was nothing more than a black shape in the distance. Suddenly she caught sight of a dim outline of a figure through the dusty glass of the outbuilding. Curious, she edged closer, freezing when she heard a low moan from inside. She was now just below the shed’s dirty window. Holding her breath, she slowly raised her head and peered inside. The glass was so filthy it was like looking through smoke. At first, she was unable to make out what or who was inside. But as she pushed her face closer she let out a gasp – at first in puzzlement and disbelief and then in horror, as she realized what was happening in front of her. Stumbling back, she fell and scraped her arm on a rock. She looked up at the window, then back to the villa. She knew she should leave – run back to her bed as fast as she could – but as if pulled by a force she could not control she looked through the window again, hoping against hope that what she had seen was just her imagination. But no: the vile image was still there. Shaking her head to rid it from her mind, tears streaming down her face, she turned and ran back to the villa, not yet aware that what she had just seen would change her life forever.

1

Twenty-three years later

Sitting in the passenger seat of an ink-black Mercedes, Emma Bailey turned round and watched the white Federal-style mansion fade from view, bringing to a close one of the most stressful days of her life. She blew out her cheeks, smiling to herself at a job well done. Emma had spent the last twenty-four hours charming and cajoling industrialist PJ Frost, attempting to persuade him that her company Price Donahue was the right one to advise him on a billion-dollar mergers and acquisition strategy. Emma’s head was swimming. Not just from the pressure, but from dinner last night; a seven-course tasting menu with free-flowing vintage champagne that she had been in no position to refuse. Frost was from the old school where deals were brokered over food, liquor and preferably blood-sports, which she was glad to have been spared.

‘We did it!’ laughed Emma, sinking back into the leather and watching the frosty white landscape speed by.

‘You did it,’ said her colleague Mark Eisner, one of the partners at the firm as he turned up the heated seats. ‘You were the one that got us the invite up here. You were the one who impressed him with the pitch. Price Donahue has been after the Frost business for years. You do realize that this is about twenty million dollars worth of fees?’

Emma smiled. She knew she had done well and it was good to hear her boss acknowledge it, but she had to admit a little bit of luck had helped; her chance meeting with PJ Frost at a business seminar had come at exactly the right time. PJ Frost had a vast industrial empire that took in everything from paper mills to food production. He was a billionaire, owned one of the finest homes in New England, a fleet of vintage sports cars and two Gulfstream jets, but when Emma had met him, he had just slipped out of the Forbes 400 and he was hell bent on re-igniting his business. Emma knew Price Donahue, one of the most prestigious management consultancy firms in Boston, were the firm to do it: they just had to convince Frost. Emma and Mark had made the long drive up to Vermont a day earlier and even if she did say so herself, they had done an amazing job presenting their ideas. The deal had been sealed on the Friday night. Unfortunately, then Frost had insisted they return to his mansion the next day and celebrate with a brunch of kedgeree, eggs Benedict and even more champagne.

‘My blood feels like pure Dom Perignon,’ groaned Emma, putting on a pair of sunglasses to ease her headache.

‘I could think of worse things,’ said Mark who’d had to stay sober to drive.

‘It’s not funny,’ she said in a croaky laugh. ‘I haven’t had a hangover since college.’

‘That was six years ago!’ teased Mark.

‘University not grad school,’ she smiled, feeling herself flush. ‘Eight years ago.’

‘Well, I particularly enjoyed it when you climbed on the grand piano to serenade Frost. I had no idea you were a gifted singer as well as a first-class brain.’

‘I didn’t!’ she said sitting up and snatching off the shades.

‘You did,’ said Mark Eisner, a slow, lazy smile curling at his lips. ‘You sang “Begin the Beguine”. I like you like that. Less wound up. Less serious.’

Emma stared at him, a look of horror on her face, until her foggy brain realized he was joking.

‘Ow!’ cried Mark, laughing, as she punched him on the arm. ‘I could have you up on a discipline charge for that!’

He looked back at the frost-dusted road again and smiled.

‘Hey, so you got a bit drunk. Don’t look at it as over-indulgence, look at it as a necessarily evil, Em. When you’re a partner you’ll soon realize that hollow legs are a pre-requisite of the job.’

Emma’s buoyant mood softened.

‘This weekend has got to have helped my chances, hasn’t it?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Of what?’

‘Partnership, of course.’

Although Emma had only been a Price Donahue manager for two years she felt sure she was in with a chance of being selected for partner. Yes, she was still not quite thirty, but she had brought in millions for the firm and her reputation alone had brought in a considerable amount of new business.

‘Well, don’t ask me, I don’t know anything,’ said Mark playfully. ‘You’re in the running but then you already know that.’

‘You don’t think they’ll say I’m too young, do you?’

‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ he said seriously. ‘Anyway, there’s a partners’ meeting on Tuesday before the final vote. I’ll tell them what a fine job you did of reeling in that old buzzard PJ Frost with your sharp mind and fine singing voice,’ he laughed.

It was getting dark as the soft-top SLK roared south, the trees and fields a blur.

‘Hey, where are we going?’ asked Emma, as Mark turned off the highway.

‘To celebrate,’ he smiled, reaching over and taking her cold hand. He pulled onto a side road through a thick forest of sugar maple and beech. Emma would have loved to have seen the glorious scarlet and orange of Fall, but the February frost, lying in a lacy veil on the trees, was just as beautiful. As they turned a corner, Emma could see that their destination was a log cabin by the shores of a small lake. Pulling up outside it, Mark got out of the car, went round to Emma’s side and opened the door, taking her hand to help her out. As she stood, he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the lips. She responded greedily, pushing her body up against his.

‘What is this place?’ she asked when they finally came up for air.

‘A hideaway for honeymooners and rich recluses.’

‘Which category do we fall in?’ she grinned.

‘A little of both,’ he winked. ‘And wait until you see inside.’

The cabin was everything you’d want from a luxury bolt hole in the wilderness. There were skis and Wellingtons in a rack by the door, while the main room was filled with big leather sofas draped with cashmere blankets. Velvet drapes hung at the windows and a stag’s head hung over the stone fireplace. It was cosy and romantic, just perfect. Emma turned to look at Mark and felt herself blush: perfect for an affair with the boss, she thought.

Emma had always considered herself too cautious, too sensible for anything so clichéd as a workplace fling, especially with her own boss, but Mark Eisner was the most handsome, not to mention brilliant partner at Price Donahue. But it was more than that, thought Emma, looking at him, carrying in their bags: Mark was good for her. They had been dating for three months; getting together at a mutual friend’s Thanksgiving drinks, and she still thought he was the most sexy man she had ever seen. With his dark brown hair and his smooth tanned skin, he looked more like a male model in a coffee advert than a city high-flyer. For the first time in a long time, Emma felt as if she was where she wanted to be. She loved her job, her life in Boston, being with Mark. And the cabin, she loved the cabin.

While Mark went to put their overnight bags in the bedroom Emma took off her coat and went to stand by the window to look out onto the lake.

The only thing that would have made it any more perfect would have been if they had spent a couple days up here. She’d have loved to have wrapped up in scarves and boots and gone for long walks together, plus there was some excellent skiing in Stowe, not too far from where they were now. But most of all, she wished she could stay here in bed, curled against Mark’s strong back and sleep. She was frazzled, wound-up and anxious. It wasn’t just the high-pressure sales pitch at PJ Frost’s mansion, it was the constant demands of her job and the 18-hour days were finally catching up with her. The irony was that she did have the next three days booked off work but that was for another reason.

Mark came over with two glasses of chilled white wine and handed one to her.

‘If the weather turns tonight we might get snowed in,’ she said looking up at the ominous white sky.

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said snaking her arm around her waist.

‘You do remember I have to be at the airport at four tomorrow afternoon.’

Mark reassured her with a smile.

‘We’ll make it even if I have to dig us out with my bare hands.’

‘I wish you were coming with me,’ she said stroking her finger across his cheek.

‘You know it will look odd if we both have time off at the same time,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure my PA suspects us as it is. We don’t want to rock the boat before partnerships are announced.’

Emma smiled.

‘Well, I don’t want anyone accusing me of sleeping my way to the top,’ she joked, privately in complete agreement that she didn’t want their relationship to become public. Not yet anyway. While office romances weren’t expressly forbidden at Price Donahue, she didn’t want to do anything that might harm her chances of promotion; wanting to minimize the recklessness of being with Mark in any way she could.

‘Anyway, I don’t exactly blame you for not wanting to come all the way to England for a funeral.’

‘You sure know how to show a guy a good time.’

Mark saw her face fall and regretted the joke.

‘Hey, Em, I’m sorry. I know how upset you were about your Uncle.’

She nodded absently.

‘After my dad died, Uncle Saul was more like a father to me than an uncle,’ she said. ‘He was the one who paid for my college fees. He was the only one to encourage me to go to university in the States. I spent a couple of summers working with him at his company and I think that helped me get into business school.’

‘So why do I get the feeling you’re not looking forward to going?’ asked Mark.

Emma sighed.

‘It’s not Saul. It’s the rest of the family …’

Mark waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.

‘You never talk about them. Your family,’ he prompted.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said turning away from him, but he pulled her back.

‘Hey, save it for when you get back from England,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘I want to know about them. I want to know more about you.’

Emma felt herself tense at the intimate gesture.

‘You will call me if you hear anything about the partnership?’ she asked.

‘Honey, please just relax and try and forget about it, huh? For today, we’re on holiday.’

As he held her she caught their reflection in the glass.

It had taken Emma time to grow into her looks but at 29 even her own natural modesty could not deny that she looked good. At work, she always downplayed her attractiveness by wearing little or no make-up, but then she had a naturalness that suited it. Wavy, dark-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, her cheekbones were high, her mouth naturally full, and when she smiled it warmed up her intelligent grey eyes.

Moving closer, Mark slipped his fingers between two buttons of her shirt and under the lacy fold of her bra until his fingertips brushed her nipple.

Mark said, ‘You’re so beautiful.’

Emma would usually deflect compliments, deny them, or make them into a joke, but his touch seemed to sear her skin.

‘I love you,’ he whispered suddenly, looking into her eyes. Emma felt her stomach gallop.

‘You mean it?’ she said not knowing of any other way to respond.

He nodded pushing back a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

She let her body sink into his, and for the first time in weeks she felt such a sense of calm and belonging that she welled up with emotion.

‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

Mark moved his lips towards her neck running them down her skin.

‘I’m sure I saw a bed somewhere around here,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. ‘I think it’s about time we went and checked it out.’

She kissed him on the mouth, then started unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his navel.

‘Who needs a bed?’ she asked, looking up and smiling wickedly.

2

Nothing as dramatic – or enjoyable – as getting snowed into a luxurious Vermont log cabin made Emma late for her uncle’s funeral.

Her Sunday evening flight had been sitting on the runway for three hours and it was this that had thrown her entire schedule off kilter. That was the way Emma functioned; with order and precision and just a little margin left over as a safety net. But this time even her careful approach had let her down; by the time the taxi had made the fifty-mile journey from Heathrow to the tiny Oxfordshire village of Chilcot where the funeral was being held, she could already hear the rousing sound of hymns coming from inside the church.

‘Shit, shit, shit, it’s started,’ she mumbled, making a dash for the church. Wincing as the double doors groaned loudly she squeezed inside and slipped into the end of the nearest pew.

‘I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me though he were dead yet shall he live.’

As she listened to the hollow sound of the vicar’s voice echoing around the small church, Emma felt a pang of regret wash over her.

It had been three years since she had seen her Uncle Saul. Working at Price Donahue had meant that her holiday time was cut to a miserly two weeks a year. There was barely enough time to get to Martha’s Vineyard let alone make the long journey to her family home. She should have made the time but she hadn’t and now it was too late. Saul was dead, his coffin festooned with roses at the front of the altar. The life-force of the family, the bon viveur, the glue that had seemed to hold everyone together, was gone.

Emma’s own father was buried in Chilcot church’s grounds and it made the day seem even more poignant. She shut her eyes and for a split second she pictured herself running around Saul’s villa as a little girl the summer before her father died. She could still almost smell Les Fleurs; the riot of scent from pine to jasmine, lavender to thyme. She remembered the wonder of seeing hilltop medieval villages for the first time and the illicit swigs of rosé smuggled from the kitchens by Cassandra. It had been the last perfect summer.

The service ended with ‘Jerusalem’, after which the coffin was carried down the aisle and the congregation streamed out into the grounds. Emma estimated there were over 200 people crammed into the narrow aisles; it was no wonder. Saul had been the patriarch of the village and Milford was still the main employer of most of its residents. It explained why so many of them were here, spilling out of the church, some of them in tears. Searching the crowd she vaguely recognized senior managers from the company. There was also a peppering of the London crowd that Saul had hung around with for four decades: elegant women with smart hats and impressive-looking husbands, well-known businessmen, politicians. She recognized Soraya, the Sixties supermodel, Terry O’Neill, even a handful of ageing rock stars.

‘Finally,’ said a disapproving voice behind her accompanied by a tap on the shoulder. ‘Please tell me you were at the back of the church.’

‘Yes, Mother, I was at the back of the church,’ said Emma with a sigh, leaning in to kiss her mother Virginia. She was exquisitely dressed in a charcoal suit, her silver blonde hair swung in an elegant bob around her pinched disapproving face. At almost sixty, she was still beautiful in a way Emma was not, finely boned, elegant, regal.

‘My plane was three hours late. You did get my message?’

‘Your mother was worried sick,’ snapped the man standing next to Emma’s mother. Jonathon Bond was her mother’s second husband. A stockbroker with pewter hair combed back in a slightly sinister style and a perpetually anxious expression, he had married Virginia within three years of Emma’s father’s death when she was still only ten. It was approximately at that point that Emma had begun to feel as if she were surplus to requirements within her own family. Emma liked to tell herself that she hadn’t intentionally drifted apart from them, but the truth was she had wanted to leave England to escape from a mother who seemed to have no interest in anything outside her new marriage. But if she had subconsciously tried to punish her mother by moving to another continent, Virginia hadn’t seemed to have been particularly bothered.

Today was the first time she had seen her mother in six months. She had invited her mother and Jonathon over to Boston for New Year, but Virginia had declined, saying Jonathon had to be at the office over the holiday. She’d since learnt from her cousin Tom that they’d actually spent New Year staying at the Four Seasons in Manhattan instead. Emma had thought she had stopped feeling disappointed with her mother but it seemed as if this was something she would never get over.

‘Cassandra was here early,’ said Virginia shortly, ‘She had to come all the way from some fashion show in New York.’

‘And I thought you had a boyfriend coming over?’ said Jonathon looking around.

‘Who told you that?’ said Emma with surprise.

‘Your mother said there was some chap at work.’

‘Mum, please. It’s nothing serious,’ said Emma, suddenly feeling like a teenager.

‘It never is serious, is it?’ said Virginia, ‘unless it’s work.’

Seemingly tiring of the conversation, Jonathon grabbed Virginia’s arm.

‘Come along,’ he said briskly, ushering them after the crowd, ‘they’ll be burying the poor sod.’

The mourners had collected around the grave with the family standing in a row behind the vicar. At the end of the line, Emma watched them. The head of the family, of the Milford dynasty, was now her Uncle Roger. Still a handsome man she thought, looking at his well-toned frame wrapped in a long black coat. His blond hair was well-trimmed, and just lightly flecked with grey even though he was in his mid-fifties. His beautiful wife Rebecca, a local girl who had tamed the company playboy stood behind him, tall, slender and blonde with wide feline eyes; the perfect accessory for the new Lord of the Manor. Tom, Cassandra’s brother – all grown up now, she noted – was dressed in something that only loosely qualified as a suit. Tom’s mother Julia, an art dealer whose company Emma had always enjoyed, was at his side. And then there was Cassandra. Her eyes were obscured by the rim of an enormous black hat but that exquisite bone structure was still visible. She lifted her head and caught Emma looking over towards her; she gave Emma the hint of a smile. Moving to America had meant that Emma had got out from beneath the shadow of her charmed, more glamorous older cousin. But Emma had never been able to quite escape the voices. ‘Cassandra is dating a rock star.’ ‘Did you see Cassandra on television?’ ‘Oh, Cassandra makes us all so proud.’

After Saul’s body had been laid to rest, Emma went back inside the church to find the case she had stowed in the pew. As she walked out, the leafy grounds were almost empty as most of the crowd had taken advantage of the fleet of cars laid on to ferry the mourners to Saul’s home Winterfold for the wake. But one striking figure was standing on the path. Cassandra.

Emma’s heart sank. Cassandra’s love of pretty skirts and beads when they had played together as children had translated into a career as one of the top editors in the world. Her magazine, Rive, was the most respected fashion publication on the planet and Cassandra was the living embodiment of it: elegant, poised and, to Emma’s eyes, snooty and pretentious. Not much had changed there, she thought. Twenty-odd years on from Saul’s villa and Cassandra still had the power to make Emma feel awkward and ungainly.

‘Oh. Has everybody gone?’ said Cassandra as Emma approached. ‘I was just talking to the vicar about doing a Gothic shoot in the church grounds. Some of those over-grown tombs are stunning.’

Emma smiled nervously and motioned towards one of the Mercedes cars.

‘Fancy jumping in this one?’

‘This is actually my driver,’ said Cassandra quickly. ‘But feel free to join me.’

‘Donna Karan?’

‘Sorry?’ asked Emma as she struggled to get her case onto the seat next to her.

‘Your suit. Donna Karan last season.’

‘Er, yes. I think so,’ replied Emma remembering how she had bought the trouser suit because it was smart and black and for no other reason beyond that.

‘Beautiful service, though,’ said Cassandra. Her mind had already moved on: ‘I got Robbie Van Helden to do the flowers. He does Elton’s parties.’

Emma nodded nervously.

‘How long are you staying?’ she asked, filling the silence.

‘Oh, I have to get back to London tonight,’ said Cassandra. ‘It’s all rather inconvenient, slap bang in the middle of the collections. Never mind. When duty calls …’

She smiled and Emma thought how unusual it was that Cassandra seemed to be in such a buoyant mood. Emma found her spiky and was usually walking on egg-shells whenever she spoke to her. The slightest thing could send her into a hissy-fit.

‘I’d leave now but I can’t miss the big family powwow,’ continued Cassandra ordering her driver to take them to Winterfold.

‘Pow-wow? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, didn’t you hear? Apparently Saul wanted his will to be read, so it’s happening tonight while everyone is still here.’

Emma frowned. ‘How odd. I thought that the reading of the will died out about fifty years ago.’

‘You know Saul, the old queen. He loved a bit of drama. Anyway, you shouldn’t complain about it happening tonight. It saves you coming back from Boston,’ smiled Cassandra.

‘I suppose Uncle Roger will finally get his hands on the company then,’ said Emma, wondering for the first time what would happen to Saul’s extensive assets. Cassandra dipped her hat, so Emma couldn’t see her face.

‘Don’t be so sure.’

They fell into silence as the car sped through the lanes of the village. Past the Feathers pub where Emma had bought her first drink, past the park where her father had chased her and pushed her on the swings. There were many happy memories but some were still too painful to think about. She looked away.

The car swung into the avenue of lime trees that ran up to the manor house. A grand Georgian mansion, set in 800 acres of grounds, Winterfold had a haughty, almost severe beauty. Emma knew the story well of how the house came to be in her family; as a child it had been told to her at bedtime like a fairy tale of the beautiful aristocracy and their fantasy lives. The house had once belonged to the Greystone family, who had built the house from the proceeds of their merchant banking fortune. Merrick Milford, Emma’s great-grandfather, was a local saddler’s apprentice who had developed a reputation for being exceptionally skilled. The lady of the house, Lady Eleanor Greystone, was a keen horsewoman and had admired Merrick’s work on her own saddles, so had asked to meet this young talent. Visiting the house, Merrick had been fascinated by a beautiful collection of trunks in the hall which Lady Greystone informed him were made by Goyard, the Parisian luggage house who supplied everyone from Indian maharajas to French aristocracy.

Buoyed by his mistress’s praise and full of the arrogance of youth, the handsome young artisan had boasted: ‘If you provide the materials, m’lady, I will make you a set of luggage even finer than this one.’

Taking him at his word, Lady Greystone delivered the finest leather, wood, brass pellets and canvas to Merrick’s cottage on the outskirts of the village the following week. Six weeks later Merrick delivered six trunks that all neatly fitted inside one another like Russian dolls. The leather had been hand-stitched and coated with beeswax to seal it. Each trunk had a fine brass lock, forged by himself. The influential Lady Eleanor told her friends and the young saddler was in business. When the First World War had passed and the upper classes resumed their travels, it was to the small Oxfordshire company Milford that they turned for exquisite bespoke luggage, not Goyard and Vuitton.

Twenty years and one good marriage later, Merrick Milford had elevated his position in society. The fortunes of the Greystone family, however, had not been so fortunate, so when Lady Eleanor’s son Nathaniel gambled away the family fortune, the Greystones found a wealthy and eager buyer in the form of Edward Milford, Merrick’s son. And in the Milford family, Winterfold had grown and thrived.

As Cassandra’s car pulled up at Winterfold it was obvious, even now, that it was a well-tended and much-loved home. Flanking the pillars either side of the whitewashed steps were clipped bay trees and the black and white tiles on the pathway positively gleamed. The dove-grey brickwork and vast, sash windows looked well-kept, while spirals of smoke ascended from the four chimneys dotted around the roof.

‘It really is a beautiful place, isn’t it?’ said Emma, almost as if voicing her own thoughts.

‘Do you think?’ asked Cassandra. ‘It rather gives me the creeps.’

As they were shown inside, Emma had to admit Winterfold was an acquired taste, a unique house that was part home, part museum, adorned with an eclectic mixture of antiques, art and objets d’art from Saul’s travels around the world. Crossed Maori war-clubs and grinning masks looked down disapprovingly over an exquisite Louis-Quinze writing desk; a stuffed lion’s head shot on the Serengeti plains loomed over a roughly-carved French medieval fireplace that Saul claimed had once belonged to Gallic royalty itself. The owner’s living environment reflected the man and Saul Milford had been an adventurer. So much so, that when Emma had heard about her uncle’s death, she had been surprised that it had been something as ordinary as a heart attack, and that he hadn’t been lost as he ballooned over the Pacific or been savaged by wild jackals in Tanzania. Emma smiled at the scene: amid all this chaos, this eclectic clash of cultures, tea and cake was being quietly, reverently served. Saul would have roared. Nevertheless Emma accepted an elegant bone-china cup from Morton, Saul’s butler, and watched as visitors quietly stepped forwards to offer condolences to the family, the only note of drama being the swelling sound of Wagner in a background. The wake lasted barely an hour; the mourners seeming to disperse almost as quickly as they had arrived at Winterfold. Slowly the mourners left and Roger began ushering the family into Saul’s study to the left of the grand staircase. Emma rubbed her red eyes; her jet-lag was kicking in and she would be grateful when the whole thing was over and she could get back to Boston.

‘Em! How are you? I haven’t managed to talk to you all day.’

A handsome young man in his mid-twenties nudged Emma’s arm.

‘Hello Tom,’ she smiled, grateful for the first genuinely warm welcome she’d had since she’d arrived in England.

‘How’s the mistress of the universe? That’s what they call you people, isn’t it?’

Emma laughed. ‘I’m a management consultant, not some Wall Street banker.’

‘Oh yes, Mum did tell me,’ grinned Tom, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Sounds like a right old racket to me. You’re brought in and paid millions of quid to tell the management team they’re not good enough at their job?’

She tapped him playfully on the arm.

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

She liked Tom. He was funny, sweet and handsome, with a scrub of dirty blonde hair and a square chin that stopped him being pretty. She heard from him through emails full of smiley faces and barely legible missives about his latest line of work. Expelled from practically every public school that would have him, he had spent the time since he’d ‘mucked up’ his A-levels drifting round Europe and the US doing bar work in Amsterdam, photography in New York and some ill-defined ‘business’ or other in Dublin.

‘Ah, but you would say it’s complicated wouldn’t you?’ teased Tom. ‘Can’t have us cheeky little boys pointing at the Emperor’s New Clothes, now can we?’

Emma tried to look severe, but just ended up giggling.

‘So where are you working at the minute?’ she asked.

‘I’m considering my options,’ shrugged Tom. ‘Hey, maybe I need a management consultant to sort me out?’

‘Maybe,’ laughed Emma taking a cup of coffee from a waiter. ‘Or maybe you just need to get up before noon!’

‘Actually,’ whispered Tom theatrically, ‘I think I might be getting my big break at any moment. I’m sure Saul recognized my work ethic and business genius and is going to give me Milford lock, stock and barrel.’

‘You too?’ smiled Emma. ‘He used to promise it to me whenever he was drunk,’ she said remembering her uncle’s words, One day it will all be yours.‘You know what Saul was like. He probably told Morton he was going to leave it all to him every time he made him a decent martini.’

She paused as she noticed her Uncle Roger beckoning them into Winterfold’s study. Walking into the room with Tom she glanced around. It was a small room for a house of such size. There was barely enough space for the wide desk by the bay window and the two Chesterfield sofas on either side of the marble fireplace, but it certainly had all the trappings of the gentleman’s retreat: there were leather-bound books lined up neatly along oak shelves, heavy midnight-blue velvet swags hung at the windows, and a creaky red wing-back club chair completed the picture. Outside it was gloomy and the wind made a whirling racket though the lime trees.

Tom nudged Emma as Roger walked in, taking his place in Saul’s old club chair with an air of natural authority.

‘I think someone else fancies his chances of getting his paws on Milford,’ he whispered.

Anthony Collins, Saul’s solicitor, had made the journey from Pimlico especially for the reading and was rather flustered. Sitting at Saul’s desk and taking a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase, he fussed for a while, laying them in complicated piles and arranging his notes. Finally he looked up at Roger who inclined his head as if to indicate his permission to begin.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for taking the time to come to this meeting,’ began Collins. ‘I know it’s not ideal having this meeting straight after the funeral, but Roger seemed to suggest it was the only time that we could guarantee everyone being here.’

Emma looked around at the family. Cassandra was perched on the arm of a Chesterfield, a high black stiletto dangling off one foot. Her mother was poised and dignified; Roger, regal and in control. They all had neutral, interested expressions, but she knew they must all be churning inside. And much as they tried to hide it, the buzz of expectation charged the air. Like vultures circling. The thought made Emma feel a little sick.

‘Well, I’ll keep it as brief as possible,’ said Collins, shuffling his papers again and putting on a pair of reading glasses.

‘The will is fairly straightforward. Of course I will answer any questions you have afterwards or you can always pop along to my office in London.’

Emma saw Cassandra give an impatient sigh, prompting Collins to clear his throat and peer intently at his notes. ‘There are a few small bequests of watches, cuff-links, and smaller financial gifts. I needn’t bother you with those. I will inform the beneficiaries first thing in the morning. Now. To the main part of the will …’

Collins paused, then began.

‘My 1967 Aston Martin DB7, 1956 Mercedes gull-wing coupé, 1983 Alfa Romeo Spider, 1966 E-type Jaguar and 1963 Ferrari 250 have all brought me immense pleasure in life and I give them to someone who I know will experience the same sense of joy. I therefore bequest them to my nephew Tom, to be held in trust by his aunt Virginia until Tom reaches the age of 30.’

‘Thirty!’ cried Tom, unable to contain himself. ‘What’s supposed to happen until them?’

Anthony cleared his throat. ‘Well, they are to be held by your aunt,’ he said simply.

‘Is that legal?’ he asked, dismayed.

‘Tom, please,’ said Roger sternly. ‘We’d all like to get this over as soon as possible.’

I bet you would, smiled Emma to herself. Whoever was the majority shareholder was invariably the chief executive of Milford, and as Winterfold was officially a company asset, whoever was CEO of the company would be its de facto owner and resident. She could see Roger’s wife Rebecca looking at the walls and carpets, no doubt planning what she was going to say to her interior decorators first thing in the morning.

‘To my darling niece Cassandra,’ continued Collins, ‘I give Les Fleurs, my Provence villa, knowing how stylish she will keep it and that she will continue the tradition of throwing the most fabulous parties in Europe.’

Emma saw Cassandra smile and nod, but she was sure she had also gone a shade whiter.

‘To my brother Roger, now head of the family, I bequest the chalet in Gstaad in the hope he will continue the tradition of a family Christmas in the snow.’

Roger looked straight at Collins, a frown on his brow. He looked as if he was about to speak, but thought better of it and simply nodded. A hush had now fallen over the room, as if everyone was holding their breath. The hiss and pop of the fire seemed unnaturally loud and Emma could hear Roger breathing through his nose.

‘To my niece Emma, I give all my shareholding in Milford Industries. Over the years I have quietly watched her mature into a businesswoman of such force and reputation I feel safe in the knowledge that she will take the company to even greater heights than I have dared to dream. The wine cellar and art I also give to her in the hope that she will also find time to stop work once in a while and enjoy life.’

Emma felt stunned, then embarrassed and then a horrible creeping sense of guilt. She looked around to see the room shell-shocked. They were all staring at the fire, out of the window, at the floor; everyone was avoiding Roger’s gaze. Roger, meanwhile, had turned pink.

‘The residue of my estate, I give to my sisters Julia and Virginia,’ concluded Collins. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my client’s last will and testament.’

‘And you are absolutely sure this is the most up-to-date will in existence?’ asked Roger, his brows compressed anxiously.

‘Quite sure,’ said Collins decisively, averting his eyes momentarily when he saw the fury in Roger’s face.

‘And what about this place?’ asked Tom.

‘Winterfold is officially a company asset,’ said Collins. ‘The CEO of the company has traditionally lived here.’ He looked over at Emma encouragingly who just looked at the ground and shook her head. Suddenly, everyone started talking at once. The family had started breaking into small splinter groups, whispering intently. To Emma they were deafening.

‘He can’t be serious, can he … ?’

‘I can’t believe he would’

‘What on earth was he thinking… ?’

‘I felt sure he would have’

Roger was standing over Collins, his eyes scanning the will keenly. Cassandra walked over to the window, pulled out her mobile phone and pressed it to her ear. Emma walked to Saul’s club chair and sat down heavily.

‘Wow, Em! Well done to you!’ said Tom. ‘I mean, I have to say I’m surprised, but hey, it’s his money. So when’s the party begin?’

Emma laughed nervously. ‘I’m not sure everyone’s in the mood to party,’ she said quietly. She looked down and saw her hands were trembling.

‘So?’ Emma looked up to see Roger had moved over to her. He was a big man and his physical presence would have been enough to intimidate most people on a good day, but today he was bristling with barely-checked emotion, a little boy who has not been given the train set he had been promised. When she had been a little girl, Emma had always seen her Uncle Roger as a grown-up, as a rather strict figure of authority. But she was not a little girl now. Over the last few years, Emma had faced some of the world’s most powerful men, telling them in so many words why their companies were failing, listing their shortcomings and weaknesses. She was not easily scared.

‘Roger, please,’ she said, ‘I am as surprised as you. I can tell you that this certainly was not in my five-year plan.’

‘So you’re not interested in the shareholding?’

She bristled. Did he expect her to give it to him?

‘Not in so much that I have time to run the company,’ she said diplomatically, not denying to herself the prickle of excitement. ‘I have my life in Boston, as you know.’

‘So how much is it going to cost us?’ chimed Rebecca, attempting a smile, but baring her teeth instead.

Emma shook her head and put her hands out in front of her.

‘Roger, Rebecca. This is all a bit much for me to take in at the moment.’

‘But you can’t just sit there and …’ began Rebecca, before being cut off by Tom.

‘Exactly how much is “in remainder”?’ he asked Collins.

The solicitor suppressed a smile. He could always predict the questions and from whom they would come; funny how the feckless son should be asking how much his doting mother would be getting. He sighed. There was nothing like money to break up even the most harmonious families.

‘The remainder is what’s left of the estate,’ he said patiently. ‘It will take some time to quantify, of course. Obviously death duties and fees and so on have to be paid.’

‘What about the art at the Milford offices? There’s a couple of Matisse sketches, a small Miro …’ Julia added hopefully, looking up at a colourful abstract above the fireplace.

‘I suspect they are Saul’s own, in which case they pass to Emma.’

Julia’s face said it all: ashen and tight-lipped. She had always coveted the eclectic art in Saul’s home and had assumed he would send it her way, but not even the pieces in his office were destined to be hers. She looked as if she had been slapped. Cassandra, meanwhile, was sitting silently in the corner. Her face was expressionless. But she did not seem to be rejoicing in the gift of the villa in Provence.

Emma turned to see her mother. ‘You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping the shares,’ said Virginia slowly. ‘Roger has been Milford’s creative director for over twenty years.’

Emma gaped at her. She had never been very supportive as a mother, but this seemed a low blow even for Virginia. Saul’s bequest had – presumably – made Emma a rich woman, but even now she could not be happy for her, in fact she was thinking of her brother and his position.

‘I haven’t made any decisions about anything, Mother,’ said Emma shortly. ‘But when I do, you and Roger will be the first to know.’

She moved away and walked up to Cassandra, who was looking ready to leave.

‘You’ve got Les Fleurs,’ said Emma softly. ‘How wonderful!’

Cassandra smiled thinly. ‘I couldn’t have asked for better, could I?’ she said. Emma noticed that her eyes were not shining. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make an urgent call to the office.’

Emma flinched as Roger put his hand on her shoulder.

‘To the victor the spoils, eh?’ he said, with a forced jovial manner. ‘I know you have business experience, so I know you’ll weigh up the options and do what’s right for Milford. I know you’ll make the right decision. You take your time.’

He squeezed her shoulder and walked towards the door, leading Rebecca who was shooting daggers.

But Emma did not need to take her time. If Saul’s will had just made her a rich woman, then that was something to be thankful for. But had Saul expected her to come back to Milford and run the company? The whole afternoon had been ghastly and she could only imagine what a lifetime back here would be like. She wanted to go back to Boston, to Mark and her own life as quickly as she could.

3

Cassandra Grand had a dream, a dream that she had been nurturing since the age of thirteen. She wanted to be the greatest fashion legend since Coco Chanel, a style maven whose name was a billion dollar brand. She wanted to be fashion’s Martha Stewart, a female Tom Ford. She wanted it all and she wasn’t going to let anyone stand in her way. Magazines were just the very start for Cassandra; she was already recognized as one of the top editors in the world and now she was ready to expand her empire. Some of the top luxury brands in the world had already come knocking, begging her to take on a consultation role, while her talent as a stylist meant she was still greatly in demand to style the hottest fashion advertising campaigns in the world. But there was one fly in the ointment: Emma Bailey. That bitch. Taking control of Milford had been a major part of Cassandra’s carefully laid plans. She’d known for years that the company was ripe for re-invention and had planned to rebrand it Cassandra Grand by Milford. Obviously, after a few years she would drop the fusty Milford label entirely, but by then, Cassandra Grand would be the hottest name in fashion. But of course, it hadn’t happened that way. Silly, foolish Saul had put a stop to that and it made her almost physically sick with fury; all the time, energy and expense she had wasted playing the dutiful niece! All those lunches at Claridge’s, the gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, the bottle of Petrus she had been sent by a French importer which had gone directly to Saul. And those dull family Christmas days spent with the family at Saul’s chalet in Gstaad when she could have been on a lover’s yacht in St Barts or at a friend’s villa in Mustique.

And hadn’t Saul promised the company to her? She remembered his words vividly.

‘One day, all this will be yours.’

He had promised her. He couldn’t just have meant the villa. Saul’s treachery, for that is how she viewed it, was like a body blow so hard it made her muscles ache. It was she, Cassandra, who was in fashion! She was the one with the contacts, the vision! She could have made Milford into a global force. The new Dior – bigger! And now it was over.

The lift pinged, the light flicked to ‘Floor 25’ and Cassandra was brought back to the present. This isn’t over, she thought, as the doors whooshed open and she strode into the Rive office. This is just a setback. Her spike heels clacked along as she looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the north side of the office. At least she had her job; it would see her through while she regrouped and planned how she would seize Milford back. And no jumped-up, middle-management nobody like Emma Bailey was going to stand in her way. Yes, she thought smiling, there was always another way.

‘Morning, Cassandra!’ said a voice to her left. The smile dropped from her face and she glared back, annoyed by the interruption to her thoughts. She was unusually late for a Monday morning and the office was already buzzing. Normally she would have been first in, usually before 8 a.m., but she had been obliged to start the day with a breakfast with the MD of Cartier. She enjoyed beginning the day alone, free from disturbances to collect her thoughts. To plan, to strategize. Cassandra was not a team player; she rated her talent and vision so far beyond the rest of her staff that she would gladly have crafted the whole magazine herself if time allowed. But even though she had cherry-picked her staff, she still sometimes felt as if she was dealing with amateurs and halfwits. As she passed through the glass doors into her plush office, her senior assistant Lianne met her halfway.

‘Art need to see you immediately,’ she said handing her a coffee; black, filter, scalding hot. Cassandra nodded and moved into her corner office to take her seat. It was a beautiful space, painted Dior grey and interior-designed to her specification, minimalist and chic. She sat down at her Perspex desk, uncluttered except for a white orchid, one in-tray full of layouts, another stuffed with party invitations and a pile of daily newspapers. Lianne had helpfully put the Time cutting announcing Cassandra as ‘twelfth most important woman in fashion’ in the centre of the glass. She picked it up and dropped it into the wastepaper bin without looking at it. Twelfth, she thought with annoyance.

Cassandra picked up the phone and punched Lianne’s extension.

‘Can you get Laura and Jeremy to step through as well. I want an update on the Friday’s cover-shoot.’

She was behind and it was a feeling Cassandra hated. She loved doing the shows; she never believed those editors who said the collections were a chore that needed to be suffered, but it kept her out of the office for days at a time. Cassandra was a control freak, she hated even the smallest detail of Rive being passed to the printers without her express permission and she didn’t let a minute go by when she didn’t know exactly where the magazine was up to. She looked up at the wall in front of her where miniature pages from next month’s issue had been pinned up: pages of glorious fashion by some of the world’s best photographers, opinion pieces by some of London’s most celebrated columnists. But there was one glaring hole: the cover story. She glanced at her calendar. It was down to the wire.

David Stern, Rive’s art director, came in first, wearing a black polo neck and holding a thick stack of photo paper.

‘I hope that’s the Phoebe shoot you have in your hands,’ said Cassandra.

Stern nodded.

‘I got Xavier to send over what he had. Awkward bastard. Said he wanted to retouch his selection before he would send anything.’

‘To which you replied …’ asked Cassandra.

‘Send over everything you have tout suite before Cassandra makes sure you never work for any magazine in the company ever again.’

‘Good answer,’ she said with a thin smile. She hated the power which photographers seemed to bestow upon themselves. If it wasn’t enough dealing with stroppy publicists, managers and agents, now she had photographers throwing diva hissy-fits. Well, Cassandra employed a zero-tolerance policy. If they wouldn’t play ball – her ball – then they would be dropped without a backward look. Rive was bigger than the sum of its parts; they could get a pensioner with a Brownie camera to shoot a fashion story and he’d be hailed as ‘the next big thing’.

David reverently laid three A4 prints on Cassandra’s desk, the pick of the shots from the Phoebe Fenton shoot. She stood up, and rested the palms of her hands on the Perspex to examine them. They were sensational. All shot three-quarter length, with Phoebe wearing just a pair of high-waisted cream jodhpurs so tight that they looked as if they’d been painted on.

In two of the frames, her long chestnut hair was covering her breasts, with just a cream triangle of navel visible. In the final image her hair had been blown away from her, fanning out like some Greek goddess. Christ she looks good, thought Cassandra. Phoebe Fenton had been the supermodel of the moment a decade earlier, but that was then and twelve months ago Cassandra would have laughed if she had been mooted to appear in British Rive. After Phoebe’s surprise marriage to Ethan Krantz, a New York property billionaire seven years ago, Phoebe had retreated into a world of Upper East Side gallery openings and benefit dinners for land-mine victims. Far too conservative, far too worthy and way, way past it. Phoebe belonged to the US edition of Rive with their airbrushed fantasy versions of big Hollywood stars and wholesome celebrities. But things had changed. Choosing who to put on your cover was not just about who but when. Timing was everything and a sudden scandal in a cover model’s private life could add 50,000 to a magazine’s sales; much more if your timing made it an exclusive. And Phoebe Fenton’s private life had suddenly gone into meltdown; her husband Ethan had run off with a Ukrainian model thirty years his junior. Phoebe and Ethan were now in the throes of a nasty divorce and Ethan was fighting hard for the custody of their three-year-old little girl, Daisy. Rumours were everywhere of Phoebe’s behaviour: drink, bisexuality, orgies, drugs. In the space of weeks, Phoebe had gone from all-American girl to all-American fuck-up. But up until now there hadn’t been anything solid beyond one grainy long-lens paparazzo photograph taken in St Barts of someone who may, or may not have been Phoebe Fenton kissing a mystery brunette and thus Phoebe’s public persona was as beautiful and gracious as it had always been.

Cassandra smiled. The images in front of her were the sexiest pictures she had ever seen of Phoebe. She congratulated herself for having picked Xavier to shoot her because these photos were fresh and fierce, erotic even. Shot by another photographer, Phoebe’s naked breasts might have looked salacious, but in the hands of the man the fashion industry was calling the new Helmut Newton they looked delicate, exquisite, artistic. Pure fashion.

At that moment Laura Hildon, Rive’s pretty blonde fashion editor, ran through the door, already talking.

‘What do you think?’ she gabbled. ‘It was the best we could do, she hated everything except the jodhpurs.’ She looked anxiously at Cassandra who was now holding the bare-breasted shot aloft.

‘What happened to the Vuitton waistcoat?’ she said icily. ‘I told you we needed to get Vuitton on the cover this issue. They haven’t had a cover credit in nine months and they are beginning to get tetchy.’

Laura looked stricken.

‘Actually, I don’t know what happened to the Vuitton top. I came into work to collect the clothes for the shoot on Friday morning and it had gone.’

‘Gone?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I think someone took it from the rail on Thursday night,’ said Laura, embarrassed. ‘I should probably bring this up another time but I think Francesca has been taking things from my selection for her shoots.’

Cassandra flashed a look at David, back to Laura and then waved a hand to dismiss it. ‘We’ll sort this out later. In the meantime, what are the inside shots like?’

It was Laura’s turn to shoot a look to David.

‘Haven’t you told her?’ she asked breathlessly.

David cleared his throat before taking a seat on Cassandra’s sofa.

‘It started off normally enough. Laura managed to get her in a couple of dresses, then after lunch the stylist turns up. Her stylist, I should add. Someone called Romilly, I’ve never heard of. They kept disappearing into the loos and they were glugging champagne like it was water. Phoebe went… well, she went a little weird after that. By five o’clock Romilly was saying that Phoebe wanted to show off her body. That she wanted to do her last great set of nudes.’

‘I think she was drunk,’ whispered Laura.

Cassandra couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

‘What’s the copy like?’ she asked, snapping back into business mode. ‘Jeremy?’

Jeremy Pike, her features editor, was tall, slender and effeminate, dressed as always in a slim-cut suit and a neckscarf.

‘Sorry I’m late, Cassandra,’ he said deferentially. ‘But I don’t think you’ll mind when you see this.’ He waved a sheaf of typed paper in the air. ‘I’ve just been waiting for Vicky’s copy to come in. She called me up over the weekend to tell me how the interview had gone and she was beside herself. Anyway – she’s just filed. Have a read of that.’

Cassandra read in silence, occasionally lifting her head to look at Jeremy, her eyes wide. Vicky Thomas had outdone herself this time. Vicky was one of the country’s best celebrity interviewers. Over fifty and overweight, she was the antithesis of everything Cassandra usually demanded in a Rive reporter. But an appearance that suggested a jolly cuddly aunt was just a ruse she’d use to get celebrities to let their guard down. Many stars who should have known better had fallen into her honey-trap and admitted to things they had never told their own partners. Publicists hated her; it could take years to undo the damage she caused. And now it appeared that nice Auntie Vicky had weaved her magic once again.

‘She interviewed her in Claridge’s before the shoot on Thursday,’ said Jeremy grinning. ‘Apparently it was so dull, Vicky said she might as well have handed her a press release. Luckily Vicky was at the shoot and suggested they go for a drink afterwards. That’s when it got interesting.’

Cassandra looked up from the copy. ‘I’ll say it did. She asked her about the mystery brunette photo.’

Jeremy nodded.

‘Yes, Phoebe actually admitted to being bisexual,’ he squealed, clapping his hands in delight. ‘She says everyone’s at it these days. She even named names.’

‘Was the tape running?’

‘All the time,’ smiled Jeremy.

Cassandra’s eyes scanned the page, her eyes growing wider as she read Vicky’s expertly-worded piece. It was perfectly balanced, managing to stay suitably fawning, while still letting the reader know exactly what was going on. She read out a passage to the stunned office.

‘“… Accompanying us to Annabel’s was the beautiful Romilly Dunn, the stunning New York stylist known for her colourful sex life, who proceeded to get cosy with Phoebe as the night rolled on.”’

‘Vicky says she can amend the copy to say Phoebe and Romilly were all over one another if you like,’ said Jeremy, ‘but she wanted to run it past you first.’

Cassandra knew she had more than a cover story here. Her passion and her expertise was fashion, but her journalistic skills were much wider than that. Ever since she had been parachuted in to British Rive three years earlier with a mission to bring the magazine back from the edge of extinction, she had constantly surprised the industry with what legendary Vanity Fair editor Tina Brown referred to as ‘the mix’, running beautiful fashion pages next to heavyweight intellectual essays, shopping tips next to campaigning reportage. Aware that the UK market was something of an also-ran in the fashion magazine arena compared to the mighty American publications, Cassandra had worked hard to harness London’s creativity, mixing high society with high fashion and street-level cool, bringing in artists, philosophers, DJs and schoolgirls, including them all in the super-luxe Rive world. Each month she made Rive an event, each issue contained a surprise, whether it was running shocking photo-spreads among Moscow tenements, or convincing Damien Hirst to design the sets for her couture shoots. At a time when magazines were getting more anodyne with airbrushed photo-shoots and fawning celebrity interviews, Cassandra dared to push her luck, constantly delivering the surprising and the innovative. It was an audacious, not to mention expensive and highly risky approach, but it had paid off. Rive wasn’t just the number one fashion magazine, it was the number one women’s glossy. And this month Phoebe Fenton was going to take them to a new level.

‘This is absolute dynamite,’ said Cassandra in a low voice, eager to now end the meeting and run the copy past the company lawyer.

‘OK, back to work,’ she barked, waving a hand in dismissal and swivelling around in her chair. She snatched up the phone and was just about to call the legal department when she noticed the red light on her second line was flashing.

‘I didn’t want to disturb you while you were in the meeting,’ said Lianne apologetically, ‘but Phoebe Fenton has been on the phone twice in the last ten minutes. She’s still holding.’

Cassandra groaned, holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece as she debated whether to wait until she had called the lawyers. But curiosity got the better of her and it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

‘Put her through.’

There was a click, then Lianne’s voice.

‘I have Cassandra Grand for you, Ms Fenton.’

‘Phoebe, darling,’ purred Cassandra settling back into her ergonomic chair. She knew Phoebe a little, as they had met at numerous shows and fund-raisers over the years, but she wasn’t a real acquaintance. Cassandra couldn’t afford get too close to celebrities, for obvious reasons. One week they could be hotter than the sun, the next in fashion Siberia.

‘Cassandra, honey, how are you?’ said Phoebe warmly. ‘Did you enjoy the shows?’

‘Vintage Kors. Calvin was a little predictable. Some wonderful colours at Matthew Williamson and Zac Posen. It was a shame you were in London but then I’m sure you had great fun on our shoot.’

‘Actually that’s why I’m calling,’ replied Phoebe.

‘Yes, I’m so looking forward to seeing the shots,’ said Cassandra enthusiastically. ‘I love Xavier’s work.’

There was a brief pause before Phoebe began again. Cassandra could tell Phoebe was picking her words very carefully.

‘Cassandra … I’m a little concerned about how things went.’

A little late for that, darling, she thought.

‘Oh, really?’ said Cassandra, feigning surprise. ‘I heard it went well. Xavier is a genius. We were very lucky to get him in London when the New York shows were on. He makes women look so strong. So beautiful.’

‘Yes, I was wondering if we could talk about that. I’m nervous about the shots and the implications of the interview. I was wondering if I could …’

‘Darling, you know we never give copy approval. Once we start, everyone wants it and then the whole magazine grinds to a halt,’ replied Cassandra, cutting her short.

Phoebe paused again.

‘Yes, I realize that. There’s just a few things I’d like to explain. In private? I was wondering if you could come over to my hotel for lunch.’

‘I’d love to, Phoebe,’ said Cassandra, beginning to enjoy herself, ‘but it’s London Fashion Week now. I’ve got to see the Paul Smith show and I have crisis after crisis to deal with here.’

‘Cassandra,’ said Phoebe, failing to disguise the annoyance in her voice, ‘we go back a long way and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t want to get lawyers involved when we don’t have to.’

‘Lawyers?’ laughed Cassandra. ‘Why on earth would we need to involve lawyers?’

‘Can you come to the Met for one o’clock? I’m in the penthouse.’

In that case I don’t feel too sorry for you, thought Cassandra.

‘I have a lunch at Cipriani but I could drop by at 12.30.’

‘See you then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

You have no idea how much, thought Cassandra, and hung up.

Sitting in the back of the Mercedes, Cassandra flipped open her compact and put on some lip gloss. She allowed herself a small smile at the face looking back at her. Many women would feel inferior meeting a supermodel for lunch but Cassandra honestly didn’t feel that way. She didn’t have their freakish symmetry or gangly frame, but she was undeniably a beauty, with high cheek bones and a feline slant to her vivid green eyes. Her nose was a touch too long, her chin a little too pointed and at five feet eight inches tall she tipped the scales at eight stone dead – to go a pound over might mean not fitting into the sample clothes. And as a modern style icon, that would be career suicide. Not that she didn’t have to work hard at it. Daily Pilates. Twice weekly tennis lessons. Three times a week Joel, the top session hairdresser, came to her Knightsbridge apartment at 6.30 a.m. to blow-dry her long dark glossy hair. Plus she visited the Mayr Clinic in Austria once a year to eat spelt bread and Epsom salts for ten days, returning with glowing skin, a flat stomach and an uncontrollable desire for ice cream. No, Cassandra Grand was not a drop-dead beauty, but she was the pinnacle of chic. Impeccably dressed in a simple, understated style, she wore no jewellery except for a large diamond stud in each ear lobe, a gift from a lover. In fact, except for the La Perla underwear, she had paid for nothing she was wearing; her entire outfit were gifts from fashion houses and luxury goods companies desperate for endorsement from one of the world’s most stylish women.

She snapped the compact shut as the car pulled up on Park Lane.

As Cassandra stepped out of the lift on the 10th floor into the penthouse of the Metropolitan, she could see the smudge of Hyde Park on the horizon through floor-to-ceiling windows. Phoebe was sitting on the cream couch wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. Long wavy hair the colour of coffee beans was tied in a ponytail. In her late thirties, Phoebe Fenton was still extremely beautiful, but her eyes looked tired and distracted.

‘Phoebe, darling! You look wonderful,’ said Cassandra, kissing her lightly on both cheeks.

‘Mineral water?’ asked Phoebe, reaching for a crystal tumbler.

Cassandra nodded. ‘Still.’

Cassandra sat carefully on the sofa opposite Phoebe and crossed her legs elegantly under her. I think I’m going to enjoy this she thought, accepting her drink with a smile. Phoebe no longer had an agent – in fact negotiations for the cover shoot had been done through her PA – and that instantly gave Cassandra the upper hand. A big Hollywood publicist could get you over a barrel. If you upset one star on their roster, they could and would refuse access to any of their charges. You wouldn’t even get photo approval for an ancient head-shot. But now Cassandra was in the driving seat.

‘So have you read the interview?’ asked Phoebe.

Cassandra gave a little deliberate laugh and shook her head.

‘Wasn’t the interview on Friday night?’ she asked, ‘Vicky won’t even have transcribed the tapes yet. You need to give these big-name journalists at least a fortnight to get their copy in.’

Phoebe ran a finger around the edge of her tumbler.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ve been told already, but I was a little, well, manic at the shoot on Friday.’

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

Phoebe looked down at her glass again.

‘You see, my friend Romilly popped by, she often comes to shoots with me. She dresses me for the red carpet and I feel comfortable with her, but she can be a bit … a bit wild. But she’s a good friend and I need all the ones I can get at the moment.’

Phoebe looked up at Cassandra and the look of sadness in her brown eyes almost melted Cassandra. Almost. Phoebe sighed and continued.

‘We had some drinks and I guess I was a little too loose-lipped.’ She leant forward and put her elbows on her knees. ‘Cassandra, I’ve just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,’ she said quietly.

‘Manic depression?’ said Cassandra. Phoebe nodded.

‘I don’t know if the separation triggered it, but the doctors say it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s a vicious circle. I’m depressed so I’ve been drinking, but drinking seems to bring on these extreme mood swings. I go a bit crazy. I say things I don’t mean. I’ve just been put on lithium to keep it under control but it doesn’t seem to have stabilized me yet.’

She stood up and walked over to the huge window.

‘I’ve never met Vicky, your journalist before. She seems a nice woman but you never know, right?’

‘Vicky is one of the best celebrity profilers in the UK,’ said Cassandra with a hint of reproach.

‘I’m just thinking she could paint an untrue picture.’

‘I’m sure Vicky will be fair.’

Phoebe went over and sat down next to Cassandra, so very close that Cassandra felt uncomfortable.

‘Cassandra, please,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t understand. Ethan is fighting for custody of Daisy and he’s fighting hard. Falling around in night-clubs, doing nude photo shoots. If I look like a bad mom his team of very expensive lawyers are going to tear me apart. I did this shoot as a favour to Rive. I don’t want it to make them take my baby away.’

Cassandra suppressed an internal snort. A favour! No one did anything in this industry without some ulterior motive. No doubt Phoebe wanted a set of sexy pictures to make her husband see what he was missing and come back to her. Well, the plan had backfired.

‘Phoebe honey, don’t worry,’ said Cassandra. ‘I haven’t seen the copy, but when I do, I’ll make sure it’s all completely complimentary. Our readers are going to love you.’

Phoebe huffed like a little girl denied her pony.

‘Well I hope so, because I don’t want to get difficult.’ She flashed Cassandra a look that betrayed her simpering, girl-next-door persona. After all, thought Cassandra, no one got to the top of the tree in modelling by being a walk-over.

‘I’m sure my attorney would go mad if he knew I was even talking to you. But I’ll get an injunction on the magazine if I have to,’ she said fiercely.

‘Listen, I think we’re all getting a little carried away,’ said Cassandra smoothly, putting out a placatory hand. ‘So you were a little drunk at the photo-shoot. Your friend may have been a little badly behaved. So what? Rive is a fashion magazine not the National Enquirer. We are here to celebrate people, darling, not destroy them.’

Phoebe looked a little more at ease.

‘If you like I can email over the shots when I get them.’

‘Is it all right if I look at the copy too?’

‘You know we don’t do that, Phoebe.’

‘Please. For me?’ she said, putting her head on one side.

Jesus, this woman is 38, thought Cassandra. She’ll be saying ‘Pretty please, with sugar on top’ next!

‘When are you back in New York?’

‘Saturday.’

‘We won’t have layouts for at least a fortnight. How about I Fed-Ex something over to you then. Just so you can have a look at it?’

‘I’m really grateful, Cassandra. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My shrink says Romilly’s not good for me. But it was tough being in that marriage. Claustrophobic’

Cassandra touched her on the knee gently.

‘He’ll be sorry when he sees these photographs. You’ll look amazing and everyone will be jealous. Trust me.’

In the back seat of her car Cassandra took out her phone. An alcoholic, drug-taking bisexual and she blames it on bipolar! The nerve of it! She punched in David Stern’s number.

‘David, I have a lunch and then the Paul Smith show so I won’t be back until at least 3 p.m. But in the meantime there are a couple of things I want you to do.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Talk to Jeremy, talk to the subs. Tell them to rush the Phoebe Fenton copy through as it is. Then I want you to work on the cover. Go with the bare breasts image. Main cover-line: “Phoebe Fenton Bares All”. I want “Bares All” in gold block foil across the cover; make sure it covers her nipples. I want this issue to fly off the shelves, not be taken off it.’

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked David.

Cassandra had asked herself that very question. It was a gamble, certainly. Some advertisers wouldn’t be happy and some of her more conservative subscribers would be on the phone. But the fashion market was just the same as any other market: sex sells, and after a disappointing audit on last month’s issue she needed to pull something big out of the bag. For, despite her position of power and influence as editor of Rive, Cassandra knew her kingdom rested on shifting sands. Editors were expendable, pawns used by management to cover their failings. And more than anything, UK glossy editors had a shelf-life; after forty, maybe forty-five, they tended to mysteriously disappear. It was a little better in the States. So the US Rive boss Glenda McMahon was still wielding her power at 50, but a few dud issues and even she was instantly replaceable. What Cassandra was painfully aware of was that with the exception of perhaps Carmel Snow and Diane Vreeland, editors rarely left a legacy beyond their tenure. And it was a legacy she wanted.

‘What do you mean “is this a good idea”?’ snapped Cassandra.

David paused again, weighing his words carefully.

‘Is this not going to crucify Phoebe? The tabloids will take this and rip her to shreds. I didn’t think that was our agenda.’

‘For a queen, you’re very uptight, David,’ she sneered. ‘Our agenda is to set the agenda. To sell issues we have to be bold, we have to be provocative. We have to take chances.’

‘Well this is certainly that.’

‘Just do it, David,’ she barked and snapped the phone shut.

And finally, after one hell of a gruesome week, she allowed herself a laugh.

4

‘Good morning, Gretchen.’

It was 7.45 a.m. Although Price Donahue’s working hours did not officially start until 8 a.m., there was already a hum of activity around the office. Emma herself had been there since 7 a.m., trying to get through a backlog of work which had piled up since her trip to England.

‘Oh God, morning Emma,’ said Emma’s secretary breathlessly, rushing into her office and presenting her boss with a large bunch of red and yellow tulips. ‘Sorry, I wanted to get in before you this morning so I could get these in a vase.’

‘What’s all this for?’ she smiled, gathering the flowers up.

‘Your birthday, silly. You make me remember when half of corporate Boston is born so I think I can remember my own boss’s.’

Emma smiled and kissed her on the cheek. Gretchen was forgetful, disorganized and her time-keeping was atrocious, but she had a kind heart, a rare thing at any level in business, thought Emma as she watched the girl scuttle off to find a vase.

‘Who’s 21 again?’

Emma looked up to see her friend Cameron Moore, a manager in the retail division, pop her head around the door. Her perfectly blow-dried mane of dark hair hung to one side, like a shampoo advert.

‘Welcome back, sweetie,’ she said. ‘Here, a birthday gift.’

Cameron handed Emma a small orange box tied with a chocolate ribbon. She smiled. Emma usually bought clothes because they were smart, not because they were designer names, but she still recognized the famous bright orange of Hermès. She opened the box and a gorgeous silk scarf fluttered to the table.

‘Oh, Cam, how wonderful! Thank you,’ she said, getting up to give her friend a kiss on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you remembered.’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Cameron, rolling her eyes, ‘That secretary of yours has been bombarding everyone with emails for about a month! But enough of that, how was England?’

Emma sighed, looking down at the scarf, examining the stitching.

‘Eventful. I’ve been given a company.’

Cameron’s face lit up and Emma immediately regretted saying it. The news would be around the building in minutes and eyebrows would be raised. Total commitment had to be shown to Price Donahue at all times.

Cameron closed the door and hushed her voice.

‘The family company? Milford?’

Emma nodded. As Cameron’s area of expertise was luxury retailing she was interested to hear her friend’s thoughts on the company even though she personally had little interest in her new shareholding.

‘Your uncle gave it to you?’ said Cameron incredulously. ‘The whole thing?’

‘A controlling interest, yes. It was a bit awkward really,’ she shrugged. ‘Still, it was nice to see my family, even if the circumstances could have been better.’

‘Family?’ hissed Cameron. ‘Forget about the family! Jeez, Emma, you’ve got your own company! This is enormous!’

Cameron sat down on Emma’s desk, as if stunned by the news.

Emma laughed at her friend’s reaction, but it did make her think.

‘So what do you think I should do?’

‘Do? You should go straight in to see Davies right now and resign!’

‘Resign? I have no intention of giving up work here, it’s …’

Cameron interrupted, nodding her head.

‘Yes, yes, I know, it’s your life. But, Em, haven’t you ever dreamed of getting off this merry-go-round? Haven’t you ever wished you could stop telling fat old duffers how to run their companies and do it yourself?’

‘Cam, I’ve even taken up golf to get this partnership,’ she laughed.

‘Golf? Emma! This is your big chance. What, you want to spend the rest of your life doing all the hard work for Daniel Davies and his little clique, hoping they’ll throw you a bone someday?’

Cameron picked up Emma’s scarf and waved it at her.

‘OK, so Milford might not be Hermès right now. But honey, it could be.’

Emma looked her friend doubtfully.

‘I don’t think so.’

Cameron smiled.

‘With you in charge, sweetie, anything’s possible.’

Emma was sitting back at her desk at Price Donahue, trying to concentrate on a spreadsheet relating to a possible merger between two haulage companies, but for once, the jumble of figures was failing to hold her attention.

Looking at the orange Hermès box still on her desk she reached into her handbag and pulled out a letter that had been given to her by Anthony Collins at Milford and which she had read once on the flight home.

Dear Emma,

If you’re reading this letter it means I have gone, as J.M. Barrie would say, on an awfully big adventure. Here’s hoping I had an interesting demise and that we managed to hook up for one last game of chess. We don’t see each other as much as I’d like these days but I’m so proud of your accomplishments in America. You certainly grabbed the land of opportunity by both hands. By now, you’ll also know about my plans for Milford. They may come as a surprise to some in the family but in my heart I know that you will know what to do with the company. We all know I am more bon viveur than businessman, but I believe this is one decision I have got right.

I hope you don’t see the opportunity as a burden. There is great satisfaction to be had in working for yourself and your family rather than for other people.

I believe you can do great things if only you believe in yourself.

With much love, Saul

She stared thoughtfully out of the window before a ping made her look up: an incoming email.

‘How was it? Mark.’

She folded the letter, put it back in her handbag and began typing.

‘Interesting, to say the least. How about dinner to discuss?’

There was an instant reply. ‘Dinner it is for the birthday girl. Eight?’

She looked at her watch and groaned. She’d been so wrapped in her own dramas that she’d forgotten to send out an important letter. It wouldn’t do to slip up on anything right now; the partnerships were due to be announced tomorrow. She called out to her secretary.

‘Gretchen? Have you done that letter of engagement for the Frost Group yet? It was supposed to go this morning.’

Gretchen put her head around the door, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘It’s already gone,’ she said. ‘Mark came to speak to me about that a couple of days ago. Said the letter was going out in his name.’

‘Really? When was this?’

‘Tuesday. Sorry, Emma, but he’s a partner. I didn’t query it.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ said Emma quickly. ‘I’d just forgotten he was going to do it, that’s all.’

When Gretchen had gone, she swivelled round to look out of the window. For some unaccountable reason, there was a sick feeling in her stomach. Was she being paranoid? Why had Mark sent the Frost letter out in his own name? OK. Maybe it was protocol because he was a partner but she had hustled hard for that piece of business.

She picked up the phone and dialled Mark’s extension but it went straight to message.

‘Emma. I thought you’d like to know,’ said Gretchen popping her head around the door and whispering. ‘It looks like partnerships are being announced today.’

‘Today!’ said Emma. ‘I thought it was going to be tomorrow, Friday.’

Gretchen came into the office and closed the door. She was the hub of the PA grapevine; a better gossip than she was secretary and Emma didn’t doubt that her sources were good.

‘Jason Rich has already been seen coming out of Daniel Davies’ office grinning like a Cheshire cat. Apparently a couple of other senior managers have just had meetings chalked in for after lunch.’

For the rest of the day Emma couldn’t settle as all afternoon senior managers had been going up to see the managing partner Daniel Davies. When Gretchen put the call through at 5 p.m. asking her to go and see Davies, Emma could hardly stand the suspense.

This is it, thought Emma feeling sick. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt.

She tried to calm herself, but had never felt so nervous about anything in her whole life. Three years at Stanford. Another two at Harvard; Emma had always known she was not as academically gifted as her father, a Fellow at Oxford, so she had to work damn hard to the exclusion of everything else. No social life. No boyfriends. The work never stopped once she got to Price Donahue with six years of ninety-hour weeks, eleven and a half months a year. But a partnership at 29! It would mean instant respect around the city and instant respect in corporate America, not to mention a high six-figure salary. In ten years’ time she could pick and choose board directorships at some of the biggest blue chip companies in the world. And best of all, it would have been all of her own making, not like the brash, young CEOs she met on the corporate circuit who only held the job because their daddies had held the position and their daddies before that. With a lurch, she realized that she was also thinking about Milford. Handed to me on a plate. Where was the victory, the glory in that?

She went to Daniel Davies’ office on the top floor and tried to read his face the minute she walked through the door. He was sitting behind his desk, furiously scribbling on a yellow legal pad with a silver fountain pen. He was 45 but his thick black hair was greying, making him look older. His gaze, when he looked up at Emma, gave nothing away.

‘Ah, Emma,’ he said, putting his pen down carefully.

‘Daniel,’ said Emma feeling her palms go clammy.

‘Have a seat and I’ll get straight to the point. You know we’ve been extremely pleased with you over the last twelve months. Client feedback has been excellent from many of your projects and we always like having a Harvard Baker Scholar on the team,’ he said, referring to the prestigious award given to the top 5 per cent of students from the business school.

A flock of butterflies took flight in Emma’s stomach.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘But despite my enormous respect for your abilities, I’m afraid you are not going to be invited to join the partnership this year.’

It was as if she had been kicked. She felt a thickness in her throat.

‘I see,’ she said evenly, fighting back her emotions. Now was not the time to fall apart-a tearful scene would only confirm their decision.

‘I wonder if you could expand on that?’ she asked. ‘I know it was competitive this year, but some feedback might be useful.’

She was digging her nails into her palm, but managed to meet Davies’ eyes.

He averted his gaze slightly.

‘Of course,’ he said slowly. ‘Some partners simply felt that you were a little short of experience to make the jump to the next level. I’m sorry.’

Emma nodded. She had rehearsed a hundred times how she would respond to the news that she had not made partner. She knew the dignified response would be to thank him and leave the room immediately, but she had felt so sure. She had to know.

‘Could I ask if it was a unanimous decision?’

She knew she was the strongest manager by a mile, she just knew it. But if the senior partners couldn’t see it, then she was obviously wasting her time at the firm.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, examining his manicured fingernails. ‘Of course, the decision is taken by the board, but we take advice and recommendations from the partners you have worked most closely with.’

He paused and gave her a small encouraging smile.

‘Everyone thinks you can do the job, Emma,’ he said looking at her with his dark eyes.

‘But some people think you could do with a little more maturity before you progress to the next stage.’

Emma could not hold it inside any longer.

‘Who?’ she asked weakly.

‘Emma. Being a partner isn’t just about doing the job. It’s about bringing in business. Mark Eisner thinks you need to be more confident in social situations. You need to interact better with potential clients, be more aggressive with salesmanship.’

‘Salesmanship?’ repeated Emma, stunned. ‘Only last week I brought in Frost Industries. I met PJ at a convention. He invited me to Vermont… It’s worth a fortune in fees.’ Her head was spinning. How could Mark, the man she was in love with, have betrayed her so brutally? He knew how much she had wanted this partnership. Only days ago, she had lain naked in his arms as he had told her she was the brightest talent in the firm. Surely Daniel Davies was lying or mistaken?

Davies raised an eyebrow. ‘It was my understanding that Mark Eisner brought in that business and closed the deal. He told me so himself on Monday. We are grateful for your work on the pitch and I am sure you will be involved in the team that implements the work.’

She bit her lip knowing it was pointless to contest what David had said. She remembered how Mark had insisted on coming on the Vermont trip. At the time, she’d been flattered and excited. ‘Bring me. Let’s have a couple of nights in a five-star hotel on the company,’ he’d told her. But no: was he just looking for a way to steal her thunder? How much more of her work had he passed off as his own? The bastard.

‘Emma. Given time, I, for one, think you have a future at Price Donahue,’ said Davies sympathetically. ‘You are only 29 years old.’

‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ she whispered, her hands trembling.

They looked at each other, each knowing that Price Donahue was a company of Young Turks; you had your window of opportunity to make partner. If you didn’t make it, you were history.

Without another word she got up and left the room.

She walked back to her office in silence, a short shake of the head all she needed to impart her news to Gretchen.

‘Who did?’ she asked, knowing Gretchen was popular with all the PAs and secretaries in the company.

‘Pete Wise, Jack Johnson, Bob Hatch,’ she said apologetically.

Pete Wise? The man was an idiot! And what business had Jack Johnson brought in? Despairing, Emma grabbed her coat and headed out into the cold Boston evening.

The tall office blocks of downtown soared up around her. In front, Boston harbour shimmered like a vat of ink. Suddenly she felt very small and alone.

Hearing footsteps behind her on the pavement, she turned to see Mark running after her, his breath puffing white clouds up to the skyline behind him.

‘Em! Emma!’ he called, panting as he caught up with her.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you didn’t make it,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I only found out early today.’

She jerked her arm away from him.

‘Don’t give me that, Mark,’ she said turning on her heel. ‘You knew.’

‘Emma. Don’t get so worked up. What’s the big hurry? You’ll make partner next year.’

She stopped and turned back, her eyes blazing.

‘Next year? Or perhaps the next? Or whenever you let Daniel Davies know that I’ve suitably matured?’

Mark went pale.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Davies told me about your recommendation, that I wasn’t ready for partner. Not quite the same line of bullshit you have been feeding me for the past two months, is it?’

‘Now come on,’ he said, putting out his arms towards her, ‘that’s not what I said.’

‘Oh really?’ she challenged. ‘He seemed very clear about it.’

‘He’s obviously taken what I said the wrong way …’

The snake, thought Emma, walking off in disgust. Mark chased her, grabbing her arm.

‘Davies thinks you brought in the Frost Industries as well. Apparently you told him so. Or did he take that the wrong way as well?’

‘Come on Em, let’s talk about this. I thought we were going to have supper.’

‘You betrayed me, Mark,’ she said her voice thick with emotion. She was desperate not to cry but she could feel the tears welling up and stinging the backs of her eyes.

Mark turned away then faced her.

He looked as if he was about to keep denying it but finally he simply shrugged his shoulders.

‘OK. You’re right. I happen to think you’re not ready to be a partner,’ said Mark flatly. ‘You are a good business strategist, but you’re too soft. You don’t even have the balls to fire that dim secretary of yours. You’re an academic, not a corporate player. You’re too nice to make tough decisions. You’re just not ready to play with the big boys.’

‘And Pete Wise is ready? Jack Johnson is ready? Does being on your softball team make you ready for partnership? I’m good, Mark,’ she pleaded. ‘You know it.’

‘You do well at Harvard and you think the world owes you a favour,’ he laughed scornfully.

‘I trusted you to tell the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘I trusted you to tell people like Daniel Davies that I was the best. But no, you surround yourself with yes-men, idiots who will make you look good.’

‘Fucking you could have cost me my job and this is all the thanks I get,’ he said sneeringly Droplets of rains began to fall. They were like slaps on the cheek.

‘Fucking me,’ she repeated quietly. ‘Is that what it was to you?’

Mark glared at her, then waved a dismissive hand in the air.

‘Ah, you needy women are all the fucking same: Davies is right, you probably do want to run off and have a baby.’

She looked at him. The man she had whispered ‘I love you’ to, the man she had admired and trusted, had withered to a sycophant and a liar, a man who lived off other people’s hard work and talent. She knew she was better than him, but there was little doubt he had played the game better than her. The likes of Daniel Davies would never know how much she put into the company, how much profit was directly down to her efforts and talent because operators like Mark Eisner took the glory for himself.

Waves were beginning to whip up in the harbour and rain was beginning to fall more heavily. Lights on the skyscrapers behind her sent a muddled saffron glow into the shallow puddles. She was angry, confused, but she was sure about one thing.

‘I don’t ever want to see you again,’ she said as evenly as she could.

‘Emma, don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, the tone of his voice softening. ‘We have to work together.’

‘Do we?’

She thought of Winterfold, that crazy jumble of antiques and bric-a-brac, she thought of the lazy village and its single red telephone box, all of it a million miles away from this corporate jungle. Saul had trusted her to take over his entire company. Saul had faith in her. And suddenly so did Emma.

Suddenly she had a clear sense of purpose, a sense of belonging.

‘Happy birthday, Em,’ said Mark, hunching his back against the rain.

She didn’t turn round. She just kept on walking.

5

Briarton Court, one of England’s top boarding schools for girls, had phenomenal resources at its disposal. Its one hundred acres of grounds housed an embarrassment of riches: indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a lacrosse pitch, running track and tennis and petanque courts. In the classroom, Briarton’s pupils – who included the children of politicians, tycoons, ambassadors, billionaires, minor European royalty and good old-fashioned English aristocrats – had the opportunity to study everything from Calculus to Mandarin, not to mention the wide range of extracurricula activities. Apart from the annual ski trip to Klosters, the most popular after-school activity by far was Briarton’s monthly careers evenings which pulled in guest speakers to give the Oxford Union a run for their money.

That evening’s guest speaker looked around the packed lecture theatre and took a sip of water. Cassandra Grand had been tempted to turn down the invitation to speak as it was slap bang in the middle of London Fashion Week, but when she had heard that in the last two years alone the speakers had included two cabinet ministers, a Nobel prize winner, Richard Branson and an Oscar-winning actress, Cassandra had found time in her diary.

She was glad she had; forty-five glorious, uninterrupted minutes talking about her glamorous life as a glossy magazine editor and – the girls hung on every word of this – how she had got there. Cassandra would reveal how she had left a similar school to this one eighteen years ago with the sole ambition of wanting to work for an upmarket fashion magazine. How her six months as an intern at US Rive almost killed her: lugging suitcases full of clothes to fashion shoots, unpacking them and ironing them, getting shouted at by the photographer, the art director and the models, running here and there to fetch coffee, batteries or pick up dry-cleaning, then repacking the suitcases, lugging them back to the office late at night before neatly folding the clothes back into padded envelopes for return to the fashion houses. She would tell them how she got her big break when she met Carla Miller, one of the hottest fashion names of the early Nineties, back in London. Carla styled shoots, catwalk shows and advertising campaigns for the likes of Calvin Klein and Versace and it was she who gave Cassandra a job as her assistant. She would tell them how Carla grew so confident in Cassandra’s abilities that she would recommend Cassandra for small jobs that she was too busy, or simply too important to undertake. And she would describe how another chance meeting with Alliance Chairman Isaac Grey landed her a job as fashion editor on US Rive where she rose through the ranks to become their deputy editor and eventually seconded to salvage the UK edition as their editor-in-chief. Cassandra had loved talking about herself and reliving her apparently charmed life, leaving out the ruthlessness, the back-stabbing and political chicanery that was really at the heart of her success.

She was, however, unprepared for the onslaught of questions from her eager audience, hands darting into the air like fireflies.

‘How much money do you earn?’ asked a blonde in the front row.

‘What famous people have you met?’ asked a Chinese girl further back.

‘Do you get free clothes?’

‘Do you have to be thin?’

Cassandra looked out onto the sea of eager faces wondering how many of them would make it. The fashion cupboards of glossy magazines, of course, were full of pretty young things like these who wanted to play with clothes all day long, killing time until a rich banker husband came to sweep them off their feet and out to the country.

‘What do you need to get to the very top, other than a fabulous fashion eye?’ asked a beautiful blonde girl. Now she looked more promising. Her blouse looked vintage YSL and she had that indefinable X factor. Stylish, confident, focussed. Cassandra smiled at her.

‘Having a fashion eye certainly helps, but it’s not essential. People who reach the very top know how to pick the best team, how to get the most out of other people’s talent. What the editor-in-chief needs is passion, determination and a way of thinking commercially. Knowing what the reader wants. Knowing how to woo advertisers like lovers …’ She paused, realizing she had overstepped the mark, but she gave the blonde a helpful, conspiratorial smile. ‘If you want to make it to the top, my dear,’ she said, perfectly seriously, ‘you need to know how to make money.’

At that point, Miss Lamarr, head of the Sixth Form rose to her feet. ‘I think that’s enough questions now,’ she said briskly. ‘Miss Grand is a very busy woman. I’m sure she has plenty of fashion shows to attend,’ she added light-heartedly.

A burst of eager applause bounced around the wood-panelled room. As Cassandra descended from the stage, she was surrounded by girls wanting to shake her hand or get an autograph. A flustered Miss Lamarr motioned to Cassandra who escaped through a side-door into a quiet corridor, shutting the pandemonium behind her. She took a deep breath, energy buzzing around her body. She felt like a movie star.

‘Hiiiiiii,’ squealed a loud voice to Cassandra’s left. Before she could even turn, a lanky female body wrapped itself around her, almost toppling her over.

‘Can you believe they wouldn’t let me watch the lecture?’ gushed the voice, not releasing the embrace. ‘No year nines allowed, apparently. Rules are rules even if it’s your mother speaking they said!’

‘Darling, how are you?’ said Cassandra, disentangling herself, before kissing the girl warmly on the cheek. Cassandra hadn’t seen her daughter Ruby since Christmas and couldn’t believe how much she had changed in only eight weeks. She had always been tall and gangly, but Cassandra was convinced she must have grown another inch since New Year. Already she was five feet eight and even the drab Briarton school uniform could not disguise her blossoming figure. A size six, thought Cassandra, trying not to feel envious: the perfect sample size. If there was one thing Ruby’s father had given her, it was good genes, with olive skin, raven hair spilling down her back and eyes that could change from grape green to emerald depending on the light and time of day. She would have looked like Pocahontas were it not for a long vivid orange streak across Ruby’s fringe.

‘What on earth is that?’ she exclaimed in horror.

‘I know,’ said Ruby, shrugging her shoulders. ‘It didn’t quite work out as I imagined. Sienna said I’d look good with some contrast in my hair. Now I look like a sun-tanned skunk.’

‘What were you thinking? What the hell did you use?’

‘Bleach.’

‘Don’t you know some of the best hairdressers are at my disposal? Do you never listen …?’ she exhaled dramatically. ‘Maybe Daniel Galvin will do a house call,’ she said thoughtfully, still angry that this was yet another problem she had to sort out.

Cassandra had been 21 years old and on a photo-shoot in Miami when she had met Narcisso, a half America/half Cuban male model. She had been too young to say no to sex with someone incredibly good looking – and hell, why not? So they’d had a one-night stand. It was the most fantastic sex of Cassandra’s life. It was not until five months later that she found out she was pregnant. As a rule, Cassandra ate very little to keep her rail-thin figure, which had sent her menstrual cycle haywire to say the least. Cassandra had thought it was the end of the world: it was too late to abort it, too far gone to hide it and she had no intention of contacting the father again. The thought of adoption had crossed her mind for a moment but – against all previous instincts – Cassandra found she had a maternal side. The baby was her. A part of her, a product of her. How could she give that up? She quickly came to regret such romantic thoughts. Holding Ruby in her arms was the first time she could ever remember feeling helpless and she hated the feeling. Added to which, almost immediately, having a baby interfered with her career. She couldn’t travel, couldn’t work late, couldn’t attend all the parties so essential to maintaining a profile in the fashion world. Cassandra had no choice: she moved her daughter in with her mother and went back to work. At eight, Ruby was sent to boarding school. Ruby had her own room at Cassandra’s Knightsbridge apartment, although it was rarely used. Cassandra had fought hard to hold onto her career, but now she was glad she had Ruby. Unlike thousands of career women her age she didn’t have to worry about the ticking biological clock or finding the right man because she had a child, one that was becoming more self-sufficient by the day. They climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes and Cassandra ordered the driver to take them into Rye.

‘Here. Some of the older girls asked me to give you these.’ Ruby thrust her hand into her Marni tote bag and pulled out a handful of CVs. ‘You’ve made me very popular with the upper sixth.’

They drove out of the school gates and made the twenty-minute journey into Rye. Andrew dropped them outside the Mermaid Inn, the best restaurant in Rye. It had a slightly run-down rickety feel, with uneven floors and low beams, the sort of place you could imagine well-heeled smugglers frequenting. Sitting by the window, Cassandra could see up towards the medieval church and the half-timbered houses. There was an undeniably eerie beauty to the town. Not quite Nobu, thought Cassandra, but charming nonetheless.

‘Isn’t it great?’ said Ruby, bouncing in her window seat, ‘Johnny Depp stayed here once.’

‘Did he?’ said Cassandra, slightly mollified. ‘I’m not at all surprised.’

‘So how was the funeral?’ asked Ruby, her young mind already on other things. ‘I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have gone. I saw Uncle Saul more than you did and I really wanted to go and say my goodbyes.’

‘Roger thought it best if there were no children and for once I agreed with him.’

‘Mother, I’m not a child,’ said Ruby, affronted. ‘I’m thirteen years of age.’

‘By the way,’ said Cassandra crisply, ‘Saul left you £10,000 in his will.’

‘Wow! Brilliant!’ squealed Ruby slurping her drink. ‘Can I have it now?’

‘Of course not,’ said Cassandra fiercely.

‘And did you get the company?’ she replied playfully.

Cassandra almost smiled at her daughter. Straight to the point, just like her mother.

‘No. Saul, in his infinite wisdom, gave it to my cousin Emma.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you’re in a really shitty mood,’ she smiled cheekily.

‘Ruby!’ said Cassandra. ‘I don’t pay £25,000 a year for your education to hear you swear.’

Ruby leant forward and held her mother’s hand.

‘What did you want that boring company for anyway?’

‘I wanted it for us, darling,’ said Cassandra, squeezing her daughter’s fingers with a warmth that surprised her.

‘But why?’ asked Ruby. ‘You have a cool job. We have money. If you’d got the company, we’d have had to move back to the village. Uncle Saul used to tell me that it was a perk of owning the company living in that house. Some perk! It’s so creepy! I bet it’s got ghosts.’

Cassandra moved her hand from her daughter’s grip, smarting at her daughter’s casual dismissal of her ambitions. What did that ungrateful wretch think she did this all for? How did she think she got such an expensive education? A few ghosts was the least of it. Cassandra took a deep breath, trying to get her emotions under control. Only Ruby could make her shake like this, she thought.