Christmas at Tiffany's

by Karen Swan

  ‘Keep an eye on the standers,’ Hannah muttered. ‘They’ll do anything to get a seat.’

  ‘I’d do anything for a tuna sandwich,’ Cassie thought to herself, fed up with Kelly’s titbit diet. So much for little and often; little and rarely, more like. She was losing weight. It was impossible not to, with the adrenalin of nineteen-hour days and a smashed heart. But unlike Kelly, who watched on enviously as Cassie started shrinking before her eyes, she had no desire to get thinner. It wasn’t currency to her, just an outward manifestation of misery.

  ‘Where’s Aspen?’ Hannah hissed in her ear as the room filled up. ‘Can anyone see her? She’s supposed to be doing the front row.’

  Cassie scanned the room. Aspen was the queen of Kelly’s team – rail-thin, chic, rich as Croesus and with stellar contacts. In fact, she was the one who had talked most of the Park Avenue princesses into attending today. She and Kelly had known each other since kindergarten as their mothers had moved in the same circles, but whereas Kelly had gone to school in Europe, Aspen had been a pupil at the prestigious Juilliard School in Manhattan, and therefore had much closer connections with the society set here.

  ‘Cassie? Can you see her? I’ve got word Olivia Delingpole’s car’s pulled up.’

  Who? Cassie began looking more urgently. Where was Aspen?

  Another voice came through on the headset – Zara, the junior account executive. ‘She’s backstage with Bebe and Kelly. There’s a crisis. Selena’s broken the zip on the finale dress and they can’t get her out of it without unpicking the seams. Aspen and Kelly are having to rejig the entire running order.’

  ‘Fuck! But she’s the meet-and-greet girl.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay, look – fuck it! You’ll have to get down there, Cassie. Go get Olivia.’

  Cassie froze.

  ‘Now! Move it!’

  Quickly she skipped down the steps. ‘Um, so just tell me, quickly . . . who is Olivia Delingpole? I mean, how will I recognize her?’

  She could tell by the silence that followed that it was the wrong question to have asked.

  ‘You don’t know who Olivia Delingpole is? Editor-in-Chief of Bazaar?’

  Cassie got down to the front and found herself back in the glare of the lights. The models were backstage again and the runway was empty. Occasional pops from the photographers’ lights flashed as they tested their exposures. She looked up towards the lighting booth at the back of the room, where she knew Hannah was standing, watching her. She couldn’t see in, but she knew Hannah could see her. She shook her head apologetically, biting her lip.

  She saw an important-looking woman in top-to-toe camel holding a red bag. She headed towards her.

  ‘Not her, you fool!’ Hannah shouted, following her trajectory. ‘She’s just the accessories editor at Red Carpet. The woman in the Tory Burch coat – she’s walking straight towards you.’

  Tory Burch coat? How was that helpful? Did it have a third arm? There was a gaggle of women heading straight towards her, all wearing coats.

  ‘A bit more, please,’ Cassie said nervously. ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘Blonde.’

  She scanned the group. There were only two brunettes. Oh God, Kelly, where are you?

  They were upon her. Her headset gave her away as the go-to person for the show. They stood waiting, silently. The thought that she didn’t have a clue who they were clearly wasn’t crossing their minds.

  Cassie tipped her head to the side and smiled. ‘Hello, ladies,’ she said, grinning nervously. ‘We’re so pleased you could come to the show.’ They carried on staring. ‘Do you, uh, have any tickets?’

  Hannah instantly started shrieking in her ear. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Of course they do. They’re not at the fucking movies! Their names are on the seats. Just lead them there. Just lead them!’

  Cassie lifted the earpiece away from her ear a little. Much more of that and she’d have a perforated eardrum.

  ‘Let me show you to your seats,’ she smiled, walking along the front row and then standing back slightly so that they could find their names on the chairs.

  They sashayed over, then stopped. ‘No. This is wrong,’ one of them said, pointing to the seats. She was wearing a navy trench with tortoiseshell buttons and huge round matching sunglasses.

  Cassie looked at the cards. Oh God – when she’d fallen, had she put them back in the right order? She tried to think, but Hannah was heavy-breathing down the line at her. ‘Are they sitting? Cassie, I can’t see you. I’ve got a TV camera blocking my line of sight. Where are you? I need you ready. I’ve got the Glamour girls coming through.’

  Oh help. More strangers wanting the VIP treatment. She looked back at the seats. Jesus – what the heck did it matter if someone was a space over from the seating plan? They were sitting, weren’t they?

  ‘No, this is correct,’ Cassie said hurriedly in her most authoritative voice. ‘Bebe oversaw the seating plan herself. We’re just so tight for space in here.’ She shrugged apologetically.

  The woman’s nostrils flared slightly and Cassie wondered whether she was going to be shouted down on this. But after a disdainful stare and a contemptuous sniff, the woman sat down and the others followed suit, their group punctuated by empty seats. They all instantly began busying themselves with their iPhones. Cassie noticed that the woman in the navy coat had taken the Delingpole chair. So that was Olivia Delingpole. So that was a Tory Burch coat.

  She turned to find the Glamour girls holding out their tickets, smiling rather more than the other set, and she quickly took them to their seats. Hmm, not so tough after all.

  The room was packed now. The show was running forty-five minutes behind the official schedule, which was normal, she was told. The eight tiered rows were completely filled apart from a few keep-you-waiting spaces in the front. The photographers had finished setting up and were jostling restlessly, crammed like sardines in their demarcated rectangle at the foot of the runway. On the opposite side from the fashion editors, where the buyers sat, a huddle of paparazzi photographers were crouched low in front of the celebrities Aspen had sweet-talked into coming – Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, Natalie Portman, Sarah Jessica Parker, Heidi Klum – and television reporters were asking them questions as the cameramen sat on the side of the runway.

  ‘Get them off the stage,’ Hannah barked. ‘I want everyone in their seats. What’s that? You’re kidding me? Yes!!!’ Cassie could practically hear her punching the air. ‘Right, I’m being told Alexa’s car has just pulled up. We’re gonna be good to go in two minutes.’

  Who? Cassie skittered round to the other side of the catwalk, shooing the cameramen and reporters away surprisingly easily. Her headset and all-black look radiated authority.

  ‘She’s coming in now,’ Hannah commentated. ‘Cassie, I can’t see you. Too many fucking photographers. Give me the cue when she’s seated.’

  ‘Could you tell me something by which I can identify her,’ Cassie asked quickly, too panicky now to prevaricate about revealing her ignorance. There were still lots of people moving about, mainly ‘standers’ bagging the last few untaken seats as the lights went down.

  There was a furious silence. ‘You have got to be kidding me! How can you not know what Alexa Bourton looks like? She’s the new fucking editor of Vogue. You have heard of Vogue, I take it?’ she snarled sarcastically. ‘Where the hell have you been living?’

  ‘Scottish Borders,’ Cassie replied, trembling, as a woman came into sight radiating the kind of couture-as-casualwear chic that no amount of all-black and high heels would ever endow her with. ‘It’s okay, I see her,’ she said, taking the initiative and walking to meet her, smiling brightly.

  ‘Right, lights down, cue music,’ Hannah ordered. ‘I want the first girl out ten seconds after she’s seated. Let’s not keep her waiting, people! This is the first time we’ve had a Vogue presence in seven seasons.’

  ‘Hello,’ Cassie beamed. ‘We’re so thrilled you could make it to the show. Would you like t
o follow me and I’ll take you to your seat. The show’s about to begin.’

  The woman followed. She did indeed look like she was at the top of the fashion tree. Her hazelnut hair tumbled expensively on to a giraffe-print coat, and she was carrying an enormous squashy burnt-orange bag. Cassie took her to the last remaining seat in the front row – hell, the last remaining seat in the house now.

  The music, which had been an unidentifiable blend of ambient dance music, ratcheted up in volume and segued, curiously, into pan pipes, which were then overlaid with a thumping rock tempo for the girls to walk to.

  Cassie moved out of the way, her pulse racing, grateful that the show was under way and she could relax at last. She sat discreetly on the front step in the aisle.

  The first girl came out, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright (from the activity she’d seen in the loos backstage, not due to the mountain air). A polite scatter of applause skipped through the audience as the model began to stomp her way down the catwalk. It had been amazing to Cassie to discover during the castings how many girls just couldn’t walk – not only because of the ridiculous heels, but actually losing all opposite-arm-to-leg coordination.

  The girl got to the end and sank into her back hip, just as the second girl came out and began her march. All the celebrities were watching, appraising their bodies and nodding appreciatively through narrowed eyes at the clothes. The editors were sketching, the photographers whistling and calling as the second model’s jacket shifted, revealing a bare, pert breast beneath.

  Cassie started tapping her feet. This was the funkiest thing she’d ever been to – just like she’d always thought a concert might be like, but more exclusive, and with better-looking people. Although she didn’t belong in this world, knew less about it than she did about quantum physics, she felt its draw. No wonder Kelly thrived upon it, no wonder she loved her career and put it first. It was about being part of something. This was the ‘Zeitgeist’ that Kelly was always banging on about.

  A man to her right leaned towards her. He looked concerned.

  ‘I think you might have a problem,’ he said, jerking his head towards a woman who was standing in the shadows of the aisle opposite.

  Cassie looked back at him. ‘I do?’ He was crazily good-looking with a fresh tan, two-day old stubble and hazel eyes.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Cassie carried on staring at him blankly.

  ‘You must know who that is,’ he said finally.

  Cassie shook her head but looked back at the woman, feeling a cold shiver beginning to gather in her shoulders.

  ‘Alexa Bourton?’

  Cassie’s face crumpled. ‘But I thought I . . . I mean, I put her . . . she’s over there,’ she protested, looking over at the woman she’d seated, who had taken off her giraffe-print coat and was now sitting with a laptop on her knees.

  The man looked at her pityingly. ‘That’s Jazzy Lucas. Other wise known as fashgurl.’

  Cassie didn’t respond.

  ‘She’s a blogger.’ From the tone of his voice, that was a dirty word.

  Oh. My. God. Cassie looked from Alexa back to Jazzy, then back to this man. ‘I’m screwed,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears.

  There was a silence between them as the music blared all around, cameras flashing out of tempo. ‘Right, you look new to this. I’ll help you out,’ the man said finally, a weary tone in his voice. ‘Get her over here quickly. She can have my seat.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Go!’

  Cassie darted over to the other side of the catwalk, getting in the way of the photographers in the process and igniting a tirade of abuse.

  Miss? Mrs? ‘Ms Bourton,’ she gasped, wiping her eyes hastily. ‘How wonderful that you made it.’

  The woman raised an eyebrow questioningly. Made it? The show had already started by the time she’d got through the standing-room scrum, and she’d been standing here for two minutes now. It was also perfectly clear that someone was in her seat. Not only was there not a space for her anywhere across the entire front row, but her cache of senior editors was broken up by both Olivia Delingpole, her fiercest rival, and a blogger, sitting between them.

  ‘Would you follow me, please?’ Cassie half-pleaded, aware of the eyes beginning to swivel round to watch them. ‘Oh, please don’t look, please don’t look,’ she thought desperately. That would be the death knell – Alexa’s humiliation going public.

  Alexa stared disdainfully at Cassie for a long time, hostility radiating from her like a force field. Then she said, in a voice so low that Cassie couldn’t hear but could only lip-read: ‘I don’t think so.’

  With the slightest tip of her chin, her clique of editors on the far side of the runway stood up, leaving great gaping gaps in the front row as they conspicuously filed out, making no attempt to hide as they walked side by side with the models coming down the catwalk.

  No one could miss it now – Vogue was walking out, and absolutely everyone stared as the editors trooped past her, their high-heeled Manolo boots stabbing the carpet in a muted staccato rhythm. The photographers turned their cameras as one on to the drama unfolding offstage now. Bebe’s creations were being ignored. A flock of cameramen swooped out of the room, chasing after Alexa and the Voguettes, desperate for an interview.

  ‘But . . . but . . . please . . .’ Cassie cried, as the Harper’s Bazaar crowd followed suit. They couldn’t be seen to stay at a show Vogue had stormed out of.

  ‘What’s going on? What the fuck’s happening down there?’ Hannah cried down the microphone. ‘Where’s everybody going? Is there a fire alarm? Is there something going on that I don’t know about?!’

  Desperately Cassie swung round, looking for the stranger who’d tried to help. But his seat – along with many of the others – was empty.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Oh, poor you,’ Suzy soothed, noisily slurping her tea at the other end of the line.

  ‘No, not poor me, Suze. Poor Kelly. I’ve completely dropped her in it. I mean, I’ve made her look an absolute laughing stock. She must be the only fashion PR in New York with an employee who doesn’t know who Alexa Bourton is. I mean, I thought . . . you know . . . um, what’s-her-name . . .’

  ‘Anna Wintour?’ Suzy suggested helpfully.

  ‘Yes. I thought she was the editor. Even I knew what she looked like.’

  ‘She left two years ago, Cass,’ Suzy said sympathetically.

  Cassie groaned.

  ‘But look, Alexa Bourton’s a fashion insider, Cass. She’s well respected, but she doesn’t have the same stature. Most people on the street don’t know who she is yet.’

  ‘But I’m not a person on the street any more. At least I’m not supposed to be. I’m a PR at Hartford Communications. No one else would have made this mistake.’

  There was a sound of heavy munching.

  ‘What’re you eating? Don’t tell me it’s one of those cupcakes?’

  ‘Mmmm . . .’ Suzy mumbled. ‘But all in . . . the name of . . . research, you understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cassie concurred; even her empty tummy was too dejected to rumble. There was a comfortable silence as Suzy ate cake and Cassie ruminated on what the press had dubbed ‘The PR Supremo’s PR Disaster’.

  ‘Oh God,’ she wailed, putting her head in her hands. ‘This all such a mess. I mean, what am I doing out here, Suze? I’m completely out of my depth. Kelly’s spent nine years building up this company and I’m going to pull it down within a month.’

  ‘You’re being way too hard on yourself.’

  ‘No I’m not. She’s already been fired from the Bebe account because of this. And that’s not even the worst of it – the Vogue girls and all the other magazines at Condé Nast are refusing to call in any products from our other clients. They’ve blacklisted us. They’ve already reneged on an At Home piece with Maddy Foxton to launch her new collection with Oscar, and he’s terminated their alliance for next season.’

  ‘Oscar?’
/>   ‘De la Renta,’ Cassie mumbled.

  ‘Hmmm, well it doesn’t sound like you’re that naïve,’ Suzy said, impressed.

  ‘Honestly, Suze, I’m not exaggerating. I’ve screwed up massively. It’s only a matter of days before the other clients drop us too – it’s like a game of dominos. I’ve made Kelly look a joke.’

  ‘Has she fired you?’

  ‘No. I keep telling her that I’ll go and do some temping somewhere else, but she won’t hear of it. In fact, she’s actually insisting it’s her fault for forgetting to give me the list beforehand so that I could swot up on who everyone is. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Loyal to a fault, that one.’

  ‘Mmmm. I think she thinks it’ll tip me over the edge if I lose my job as well as my life.’

  ‘You haven’t lost your life, Cass,’ Suzy protested, sounding aghast at the bleakness of her comment.

  ‘Well, I have. I’ve lost my life as I knew it. I’m having to start from scratch and reinvent myself.’ She stared out of the window, watching the lights come on in the building opposite. ‘And I’m doing a shit job of it, frankly. I have to read from a notepad Kelly leaves out for me so I know how to put my outfits together in the morning. I only eat what she says, when she says. I basically pay a man to beat me up every other day, I’m bollocks at my made-up job and everyone there hates me, and I’m spending whatever money I do earn on maintaining a new look that’s so alien to me, I don’t even recognize my own reflection in shop windows.’

  There was a short pause. ‘D’you want me to come over?’

  Cassie shook her head down the phone. ‘You’re in London! You’re thousands of miles away. You can’t just hop on a plane.’

  ‘Sure I can. I could be with you by breakfast.’

  Cassie sighed, touched by her friend’s generosity. Suzy, bossy though she was with Anouk and Kelly, had always been gentle with her.