‘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?’
‘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.
Guilty Pleasures Page 5