‘Yes, but I did some subtle digging and it turns out that he got his information from none other than Cassandra herself.’
‘No!’ gasped Emma, ‘But why? Why would she say that? It’s her family’s business – her mother’s a shareholder!’
Cameron took a sip of her water.
‘Well, I don’t want to say anything about your family …’
‘No, please tell me,’ said Emma, looking worried. ‘As I said, they already hate me.’
‘Well,’ said Cameron slowly, ‘I would say it does rather look like she wants you to fail.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why …’
‘I’m only speculating here, but with my consultant’s hat on, I’d say it was a fire sale strategy. Cassandra wants the company to go under so she can pick it up for a song.’
For a moment, Emma just gaped at her friend.
‘That bitch!’ she said finally. ‘And after I went to her on bended knee to ask for her help! How could she? And who else has she been telling these rumours to?’
‘Probably everyone,’ said Cameron dryly.
Understatement of the decade thought Emma to herself, anger bubbling in her stomach.
‘So who are you getting to do your shop refit? Peter Marino?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Emma!’ scolded Cameron. ‘He’s only the best commercial interiors guy in the business! He does all the best shop designs: Donna Karan, Chanel, Fendi…’
‘Well, in that case, we couldn’t afford him.’
Cameron gave a small smile.
‘So when are you reinstating womenswear?’
‘There was a clothing line a few years ago but it got axed. Do you think we should do it quickly?’
‘Well, you don’t want to be an accessories company forever,’ said Cameron switching into professional mode. ‘The mark-up in handbags is huge and I think you’re absolutely right moving your accessories into premium luxury, but to make real money you need to branch out into more mass market areas: perfume, cosmetics, diffusion ranges, maybe even a home range. But for that you need to position yourself as a fashion house as quickly as possible. A ready-to-wear line helps give your company identity.’
Emma felt a flutter of panic.
‘I was going to leave it a few seasons before we introduced womenswear.’
Cameron shrugged as she stabbed an anchovy.
‘Perhaps, but as you’re not introducing them – you’re reinstating them I don’t think you have to wait that long.’
The waiter came to clear away their plates and Cameron watched her friend’s gaze linger on him.
They both cracked up giggling the moment he had left.
‘Gorgeous,’ smiled Emma.
‘Gay,’ replied Cameron.
‘How do you know? You don’t know him.’
‘Oh honey, he has to be, no straight man was ever that pretty,’ said Cameron watching his behind disappear into the kitchen.
‘So how is he?’
Emma blurted out the question she’d been dying to broach ever since Cameron had told her she was flying in from Boston. Cameron was the only person at Price Donahue who knew about Emma’s relationship with Mark. They’d even gone out once with Cameron and her banker boyfriend Billy. Mark had claimed to be so uncomfortable with the duplicity they had never done it again.
‘Mark, I take it?’ asked Cameron looking up.
Emma nodded, feeling a cold chill down her spine at the mention of his name.
‘Working hard as usual, taking over the universe. Lonely as hell. Completely miserable, I’m sure,’ said Cameron with an encouraging smile. She put her hand on Emma’s.
‘Sweetie, you know you’re better off without him. And anyway, if you had stayed at PD, if you had got that partnership, you would never have made the move to Milford, would you? And although it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, it’s the best thing that could have happened.’
‘Was it the right move?’ asked Emma, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘I’ve never felt so unsure of anything in my whole life. I don’t even think I look the part.’
‘Well, I’d agree with that,’ said Cameron with a smile. ‘What have you got on today? Brooks Brothers?’
Emma opened her jacket to look at the label. ‘How did you know?’
‘Look honey, Brooks Brothers is fine for the City, but fashion is a different beast. You can’t go around like that.’ She flapped a disapproving hand at Emma’s suit and put her napkin on the table.
‘Come on,’ she said, standing and signalling to the maitre’d for the bill, ‘I think we’re going to have to get you some armour.’
‘What do you mean?’ frowned Emma.
‘We’re going shopping.’
Cameron looked at her friend as if she were sizing up a prize heifer.
‘Hmm … personally I love Marni, but I think it’s a little bold for you,’ she said, turning Emma around. ‘Dolce is too sexy for you but they do amazing trouser suits, not that your figure needs any help. We could do Prada or Helmut Lang but you can be too severe anyway.’
‘Severe?’ said Emma, putting her coat on.
‘You’re the MD. You want to be sharp and chic but I don’t think you should look too ball-breaker like. We need some jersey and crêpe and maybe a touch of georgette to soften the lines. That would be wonderful on you; I’m thinking kind of Julie Christie in Darling.’
‘Isn’t that the one about the prostitute and the soldier?’
‘No, it’s the one about the floozy and the prince. But she looked amazing.’
Cameron squinted into a compact mirror and scribbled on the bill.
‘Let Price Donahue get this one.’
Three minutes later, they were on Bond Street standing outside a shop full of black lacquer and silver mannequins.
‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ whispered Cameron taking her by the arm and leading her in. ‘Chic for day. Sophisticated for night. This is the place.’
No sooner were they in the shop than Cameron had picked up two ivory silk shirts, an amethyst silk jersey cocktail dress and a pleated navy pencil skirt. She threw them over her arm and led Emma into the fitting room.
‘Come on, gorgeous, we’re going to turn you into a fashion icon,’ she smiled.
After buying half of Yves Saint Laurent, they visited Gucci and Gina for shoes and Alexander McQueen for a gorgeous slate-grey cashmere overcoat. Flushed with indulgence, they stood on the corner of Bond Street and Piccadilly.
‘Here, now you’re fit for the front row!’ grinned Cameron, pushing the bags towards Emma, who staggered under their weight, but laughed with excitement.
‘Oh, and one more thing …’ said Cameron, flipping open her phone.
‘Julian? It’s Cameron. You too, darling, and thanks for the cut – it looks fabulous. Now I have a challenge for you: Emma, my close friend, needs some of your magic to bring her into the twenty-first century.’ Cameron winked at Emma. ‘Can you? This afternoon? You’re a doll! I’ll tell her, kiss-kiss.’
Cameron snapped her phone shut and handed her a card from her purse.
‘Julian Coco, my London hair-stylist.’
‘You have a London hair-stylist.’
‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Julian is the best. His hair cut will change your life, I guarantee it.’
She took a step back to look at the old Emma one last time.
‘From now on you’re going to look the part, act the part and be the part,’ said Cameron with a wicked grin. ‘Milford is a sleeping giant, my sweet. And you’re going to be the beauty to wake it up.’
18
‘Why? Why, Emma? I just don’t understand.’
Virginia stood in Winterfold’s red room, fixing herself a large gin and tonic, watching her daughter pack her belongings into boxes. She couldn’t believe Emma was leaving the grandeur of Saul’s exquisite manor to move into the converted stable block on the edge of the estate. She looked around the room with its ruby wallpaper
and elaborate classical cornices over the doors and tall, elegant windows. Why would anyone leave somewhere this beautiful to move somewhere so small, so poky, so bleak? Virginia shivered and took a gulp of gin. The truth was that the Stables brought back unhappy memories for Virginia; Saul had given the cottage to her as a favour after the death of her first husband Jack. It meant that Virginia could sell the Baileys’ family home and swell her modest bank balance; but that whole three-year period, from Jack’s death to when Virginia met her second husband Jonathon at a dinner party in Barnes was the darkest time of her life. Isolated, lonely and resentful, the romantic notions Virginia had once harboured when she’d married the poor but handsome academic Jack Bailey were completely gone. But that had been then, she thought quickly sipping her drink – a different time, a different person – here and now her daughter had a golden opportunity to live the life she had always wanted for herself. Why on earth wouldn’t she take it?
Emma tried to remain patient, drawing a hand across her forehead and leaving a white dusty smear. ‘What do I need a twenty-five-bedroom house for?’ she said, briskly clapping dust from her hands.
‘You could say the same about the royal family,’ scoffed Virginia.
‘That’s not the point. It’s not a question of need.’
Emma winced at the snobbery. Having tasted the loneliness of Winterfold she was quite looking forward to a smaller, more manageable home. When she had first opened up the Stables the previous weekend, it had looked and smelled a little unloved with dusty surfaces, grimy windows and a general air of neglect. But she had rolled up her sleeves and, with the help of Ruan and Abby, had given it a lick of paint and brought in some squashy sofas, big rugs and a new sleigh bed. And now her collection of books, pictures and photographs had arrived from Boston, the Stables was beginning to look more like home.
‘Roger and Rebecca are furious, of course,’ said Virginia taking a sip of gin. ‘You know how much they wanted to live in Winterfold. They can cope with you being here, because that was Saul’s wishes. But to lease it to a stranger – well, it’s hurt them.’
‘Moving out of Winterfold is really a matter of cost, Mother,’ said Emma firmly. ‘The way the company finances are at the moment, I need every source of income I can get. I doubt very much Roger would have been able to afford the rent I get from Rob Holland. Rob can afford to pay top dollar and he’s promised to keep Morton on.’
‘Why not just stay and fire Morton if you’re watching the pennies?’ whispered Virginia, looking behind her in case the butler was listening.
‘He’s worked here forty years, Mother.’
‘He is rather dishy,’ said Virginia sinking back into a chair. ‘He’s got the village in quite a lather.’
‘Morton?’ said Emma frowning. ‘He’s about 80!’
‘Rob, silly,’ said Virginia, raising her eyebrows. ‘He’d be good for you.’
Emma gave a short laugh. That was just what she needed right now. She had no desire to complicate her life any more with a relationship; after Mark, she felt cut off from her desire. And besides, if Mark had turned out to be so unreliable and selfish, she could only guess what trouble a relationship with someone like Rob Holland would be.
Virginia poured herself another gin from the decanter and they both jumped as they heard the distant clanging noise of furniture being dropped.
‘Hi, do you want this?’ said a voice at the door. Emma looked up to see Julia brandishing a silver candelabra. Emma had asked her to come round to identity any semi-valuable antiques, furniture or pieces of art so they could be put in storage while a tenant was living in Winterfold.
‘Take it,’ said Emma, waving a hand at the candelabra. She still felt guilty that Saul’s own sisters had received very little in his will. He had obviously drafted his will at a time when there was plenty of money sloshing around so that the ‘remainder of his estate’ gifted to his sisters would have amounted to something significant. In actual fact, Julia and Virginia were rumoured to have received less than £30,000.
‘Actually, Julia, there’s some stuff in the attic that needs restoring. I was wondering if you knew anybody good who could do it? I don’t really want to leave anything around that might be of value.’
‘Of course I know people,’ she said, sounding offended.
‘Could you pop up, have a look and then sort it out for me?’
‘I could,’ said Julia, ‘if you might do one little thing for me?’
‘Name it,’ replied Emma, keen to repair relations within the family where she could.
‘I hear that your friend Rob works in the music industry. I was wondering if he could help Tom. Everyone keeps saying how talented he is and he loves music, what with his DJing and whatnot.’
Emma smiled. Tom was one of her favourite people for all his faults, so anything she could do for him would be a pleasure, but she was well aware of Tom’s many sudden changes of direction in career – not that Emma was one to talk – and knew of his reputation as something of a dilettante layabout. While she knew it was bad business to upset her tenant so soon, she also felt an impish glee at the prospect of foisting Tom onto Rob; it would be rather like throwing a spanner into the works.
‘Well, I’m not sure I have that kind of influence over Rob Holland,’ said Emma, ‘but I will ask him if he has any openings. Leave it with me, Julia, I’ll try my best.’
Julia smiled with relief.
‘Oh, thank you so much, darling. Tom will be so grateful. And I’ll go straight up to the attic now – I’ll keep you posted.’
When Julia had gone, Virginia pulled a sour face. ‘I hope you know Tom will be a disaster? Don’t go upsetting Rob and ruin your chances of snagging him.’
It was Emma’s turn to pull a face.
‘Mother, if Rob Holland was the last man on earth, I wouldn’t look at him twice. He’s rude, self-obsessed, arrogant and … did I mention rude?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, darling,’ said Virginia, waving her empty glass.
‘By the way, seeing as you’re giving things away, I don’t suppose you’ll be needing this decanter at the Stables, will you?’
For the first time in days, Emma laughed out loud.
Stella paced around the luxurious suite of the Soho Hotel, fussing about rearranging handbags on their plinths, knowing that the next three hours were make or break for the company. She was running on adrenaline, knowing that if she stopped she would close her eyes and probably not wake up for a week. Since her arrival in England almost a month earlier, Stella hadn’t even had time to unpack and settle into her new house in Chilcot, a small barn conversion on the edge of the village that cost more than she could afford. She barely saw any daylight as she left home for the Milford offices at dawn and often didn’t set off home again until midnight. She would spend the entire time in between hunched over her drawing board in the top-floor studio, designing handbags as if her life depended on it. The Milford archives had been a shambles, so Stella had fallen back on her own collection of vintage Milford handbags. She’d adapted the shapes, making them more contemporary, adding her own flourishes here and there, and spent hours with Ruan McCormack discussing the fine points of their manufacture. The result had been a small collection of twelve bags, samples of which had been made up in the softest leather ready for today’s press show. Today was pivotal for the business. Here, in this hotel suite, they would unveil their first collection to the fashion press. They would either laud Milford as the hot new label or condemn the company to a slow and lonely death. And if that’s not pressure, I don’t know what is, thought Stella, looking around the suite. They had, however, done a pretty good job, even if she did say so herself. The room was darkened and each of the twelve bags had been placed on pink Perspex plinths, each lit from below and spot-lit from above, giving each handbag an otherworldly glow of pure luxury. In fact, the whole room looked like it was displaying the crown jewels of some far-off exotic state.
‘But what if no o
ne comes?’ said Stella, eyeing the trays of canapés and rows of baby bottles of champagne lined up on a walnut table.
Emma looked at her watch. It was 12.30. The press invitation had stated a noon start and not one fashion editor had come within ten yards of the expensive suite.
‘Then we are eating crab claws and drinking Moët for the next month,’ she said nervously.
‘Of course people are coming. They are just fashionably late,’ said Zoe Miller the chic fashion PR whom Emma had hired for the launch of the Autumn/Winter line. It had been Zoe’s idea to send the invitation to the press show in a Milford chalk-white leather passport holder. Emma had winced at the cost, but as Zoe had pointed out, Milford were hardly a huge noise on the fashion scene and they were in direct competition with numerous other, rather more mouth-watering press events that week. Without an example of Milford’s new image, without a small bribe, there was a very real chance of them being totally ignored.
‘So what happens after this?’ asked Emma trying to fill in the awkward silence.
‘We send celebrities, editors and magazine fashion directors the key bag of the season. So I guess they all get this one,’ said Zoe holding up a large soft bag that was Stella’s favourite. It was a slightly smaller version of the handbag Emma had shown to – and which had so impressed – Cameron at the café. It was exquisite, the design bold yet practical, the materials and craftsmanship unrivalled. The creamy-soft calf leather had been selected with the greatest care and made more supple by a method called press and boarding. The bag’s jewel-like lock had been made by a local silversmith; the seams were all sewn by hand and folded over like the hems of a Hermès scarf. For Stella the love and skill that had gone into making the bags was a source of great pride, a far cry from the depressing Mexican sweatshop used by Cate Glazer, where hundreds of women worked for a pittance to produce bags that would be sold for twice their monthly wage. When it was finished, Stella had christened it the ‘1 00 Bag’ after listening to Emma’s theory about exclusivity. Milford were only going to make six hundred ‘1 00’ bags; one hundred in six different colours that Stella had selected from the palette gleaned from the catwalks at the recent international collections. That had been one of the benefits of designing and producing their Autumn/Winter line so late; they could colour co-ordinate their accessories line with the forthcoming season’s ready-to-wear.
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