Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  Tom looked at his friend and noticed for the first time that he had dark bags under his eyes. The truth was, Tom had no idea what the other two were doing most of the time and he had even less of a clue how the finance worked. All he knew was that the bars themselves were owned by a Spanish businessman, rumoured to own a sizeable chunk of Ibiza Town. Jamie and Piers had put the money up front for a lease on the bar and the club, while Tom was a partner in name only. For this arrangement Jamie and Piers were to get 45 per cent of the net profits to Tom’s 10 per cent at the end of the season. In the meantime Tom was working for a basic salary which was enough to rent a small apartment on the outskirts of town. Clearly there was more to it than that, but looking at Jamie’s frowning face, Tom was glad he wasn’t involved.

  They both jumped at the sudden blare of a car horn. Tom turned to see a battered and dusty delivery lorry parked by the rear entrance to the bar.

  ‘Doors are open!’ yelled Tom to the driver who waved and jumped down from his cab. They had a deal with the Spanish owner to provide the bars with cheap alcohol which was a gift for Tom. In the weeks before he arrived he’d heard all sorts of scare stories about the island being overrun by Russian and Romanian gangsters, but if it were true, they had been left alone so far.

  ‘We’re off back to London on Tuesday so you’ll be manning the fort until Friday,’ said Jamie. Tom looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You’re going again?’

  ‘We are working over there, you know,’ said Jamie, finishing off the beer. ‘Which is actually what I wanted to speak to you about. We’ve got a big meeting with the PR next week because we’ve got a bunch of dance journalists coming out. We’re pulling out all the stops, putting them up at the Hacienda Na Xamenda. You know how fucking demanding journalists can be so I want you to plan some sort of sexy itinerary for them. Nude beaches and girls in the day, drugs and girls all night. Maybe throw in a boat-trip to Es Vedra, that freaky pagan islet down south; you know, tell them it’s spiritual and shit, give them some acid. Make it memorable.’

  ‘Bloody hell, how much is all that setting us back?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Jamie with an expression that suggested argument was not wise. ‘But we need the publicity.’

  Tom was about to reply, but the van driver nudged his arm and pushed a clipboard in front of his face.

  ‘Puede usted firmar para esto ?’

  ‘Que?’ asked Tom.

  Jamie rolled his eyes. ‘He’s asking if you can sign for it.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ smiled Tom, scribbling on the page.

  As the man walked away, he looked over at the truck which had its rear doors open, loaded to the roof with beer crates and boxes of spirits.

  ‘Man, that’s a fuck of a lot of booze.’

  ‘Well, I hate to tell you this Tom, but people drink at bars,’ said Jamie, irritably, before softening his expression as another curvaceous blonde walked up to the bar. Tom held up two fingers to her and motioned for her to sit at the bar.

  Jamie’s eyes lingered on the girl as she jiggled onto a seat, then turned to Tom.

  ‘Now can I count on you to pull this rabbit out of the hat? We need a big night.’

  ‘You can count on me, boss,’ said Tom, doing a mock salute.

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so,’ smiled Jamie, climbing back on the scooter.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ shouted Tom over the harsh roar of the engine, nodding towards the girl at the bar, ‘I think this one’s going to be the best ever!’

  29

  Pierre Desseau sat at his walnut desk, glancing at his watch impatiently. Pierre was not accustomed to being kept waiting. He was the chief executive of Girard-Lambert, the second biggest publishing company in the world. Pick up any book or magazine from anywhere in three continents and there was a strong chance his company had produced, printed and distributed it. He was rich and powerful, and yet here he sat, drumming his fingers, waiting for Cassandra Grand. She swept in dressed in the dark Dior suit she had worn for the couture show earlier that day. She carried a leather folder under her arm and wore a professional expression on her face.

  ‘Pierre,’ she smiled, offering her hand.

  ‘Miss Grand, sit down.’

  For a man of fifty, Pierre was very attractive. His nose was long and straight, his eyes were dark and searching. His crisp blue shirt looked just a little brighter beside his tanned skin. But Cassandra was also aware of his gaze from the other side of the desk. She knew she was looking beautiful, as she sat there in her crisp white shirt. She knew it gave her an edge.

  ‘I was intrigued by our conversation the other day,’ began the Frenchman, recalling their meeting at the start of the week. Cassandra had cornered him at a cocktail party after the Chanel couture show and informed him that she had a proposition that could make his company the number one publishing company in the world. ‘Shall we cut to the chase?’

  Cassandra nodded and put her folder on the edge of his desk.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you were aware that Isaac Grey had recently sounded out a number of media brokers regarding a possible sale of the business?’ she began cautiously. She certainly did not want to insult him. As a leading figure in the publishing industry she supposed he made it his business to be aware of every movement within his field; after all, if Glenda McMahon’s husband was aware of it, the news must be buzzing all over the financial and business communities. But she couldn’t be sure and wanted to put herself in the driving seat from the very start of the meeting.

  ‘And?’ said Pierre, giving away nothing, coaxing her to divulge more information. It’s a game of poker, thought Cassandra.

  ‘He didn’t instruct anyone,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘Meaning that he has changed his mind about a sale of the company?’ said Pierre. He flicked a switch on the coffee machine behind him and pulled out two demitasse cups. Cassandra sat back in the chair and crossed her long legs, aware that his eyes were following her movements.

  ‘Everyone knows there are inheritance issues in the Grey family,’ she continued. ‘Isaac has a wife but no children. He’s not close to his nieces or nephews and he’s almost seventy. Everyone has been presuming for years that he’ll sell his stake in the company.’

  Pierre laughed. ‘He has also been emphatic for years that he will not sell.’

  Cassandra felt her nerves jangle. It was a game of poker all right, a dangerous, high-stakes game where she had wagered all her chips. For all she knew, Pierre could be best friends with her boss and if Isaac got wind of anything discussed in this meeting, she would certainly lose her job and possibly even face criminal charges. But when the rewards were so high, you had to take big risks, so she opened her briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  ‘I know that you made a move for Alliance eighteen months ago.’

  Pierre nodded.

  ‘I tabled a friendly bid, yes.’

  ‘Five billion euros,’ said Cassandra flatly.

  ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  ‘Five billion is a lot of money, but then it’s a glittering prize. With the exception of Condé Nast there isn’t a publisher who has a more prestigious portfolio of up-market magazines. You want Alliance Corporation. Most publishing companies do.’

  Pierre paused.

  ‘But everyone knows the money is in the mass-market sector. What makes you think I would prioritize the high end of the market?’

  ‘One word: advertising. Access the top end of the advertising – fashion, autos, beauty – and your profits will skyrocket. Oh, and there’s this …’

  Cassandra produced a clipping from the Wall Street Journal which she put on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Your most recent interview, dated March this year, in which you say you’d love a slice of Alliance if it ever became available.’

  Pierre did not smile.

  ‘What is it you want, Miss Grand? I am the CEO of a publishing company, not a detective agency. If it was the latter I would certainl
y give you the job of my right hand man. As it is …’

  ‘Isaac knows he must sell,’ interrupted Cassandra, ‘but his heart rules his head. That’s why he won’t let go until he has to.’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Isaac owns 70 per cent of the company. The rest is floated. But if a single shareholder acquired 25 per cent of the company they could make life so difficult that he’d be given no choice but to let it go.’

  ‘What you are essentially suggesting is a hostile takeover,’ said Pierre, rubbing his chin. ‘Without the cooperation of the Alliance board, due diligence would be impossible. Much as I admire the company as a CEO, I would not be prepared to take the risk of buying into the company blind. Yes, the portfolio is prestigious, but Alliance titles are also plagued with rumours of poor advertising yields, bulk sales propping up various titles, astronomical expenses, and a troubled online division. Without knowing if that’s true, well…’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘The odds are too high.’

  Cassandra nodded. She had anticipated his reaction. Now she had to take the biggest gamble of her career.

  ‘But if you had somebody on the inside of Alliance, someone senior, they could do much of the due diligence for you. They could certainly provide enough information for you to take a considered view about whether you’d want to buy such a large volume of shares.’

  Their eyes met and she felt a surge of electricity run through her; it was the thrill of dealing with an industry giant on equal terms, but also the adrenaline rush of betting every penny you owned on one spin of the wheel.

  ‘You’re taking a big risk, Miss Grand,’ said Pierre, his face impassive. ‘I could put a phone call in to Isaac Grey as soon as you leave this room.’

  ‘Do you think I got where I am today without taking any risks?’

  He smiled. He had bright white teeth and a lip that curled slightly upwards. ‘You and me both, Miss Grand. So seeing as we have such a great deal in common, why don’t you level with me? What do you want? An editorship of a flagship title?’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘It’s hardly worth taking such big risks for little more than you already have. No. I was thinking the currency of my information would be worth a great deal more than that.’

  ‘How much more?’

  Cassandra’s heart was pounding, but her face remained calm, composed.

  ‘I want my own magazine.’

  Pierre frowned.

  ‘But you’re already an editor.’

  ‘You misunderstand,’ she smiled. ‘I want a magazine. In my name. I want it to be called Grand and I want it to be run from a satellite company, half of which would be owned by Girard-Lambert itself; the other 50 per cent shareholding would belong to me.’

  Pierre took a sharp breath.

  ‘That’s a big ask.’

  ‘It’s a big get,’ she replied coolly.

  Pierre Desseau looked at the gorgeous woman in front of him with respect. He was glad he’d waited for Cassandra Grand now.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ he said finally.

  Cassandra stood up and flipped her folder shut.

  ‘You have seven days and the clock’s ticking now.’

  30

  On the hottest day of the year, Dugdale Court, a two-thousand-acre estate in the heart of Wiltshire, looked stunning. As the location of a two-day music festival it was nothing like Emma had imagined; there were no muddy fields, no bead-wearing hippies and no giant pink drug cloud hanging overhead. In fact it was lovely. Shimmering in the distance, past the swarms of happy people, was an old stately home not unlike Winterfold. Music from some faraway stage wafted through the air, pleasantly muffled as if played through a pillow, whilst a hot-air balloon floated overhead in a cloudless blue sky carrying an advertising slogan that read ‘Smile’. The whole scene was so full of life and fun it was impossible to be in anything but a good mood.

  ‘Who owns this place? It’s incredible!’ asked Emma, fixing her sunglasses on her head as the four of them – Stella, Johnny, Ruan and Emma – meandered through the crowd.

  ‘Some rich lord who’s mad about music,’ replied Ruan laughing. ‘Look at all these people. It’s got to be a money-spinner. Maybe you could do a heavy metal festival at Winterfold.’

  She tapped him on the arm, happy that she was getting better at being teased.

  ‘Don’t joke. I’m sure Rob has already thought about it. You’d better keep an eye out for roadies when my back is turned.’

  ‘Hey, there’s Rob now,’ said Stella, pointing towards the champagne tent.

  They wandered over towards him. He was wearing the off-duty rock uniform of jeans, tee-shirt and sunglasses but he looked anything but relaxed as he talked forcefully into his mobile phone. When he saw the group drawing near he hung up and smiled.

  ‘Sorry, Kowalski are headlining tonight and I’m just checking everything is OK. They have to be closely monitored at all times,’ he said with a half laugh, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Thanks so much for getting everyone tickets,’ said Stella, giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘I think it deserves a drink. Or several. Champagne or beer and who’s coming with me?’

  ‘Shit, one of my old friends is over there,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m just going to say hi.’

  ‘I’ll get the beers in,’ said Ruan.

  ‘Then I’ll do the ’poo run,’ smiled Stella. ‘Who wants what?’

  ‘I have a drink coming,’ said Rob distractedly.

  Before Emma could even think about what was happening, Ruan, Stella and Johnny dispersed, leaving her alone with Rob. They looked at each other and then at their feet.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming, I would have got you a ticket,’ said Rob after a moment.

  ‘Well, here I am anyway,’ she said breezily despite feeling so awkward. The uncomfortable look on Rob’s face when he had seen her told Emma all she needed to know: the tickets Rob had given to Stella weren’t meant to include her.

  ‘I didn’t think you like rock concerts,’ he said with sly smile, ‘or rock music for that matter.’

  ‘Well, yes, you’re right, there. I’ve never been to one. Nothing like this anyway.’

  ‘But you were a student for about a million years. How can you have been a student and not gone to a festival?’

  Emma was in no mood for friendly banter, not if he didn’t want her there.

  ‘Rob, don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,’ she said coldly.

  Rob nodded and pulled a face.

  ‘Well, I think you’ll enjoy it,’ he said gently. ‘Dugdale Court is as nice as a festival gets. Pimm’s, champagne. There’s a jazz tent, world tent, music, comedy.’

  Emma relented a little. No reason not to be civil, she thought, he was making an effort.

  ‘Just give me the rock. That’s why I’m here,’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, that can be arranged,’ he replied. ‘There’s one of our new signings on in a few minutes. I’ll get you a laminate so you can go backstage; it’ll save you from the mosh pit.’

  ‘The mosh pit?’

  ‘I can see I’m going to have to educate you.’

  He smiled again and Emma felt a little of the ice between them thaw.

  ‘Listen, I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved at Hildon,’ said Emma. ‘There was a reason why I was so bloody angry and I guess I should have told you that first before I set on you like a rabid dog.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ smiled Rob, his dark green eyes crinkling in the sun. ‘It’s all forgotten.’

  Emma felt frustrated. She wanted to talk about it but he seemed to want to move on.

  ‘No really, Rob, I …’

  ‘Rob! ROB!’

  They both turned round as they heard a voice calling him. Emma saw a tall, slender figure waving.

  ‘Rob! Did you want bubbles or Pimm’s?’ shouted the woman. As Emma’s eyes adjust
ed to the glare of the sun, she could make out the long mane of dark red hair.

  ‘Jessica from the wedding,’ said Emma, forcing herself to smile.

  ‘Yes. Everyone wanted to come this weekend,’ said Rob obtusely.

  Suddenly Emma felt stupid for having tried to explain herself to Rob and for a few seconds they didn’t speak. Rob pulled the mobile out of his pocket and looked at it as if he was waiting for it to ring. Emma’s eyes followed Jessica as she moved from the tent towards them holding two flutes of champagne. She was wearing a short, white, wispy kaftan and silver gladiator sandals; even though she must have been pushing thirty Jessica had legs as good as a 19-year-old supermodel.

  Jessica handed Rob his glass and slipped her free hand around Rob’s waist possessively.

  ‘We meet again,’ said Jessica to Emma. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember your name, but it’s lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  ‘Another person who didn’t,’ muttered Emma, instantly regretting it as she saw Rob look away.

  Rob’s mobile started ringing and he answered it. ‘Shit,’ he said, covering the mouthpiece, ‘I have to go backstage. Listen, Emma, do you still want that laminate?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll try the mosh pit,’ said Emma seriously.

  Jessica let loose a peel of laughter.

  ‘Oh honey, no, take the laminate, I’ve got one,’ she said pulling the pass from around her neck.

  Emma could feel her cheeks flush.

  ‘No, no, I’ll get you a laminate,’ said Rob firmly. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  Emma saw his eyes trail between herself and Jessica before he walked away.

  Emma looked around for Stella anxiously, but she could see her running giddily towards the main stage where a band were just plugging in. Johnny was signing autographs for a group of pretty teenagers and Ruan had vanished into the beer tent. There was no one left to save her.

  ‘What a pretty top.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma feeling extremely uncool in shorts and an embroidered vest she’d found in Faneuil Market in Boston.