‘What happened to you at the wedding?’
‘I was only ever coming to the Friday night party.’
‘Really?’ said Jessica, tilting her head. ‘Rob said you had to rush off for some emergency. Anyway, you missed a fabulous weekend. I was so pleased when I found out you and Rob weren’t together,’ she said lowering her voice dramatically. ‘I’d clocked him as soon as I got to the party.’
‘Have you seen a lot of each other since Laura and Max’s wedding?’ asked Emma casually.
‘We’re both incredibly busy but we’ve been out a few times, yes. Have you seen his house in Notting Hill? Just incredible.’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘Working in fashion, you kind of give up hoping to meet someone as great as Rob. Most of the men I meet are gay or total arse-holes.’
Emma just nodded, silently sizing the girl up. Jessica was loud and sexy and confident. Emma wanted to despise her, but she knew her anger was nothing to do with Jessica.
‘Well, you must introduce me to Johnny and Stella,’ said Jessica, ‘I would love to style them both.’
‘I’m not sure Stella needs styling. She does a pretty good job herself.’
‘Well, let me loose on Johnny then,’ she smirked, ‘He is so sexy. Not that I’d want to date him,’ she added quickly. ‘A friend of a friend went out with him for a little while. Screwed around on her something rotten.’
They both turned to look at Johnny who was having his picture taken with a pretty teen in pixie boots and hot pants.
‘You might want to tip Stella off, but if she’s in the first flush of love maybe you should keep it under your hat,’ she smiled.
Jessica squeezed Emma’s hand and drained her glass.
‘Toodle-pips. I’m going to find Rob. And just a word of advice: stay away from the mosh pit.’
In the VIP tent Stella was having her photograph taken yet again and telling a journalist for about the tenth time that day that she was wearing a vintage dress. Why did they want to know? Who cared that she’d just pulled the old thing from her cupboard this morning?
Ever since the premiere when she and Johnny had been snapped exiting the after-party, there seemed to be a photographer’s lens pointed at her wherever she turned. This Country of Ours had been a smash hit and had pushed Johnny into the spotlight, turning his minor son-of-star celebrity into the latest media obsession. There were profiles of him everywhere from Grazia to Heat, and everybody wanted to know who the stylish blonde was at his side. When word spread that she was not only a fashion designer, but Christopher Chase’s daughter to boot, her profile began to mushroom too. Stella was beginning to realize that the number of genuine UK celebrities on the ground was actually quite thin so the star-hungry press were always eager to create new ones in order to sell their papers.
But while Johnny appeared to be in his element with all the attention, it wasn’t something that she wanted. She had spent four years in LA surrounded by waiters, busboys, pool attendants, barmaids, and personal trainers all of whom were all in Tinseltown chasing the dream of becoming famous. It had never once appealed to Stella. She liked leaving the house in sweatpants and no makeup. She liked being able to visit the local shop or take out her rubbish without being photographed or asked to justify what she was doing, wearing or eating. She had seen the paparazzi at work in LA but in London they seemed to be even more relentless. It was scary and, for Stella, most unwelcome. She looked over at Johnny who was being interviewed for a local TV station. Still, it wasn’t all bad, she thought. At least I get to go home with him.
The light was seeping out of the sky, but the evening still had a balmy warmth. Stella looked around to see Emma walking over, holding a half-empty glass.
‘There you are,’ said Emma, ‘You’ve been missing in action for hours.’
‘I saw you with Ruan,’ replied Stella, actually feeling a little guilty. ‘I thought you were OK so I went to watch a couple of bands and then I chilled out here for a bit. Why? What’s wrong?’
She looked at Emma and wished her friend would lighten up a bit, maybe relax a little. Emma was a lovely person, she was smart and kind but she seemed to be in a perpetual state of anxiety.
‘Oh, I was just a bit embarrassed earlier on. Rob didn’t know that one of the tickets he gave you was for me.’
‘I kind of assumed he would. You two have been as thick as thieves lately, haven’t you. Why would he mind?’
‘No reason,’ shrugged Emma lamely. She hadn’t told Stella about going to the Hildon wedding, fearing her exuberant, loved-up designer would read too much into it.
‘So what do you think of Jessica?’ asked Stella, sipping her drink thoughtfully.
‘I haven’t given her a great deal of thought.’
‘I wanted to hate her because she’s so pretty, but actually she’s quite nice,’ said Stella. ‘It turns out she styles loads of famous people. She said she’ll get Milford bags onto the arms of as many of the rich and famous as she can.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of her,’ replied Emma mustering up as much enthusiasm as she could.
‘And she’s so slim. Johnny says he’s heard that she’s on these Mexican diet pills. He says she styled an actress friend of his who just couldn’t get into any of the sample sizes so Jessica gave her a bag of these pills just so she could get her into this amazing Dior. Apparently it works; she looked incredible.’
Emma grimaced, wondering why anyone would want to shovel barbiturates down their neck in order to fit into a dress.
‘I used to think he was in love with you,’ said Stella swirling round her mojito.
‘Who?’ said Emma suddenly snapping back to attention.
‘Rob, of course. I mean he’s done so much for us.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Emma. ‘Can you imagine me going out with someone like Rob?’
‘Anyway, that’s why I invited Ruan. To make Rob jealous.’
‘What?!’
‘To make him jealous,’ repeated Stella with an angelic smile. ‘I mean, when was the last time you had a shag? I really think it would be good for you.’
‘Stella!’ said Emma, aghast.
‘Anyway, I think it might be working. Did you see the way Rob was looking at you before? You’d been talking to Ruan for ages and his face was like thunder. Then I got to thinking that maybe you rather fancy Ruan. I mean he is very, very sexy in a sort of Heathcliffe way. And he’s single. Unless he’s gay. Which he very well might be because I’ve never seen him show any interest in women.’
Emma looked at Stella’s glass, convinced that she must be drunk.
‘Stella, Ruan isn’t gay just because he hasn’t got a girlfriend. And the only reason I was talking to him for so long is because he’s practically the only person I know here.’
But Stella wasn’t listening.
‘The more I thought about it the more I thought you’re better suited to Ruan than Rob anyway,’ she continued breezily. ‘I mean, you’re both so serious about work and you told me once you used to have a crush on him. I think you should just shag him.’
Stella giggled at Emma’s blushes. Right then Johnny came over and kissed Stella on the back of her neck.
‘Who’s shagging who?’ asked Johnny, grinning.
‘Emma and Ruan. Possibly,’ declared Stella.
‘Ooh, spicy!’ said Johnny, his grin getting even broader.
‘You two are impossible,’ said Emma, stalking off towards the beer tent.
‘Give Ruan our love!’ called Stella after her.
Rob was having a bad day. He’d foolishly agreed to be interviewed by a music journalist who only seemed interested in discussing rumours that more bands at Rob’s company were about to defect to other labels. It was a headache Rob really didn’t need; only that morning his father had grandly delivered a memo demanding that millions be shaved off their budget for next year. That meant redundancies, cutting advances to artists and reducing marketing spend right across his ros
ter of three thousand musicians. Not only would that mean more defections, it was a PR nightmare waiting to happen. This had been the worst year of his professional life. When he’d joined Hollander Music he’d surrounded himself with talented executives who had years of music industry experience and as much enthusiasm as he had. Profits had risen. Their label scored a bumper crop of Grammies. He’d been made Vice President of the US company before being appointed CEO of UK and Europe eighteen months ago. But his arrival had coincided with one of the most uncertain times in the record industry’s history. CD sales were down and the new technology of online downloads was not sufficiently geared up to recoup the difference. It was a daily fight just to keep the company above water. His father didn’t understand the industry, just the bottom line and he seemed to believe the change in fortunes was down to his feckless son. Rob felt isolated. If he were to talk mammoth budget cuts with his management team of old school musos he would be branded a corporate sell-out. But if he didn’t make difficult decisions the company would face possible disaster. He felt sure that Emma Bailey would have an opinion on this. Of course she would have an opinion on it. He didn’t want to think about her either. He hadn’t invited Emma to the festival because he hadn’t wanted her to be there – it was as simple as that. He knew she’d see him with Jessica and she’d say something, or give him one of those looks that would make him feel that what he was doing was completely wrong. And don’t even mention the fact that Jessica had become annoyingly possessive and clingy when she had seen Emma. He sighed: Broads, man. Suddenly Rob had a moment of clarity; it was like the sun bursting through the clouds. For the first time in a long while, all he wanted to do was go and get completely smashed.
Emma looked at her phone and frowned. She had just received a message from Ruan saying that everyone was in Kowalski’s tour bus, whoever everyone might be. We’re in Area B, Ruan had said. Area B? Where was that exactly? Festivals were perfect places for losing people. It was like the Labyrinth at Knossos thought Emma, wondering in which direction to go. She wandered away from the VIP area into the backstage parking area, a higgledy-piggledy assortment of coaches, lorries and sleek Winnebagos, all so high it was impossible to see into the next row, let alone spot your own vehicle. This is hopeless, she thought crossly. It was dark, she was lost and as their driver wasn’t picking them up until 1 a.m., she had another hour and a half to kill. She was about to call Ruan asking him for better directions to Area B when she heard a familiar voice and a high-pitched giggle. She stopped behind a long silver Winnebago and peeked around the corner. Illuminated by a shard of moonlight, she could see a couple laughing; Johnny Brinton and the girl in pixie boots whom she’d seen with him earlier. They weren’t kissing or even touching, but there was an intimacy about the way they were standing that reminded her of when she first saw Rob and Jessica at the wedding. Suddenly Johnny turned and looked into the dark in Emma’s direction. She jumped back, not knowing if he had seen her and quickly moved off back the way she had come. A burly man stepped out of a trailer and almost knocked her down.
‘Are you lost, love?’
Emma tried to keep her voice low.
‘I’m looking for Area B.’
‘It’s over there,’ he said, pointing a torch away from Johnny and the Pixie.
‘Thanks!’ she hissed and set off at a run. It had suddenly turned very cold and the thin sweater she had brought wasn’t keeping her warm. Finally she found a white tour bus with a card in the window that read ‘Kowalski’.
‘There you are,’ said Ruan. ‘I went to meet you in the comedy tent but you’d gone.’
‘It wasn’t very funny,’ smiled Emma.
To Emma’s surprise it was not particularly glamorous or luxurious inside a rock band’s tour bus. There were a couple of bench-type sofas, cramped bunk beds and a long kitchen area with a chipped Formica table that jutted out at right angles. There was a faint smell of alcohol, sweat and marijuana, but no rock stars. The band had only finished their storming set on stage twenty minutes ago and had yet to appear. Stella was lying back like Ophelia on one of the bunk beds, her eyes closed, and after what she had just seen, Emma was glad she was asleep. Ruan was slumped on one sofa while Rob, sitting with his back to the window next to Jessica, was drinking champagne out of a large plastic cup.
‘Well, better late than never,’ smiled Jessica handing Emma the bottle of Moët.
‘How was the mosh-pit?’ asked Rob, his eyes looking a little glassy.
‘I gave it a wide berth,’ she smiled. ‘I managed to see one of Hollander’s new bands though – The Constants. They were fantastic. Their last song reminded me of something on that Beatles album you gave me.’
A slow grin spread across Rob’s face.
‘You’re learning, kiddo.’
Emma caught Jessica carefully watching them both and then give a sour smile. For Emma, who had spent her undergraduate years studying psychology because she wanted to understand human behaviour, it was telling. At that moment she knew she didn’t like or trust Jessica.
‘I don’t know about anyone else but I need a pick-me-up before the driver comes,’ said Jessica, reaching into her handbag. She took out a little paper envelope, unfolded it and then tipped some of the white powder onto the table. She took a credit card out of her purse and expertly chopped it into four fat lines, inhaling one through a rolled-up twenty pound note.
Emma felt deeply uncomfortable. She had never been a drug user, not out of any great moral fortitude but simply because the idea had never appealed, but she knew enough to know that doing drugs was a short cut to being ‘cool’, to being part of this world. Once again Emma felt like she was the geek in the playground, the square, the bore. As if sensing her discomfort, Jessica nodded in her direction.
‘Want some?’
‘No thanks, I was actually just going back outside,’ she answered, flushing slightly.
‘So soon?’ replied Jessica. ‘Is it another emergency?’
‘No, there’s still something on in the comedy tent we wanted to see,’ said Ruan quickly, following Emma out of the trailer.
‘Have fun,’ trilled Jessica.
Rob frowned as he watched them go, unable to put his finger on why he suddenly felt uncomfortable. The amount of booze he’d consumed might have had something to do with it. After he’d decided to get rightly sozzled, he had entered the champagne tent at a run and poured half a bottle of Moët into a plastic pint glass, knocking it back like lemonade. He was now comfortably numb, but not so numb that he couldn’t feel Jessica’s hand stroking his crotch under the table. That certainly wasn’t the thing that was wrong – he was most definitely enjoying what she was doing. Jessica was a world-class fuck, she was also funny and smart, albeit street-smart. She was definitely a cut above the girls he usually met on the party circuit. But still, he couldn’t concentrate, something was nagging at him. He brushed Jessica’s hand away from him and stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Jessica, surprised.
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘You’re not going after Emma, are you?’ she said, standing up and holding onto his arm.
‘No,’ he snorted, as if she had said something ridiculous. ‘There’s a band manager I need to speak to. I’ll just be a few minutes.’
‘Come back soon,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I’m horny and I want to fuck you into tomorrow.’
Rob walked into the dark. The music from the stage had stopped and instead there was just the distant sound of cheering. Without thinking, he found his feet leading him towards the comedy tent. She was standing in the dark at the back, small and slim next to the tall, brooding figure of Ruan. They were both laughing and she was tapping her foot in time to the music until the final act came on. She didn’t look awkward now. She looked softer, happier. Not the bristling angry wound-up little thing from the wedding, not the stressed-out workaholic he would see jogging around Chilcot. Happier than when she was with him. Rob realized that
he’d come to find her because he had hated the situation in the trailer, the look on her face when Jessica had offered her drugs. It wasn’t disapproval, just awkwardness and a little panic, an emotion Rob would never have associated with Emma; she always seemed so capable, so in control. But he shouldn’t have worried; she was OK. Too OK. He shook his head and turned around, slowly heading back to the bus. He wasn’t even looking forward to the world-class fuck that was waiting for him there.
31
The San Pellegrino bottles lined up on the tables glinted in the sunlight. It was a blazingly hot day and Cassandra stood up to close the blinds as the Rive staff settled themselves around the boardroom table. When she took her seat, she was surrounded by almost the entire staff of the magazine, all looking at her expectantly.
‘Any idea what next month’s ABC figures are going to look like?’ asked a voice from the back.
Cassandra nearly smiled; she knew what was on their minds. The ABC figures – the official industry circulation figures released twice a year – were about to be announced and they were the only real way magazines could tell how their sales compared against their rivals. With the exception of the most senior staff, the team were only privy to the figures when they were published in February and August and they were powerful numbers. Poor ABC figures could lose a magazine a vital advertising campaign and they would certainly destroy a staff’s morale; even a tiny downturn could send them into a depression. And that was Cassandra’s problem. She already knew that Rive’s figures would be static: no rise, no fall. The Phoebe Fenton cover and the resulting controversy had given the circulation a big push, but a poor selling March issue and the dreaded Ludvana cover had had an impact on sales. It was bad news in any event but following her conversation with Pierre Desseau, it was a disaster. Cassandra needed to show him that she was one of the top editors in the world and mediocre sales figures just weren’t going to do that. It was extra pressure she just didn’t need. Pierre had called her back six days after their meeting to say he was interested, but he told her he needed more before he would consider agreeing to his side of the bargain. He wanted hard proof she could access Alliance’s figures and plans. Cassandra told him she could play hardball too: No Grand magazine, she said, no insider information. It had been like the hard slog of a grass-court tennis match. Eventually the Frenchman had conceded, but had insisted that Cassandra prove she was worthy of the job. He had set her a list of targets, the biggest of which was that she had to out-perform US Rive. Not at the newsstand – that was impossible – but in industry standing. And while they could massage the figures slightly, there was no hiding the fact that Cassandra’s performance this year was beginning to look a little lacklustre.
Guilty Pleasures Page 30