Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  Cassandra felt a jolt of anxiety. She felt sure it was only a matter of time before he ditched his mousey bride, but until then she needed Laura in a position where she could monitor and control her. She shook her head gravely.

  ‘You can’t give in now, Laura. I saw how you looked at each other at the wedding: your marriage is stronger than you think. You can ride out a little bumpiness. Think of it as short-term pain, long-term gain. You have raw talent and influential friends,’ she lied. ‘Work your butt off for the next two years. You’ll be the next Venetia Scott or Katie Grand and then you can pick and choose your jobs. You’ll get the best advertising campaigns, consultancies at fashion houses. Then you can do much less and you and Max can relax together. But if you give up now, you’ll just be another lady who lunches who once had something to do with fashion but no one can quite remember what. Do you think Max is going to respect you for that?’

  Cassandra saw Laura’s eyes sparkle at that final mention of Max. How desperately she sought his approval!

  ‘Do you think that’s what Max wants?’ asked Laura more brightly.

  ‘I think he wants a wife he admires, a wife who forges her own destiny and doesn’t rely solely on him for her identity. Remember Max is a self-made man. He has a fierce work ethic, I’m sure he wants a partner not a dependant.’

  Laura was nodding slowly. ‘You’re right. Oh, Cassandra I’m so sorry for bringing this up. I’m going to give Rive my everything and I don’t want you doubting me for a minute.’

  Cassandra sat back in her chair, a broad smile of relief on her face.

  ‘I’m only glad I can help,’ she said, raising a regal hand to summon the wine waiter. ‘I think this calls for champagne.’

  39

  If Emma thought she had beaten Roger, she was mistaken; her uncle had simply changed his tactics. Since the summer, when it appeared that Milford might really begin to show a profit, he’d realized that his shareholding might actually be worth something in the very near future. So at Rebecca’s suggestion, he had stopped trying to fight Emma in the open and instead had started to use his new position as head of bespoke to his advantage. It was a position that allowed for a lot of travel and more importantly, face-to-face contact with Milford’s most important clients, so Roger would take any opportunity to visit the client rather than take an appointment at the Bond Street store. In the last two months alone he had been to Moscow, New York and Dubai to discuss the bespoke luggage requirements of several high-spending clients. He had sometimes taken Rebecca with him and always made sure he spent his company expenses liberally – dining in the finest restaurants which he had signed off as entertaining. Emma was in no position to complain; Roger had proved to be a natural at persuading rich people to part with their money and the bespoke division was booming.

  His latest business trip was to Brazil and so far he was enjoying it enormously.

  ‘I am so glad you could come all this way to see us,’ said Ricardo Perez, extending a hand towards Roger as he stepped off the small plane onto the runway in Sao Paulo. Roger had taken a phone call from Perez’s assistant a week earlier making noises about a ‘substantial bespoke order’, asking that as Ricardo’s diary would not allow a journey to Milford’s Bond Street store, would it be fine for the Perez family’s Gulfstream to collect Roger from Luton to take him to Sao Paulo instead? Roger had graciously agreed and had quickly decided that flying private suited him very well. Now arriving at the Perezes’ mansion he felt sure he preferred his new position to being Milford’s creative director. He loved the travel, the luxury, the mingling with the very top strata of society. Not that he would ever admit that to Emma.

  The mansion was fifty miles outside Sao Paulo, colonial in style, and it reminded Roger of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. Set on a hillside, Roger could see a swell of eucalyptus trees stretching in a thick carpet of lushness behind the house. The grounds at the rear of the property sloped down to the ocean from where they could hear the sound of crashing Atlantic waves on the shore. A butler appeared from nowhere and offered Roger a cold glass of iced tea. He took a sip, gazed up at the ceiling fans and felt at home. Yes, I could definitely get used to this, he thought.

  ‘So you think you can do something special with the new plane?’ asked Ricardo, showing him the specifications for the family’s latest jet.

  Roger nodded emphatically, putting away this book of leather swatches.

  ‘We will use the best leather, dye it in the Perez corporation colours. It’s actually a very similar blue to a set of luggage Milford made for Princess Margaret in the Sixties.’

  Ricardo was nodding. ‘My mother will like that. And what do you think about using the crocodile skin for the luggage set?’

  ‘Obviously it would be fabulous. Your family deserves the best,’ said Roger, understanding that Ricardo was the sort of client who wanted to be flattered at every possible opportunity.

  ‘The only downside is that it may take a little time to get the order to you.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Ricardo, frowning. He was also the sort of client who wanted everything immediately.

  ‘A year, perhaps. Maybe more.’

  ‘That sounds ridiculous!’ said Ricardo, sitting up as if he had been insulted.

  ‘Not really,’ said Roger diplomatically. ‘Like you, Milford demands perfection. We use the very best crocodile skins – the Australian Crocodylus porosus provides the finest, hardest-wearing leather and it can take the backs of three crocodiles to produce one small suitcase. To source so many skins that are free of teeth marks and other blemishes will take time.’ Roger looked at Ricardo shrewdly. ‘I could deliver them more quickly, of course, but then your luggage would not be the best in the world. You might not notice the skin blemishes but I would, and I want you to have the luggage you deserve.’

  Ricardo looked pacified. ‘Thank you for your honesty.’

  ‘My pleasure. When they are finished you will have one of the most remarkable sets of luggage in the world.’

  ‘And you can even do cases for my polo sticks?’

  ‘We could make you a leather polo pony if you so wished,’ laughed Roger, accepting another drink off a white-suited butler.

  As the afternoon progressed the two men got on famously. By remarkable coincidence they had both even attended the same public school – Stowe – although Ricardo had entered three years after Roger had left. The Perez family business had begun in tin, but they had expanded into many other areas including food, property and telecommunications, growing richer every year until they were one of Brazil’s pre-eminent families. Most importantly to Roger, they had become a family in a position to order nappa leather upholstery for their private jet, a family who needed bespoke leather luggage to complement it.

  Ricardo was the son of Juan Perez, the current CEO of Perez Industries. In his early forties, with a crown of patent black hair and a handsome, if weathered, face, Ricardo was an impressive figure. Roger hadn’t been able to make out his exact role within the corporation, but he had quickly learnt that Ricardo was a keen polo player and largely spent his time overseeing corporate entertaining.

  ‘Well, it’s going to be a pleasure working with you,’ said Ricardo, lifting his glass. ‘My mother wanted to go with Hermès, but I can see we are going to have more fun.’

  Roger lifted his glass towards Ricardo. ‘To fun!’ he cried and the two men laughed.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said the Brazilian, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. ‘I have some business to discuss with you.’

  ‘I thought we were already talking business,’ said Roger, following him out of the house and onto the long drive where Ricardo clicked open a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. The evening was drawing in and light was seeping out of the sky so that by the time they left the Perez family compound it was almost pitch black. It felt quite eerie listening to the sudden squawk of the lorikeets in the trees surrounding them, letting his imagination run riot about what other beasts could be lurking in the
foliage.

  ‘So, Roger, what do you think of Brazil?’ asked Ricardo after a while.

  ‘Well I can’t see much of it right now,’ he laughed, looking out into the thick forest, ‘but what I have seen is incredibly impressive.’

  ‘Precisely. We have the fifth largest population in the world, one of the world’s largest reserves of nickel, uranium and iron, and Sao Paulo is the world’s second biggest city. People talk about China and India as new economic superpowers but when a Mexican is one of the top three richest men in the world you know that Latin America is where it’s at. And my family have interests in everything.’

  ‘You don’t need to convince me about the merits of Brazil or of your family,’ said Roger, a little on edge at how dark and lonely it felt driving through thousands of acres of forest. Ricardo nodded.

  ‘The reason why my family has flourished is because we move with the times,’ he continued. ‘We are expanding constantly and diversification is the mantra of our business.’

  There was a large pothole in the middle of the road which Ricardo chose to ignore, causing even the mighty Rolls-Royce to shudder. Roger felt a stab of envy at a man who could treat a Silver Shadow like a rally car.

  ‘Eco-tourism is a huge global boom area and where better than Brazil to experience it. I have my own company, which I am developing separately from the Perez Corporation, concentrating in eco-hotels.’

  ‘Eco-tourism?’ said Roger, surprised. He didn’t think Ricardo with his gas-guzzling motor and demands for a 33-piece set of luggage made from crocodiles would know what the phrase meant. Ricardo gave a quick sideways glance as if to read his mind and laughed.

  ‘It’s just business, like everything else, Roger. I want to develop a chain to rival Aman and I’ve already found my first property in Bahia.’

  Roger’s eyes widened at the mention of Aman, a collection of luxury resort hotels in Jackson Hole, Morocco, Phuket, and all points in between. It was a huge international luxury business.

  ‘How come your father isn’t involved?’ asked Roger cautiously.

  ‘He had his fingers burnt with hotels ten years ago and refuses to invest in them again. Plus he’s getting older, more cautious. Anyway, it is something I need to do for myself, I need to have an identity beyond just being my father’s son.’

  ‘I understand that feeling,’ said Roger staring out of the window into the blackness. ‘I had to watch my older brother make many bad decisions with our family company. I had so many ideas but could implement few of them. It’s only after his death that we’ve managed to return Milford to its true position as one of Europe’s finest luxury goods houses.’

  ‘You and me are the same, huh?’ laughed Ricardo. ‘The son, the brother who wants to do his own thing. Who should be doing his own thing.’

  There was a long silence before Ricardo spoke again.

  ‘How does my hotel sound to you?’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ laughed Roger. ‘I’ll be checking in as soon as it opens. My wife loves luxury. She’s always wanting to jet off to an Aman hotel.’

  ‘I think you could bring something much more to the project than mere patronage, Roger,’ said Ricardo coolly.

  Roger raised an eyebrow.

  ‘What did you have in mind? I didn’t think eco-resorts would be big on leather goods.’

  Ricardo laughed.

  ‘Perhaps not leather, you are correct. However, you understand the premium luxury goods market and the people who can afford those goods. Whether it’s a Milford handbag or a $2,000-a-night hotel, we are talking to the same demographic. They want the latest thing of good taste that mirrors their status.’

  Adrenaline began to course round Roger’s veins. This was the reason he had switched his focus away from the Milford boardroom and out into the real world where real deals were being done. Emma could keep her silly little bags – here was an opportunity to make some serious money.

  ‘I’ll be frank with you Roger. I’m looking for investors,’ said Ricardo flatly. ‘Partners, if you’d like. People with vision and flair in tune with my own and of course a little money,’ he laughed.

  ‘You were thinking of me?’ queried Roger.

  ‘I think we could talk about it. I read about you, I hear about you from friends in London. I know you don’t control Milford but you want to. I hear you are ambitious and creative. Just like me.’

  Roger felt his chest puff out.

  ‘What level of investment were you thinking?’ he asked. ‘And for what return?’

  ‘Ten million dollars for a 20 per cent stake. My business plan outlines an investor’s exit strategy after five years for a 35 per cent return. That’s on conservative estimates. However I think eco-tourism is about to go through the roof. You could be buying into a slice of the world’s most successful hotel chain at ground level.’

  Roger had no idea if this was a sound investment or not but ten million dollars was certainly more money than he could get his hands on. He made the quick conversion from dollars to sterling and decided the only possible way to do it, should he wish to do it, was to sell his Milford shareholding.

  ‘With your corporate experience, a board position would of course be open to you,’ added Ricardo. ‘You would enjoy that, yes? Why don’t you bring your wife out to Sao Paulo? Stay at my home.’

  ‘I’m sure she would enjoy that,’ said Roger thoughtfully.

  Ricardo reached over and thumped Roger’s shoulder.

  ‘To make money you have to take risks, my friend. And you have to be able to grasp the opportunities when they come along.’

  For the first time in a long time Roger began to feel the heady excitement of business and it was intoxicating. Having spent the last year feeling emasculated and powerless as Emma transformed the company around him, paying casual disregard to his talents, he was enjoying the way Ricardo’s proposal made him feel: back in charge of his destiny. Being a board director of the most luxurious eco-hotel chain in the world would give him even greater perks than the ones he had at Milford. It would be a bigger challenge and bring greater rewards. Plus Ricardo was such a compelling character. He saw much of himself in the Brazilian and felt pleased and flattered that Ricardo wanted to bring him into his venture.

  ‘Who else is investing?’

  ‘Maybe you won’t know them,’ shrugged Ricardo. ‘Friends. People like me.’ He rattled off a few names. Roger recognized most of them.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I have a good feeling about you, Roger. I think you can do big things. I think you believe that too, eh?’

  They arrived at a set of large wrought-iron gates which opened after Ricardo had muttered quick-fire Portuguese into an intercom. It was a large plantation-style house.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said.

  ‘And where is here?’ asked Roger, a little apprehensively.

  ‘A friend’s, where we can have fun,’ said Ricardo, slapping him on his back which felt sore from the sun. They climbed out of the Rolls and were admitted by a doorman in a black polo neck. Inside was a large parlour-type room with velvet sofas and a mahogany bar in one corner behind which a beautiful raven-haired girl was mixing a couple of caiprihanas. Roger instantly knew what sort of ‘friend’ Ricardo had. This was a high-class whorehouse, a pleasure palace where deals were sealed and not just in the bedroom. He had friends with high-powered corporate jobs in London and New York who had encountered places like this when doing business in certain parts of the world, but he had never been to one himself. Ricardo looked over at him with a small knowing smile.

  ‘Fernandez is a great girl,’ he said, tipping his glass towards the barmaid.

  She was indeed; she could have been a supermodel or a Latino movie star. Thick black hair cascaded down her back and her eyes were the colour of Cognac. Roger had some experience with hookers – he’d had a regular girl in his thirties before he’d met Rebecca – but Roger felt a crushing sense of guilt as the luscious brunette sat close to him, the
curve of her breast like a ripe peach spilling over her low-scooped dress. But his sex life with Rebecca had slowed of late and as Fernandez put her hand at the top of his thigh, he felt himself grow hard immediately.

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ said Fernandez seductively. ‘Come up when you’re ready.’

  Roger glanced at Ricardo.

  ‘We travel to Bahia tomorrow and look over the business plan. In the meantime I want you to have some fun.’

  Roger pushed away his thoughts of Rebecca. After all, it was rude to refuse – it might even damage the deal. He stood up and headed towards the stairs, a small smile on his face.

  40

  Dressed in nothing but a cream silk Sabbia Rose dressing-robe that skimmed over every curve, Cassandra watched Max pour two glasses of wine, determined to make every minute of his flying visit to her apartment count. It was 9 p.m. on a Monday night and he’d already told her he couldn’t stay much after midnight without Laura asking questions. Padding across the spacious living room she pressed a remote control so that the open fire set into the wall roared to life, feeling its warmth through her gown. She rarely drank alcohol at home but she was grateful for the Chablis that Max handed her. The last two months had been hectic. Not only had there been the Georgia Kennedy shoot to organize, she’d been busy planning her empire. Her latest project was researching the feasibility of a Cassandra perfume, for which she had visited a perfume manufacturer in Paris and flown out to visit their factory in Grasse, all of which had been written off as researching brand extensions for Rive. Max had taken off his shoes and tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He picked up a black leather portfolio on the glass coffee table and flicked through. Inside were a dozen mocked-up covers for Cassandra’s magazine, Grand.

  ‘Just a few ideas I’ve been throwing around with an art director friend.’

  She didn’t need Max to tell her they were good. They were fabulous in every sense: classy, intelligent and commercial all at the same time. Cassandra was more excited about the prospect of having her own magazine than anything else in years. Except perhaps the prospect of getting Max all to herself.