‘Alex, if I say I don’t know who these pictures are of, who knows who else Gary might ask? Someone who doesn’t know you, someone who doesn’t understand how your family might react.’
‘Do you think he’s asked anyone else?’
Cassandra shrugged. ‘I’m guessing he’s sent them to me to confirm because he thinks he knows who it is, he knows I’m on Le Soleil with you and he knows the shit he’ll be in if he gets it wrong. But if I don’t respond to him quickly he’ll certainly snoop around. Believe me they’ll find your friend in the photograph and give him a big cheque to talk.’
‘My father can buy your friend’s company,’ snorted Alex, his face in an angry scowl. ‘My father can make anything go away.’
Cassandra went up to him and touched his shoulder.
‘The question is, do you want your father to know?’
Alex ran his hand through his hair and exhaled, his eyebrows knotted together in concentration. It was several seconds before he spoke.
‘O K. Yes, it is me in the photograph,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I’m gay. Yes, I have silly, star-struck girlfriends who don’t ask too many questions to cover up the fact that I am gay.’
He stood up and faced Cassandra. ‘Being gay might not be such a big deal in your world of fashion but to my family it would be a very big deal indeed. Do you know that there are still laws against homosexuality in over a third of countries around the world today? My country is one of them. Do you think I want to be gay? Do you think I want to wear it like a badge?’
‘So your family don’t know,’ said Cassandra, making her voice sound as sympathetic as possible.
‘My stepmother suspects I’m sure but my father doesn’t know. As a matter of honour my father will cut me off without a penny.’
He walked to the bar, twisted open a bottle of mineral water and gulped heavily, tears falling down his cheeks.
For a second Cassandra felt guilty. He was a playboy, he was careless and arrogant, but he couldn’t help his sexuality. Then she remembered what a little prick he had been earlier and pushed away any feelings of sympathy.
‘I can get back to Gary and tell him he’s mistaken and that it’s just a couple of male models, nobody of interest. It might generate a bit of gossip but nobody will be surprised this goes on in Mykonos in party season. It’s a nothing story.’
Alex looked up, his face full of hope.
‘So you’ll help me?’
She nodded and smiled. ‘I’ll help you Alex. Who knows? One day you might be able to help me.’
34
No one could believe it. The guests at the Milford relaunch party were genuinely taken aback at how fantastic the company’s revamped Bond Street store looked. It was a reasonable reaction, especially from the few who had ever ventured inside the dusty original. It had been so faded and unremarkable, even the most regular visitors to Mayfair’s famous sho
pping street would be hard pressed to remember it even being there. Now the Milford store was the talk of London Fashion Week; journalists whispered it was the work of uber-architect Peter Marino, the king of the luxury goods store who had redesigned everything from Barneys to the Dior store on Avenue Montaigne, while fashionistas wondered if, in the Milford bag, they had finally found an alternative to their beloved Hermès Birkins.
Up on the mezzanine floor, Emma looked down on the packed shop floor below her, sipping a flute of champagne to take the edge off the adrenaline buzz coursing round her body. It really did look like a different place compared to the shop she had first encountered six months ago. Now it was sleek, chic and luxurious, the perfect embodiment of the new Milford brand. In actual fact it hadn’t been overhauled by Peter Marino – the cost of a superstar architect would have broken the bank. Instead, Emma had drafted in a small but creative firm of architects who had followed her brief to the letter; keeping the elegance you’d expect from a brand with Milford’s British heritage, but giving it a much more edgy, contemporary feel. Now the store felt like a colonial country club with its walnut panelling, brass ceiling fans and wooden floorboards. A sweep of staircase, lavishly carpeted in white, led to the mezzanine floor where they had created a private salon for bespoke clients with velvet tiger-print chaises longues and a bar dispensing drinks. Even empty, the shop looked glamorous but with the hundreds of wide-eyed fashion players crammed inside, not to mention the string quartet who were playing in a corner and the white-tailed waiters dispensing raspberry martinis, it looked like a scene from White Mischief.
‘I hope you’re feeling pleased with yourself,’ said Ruan, climbing the stairs to join Emma at her lookout post.
‘You do realize that this is the first party I’ve ever thrown in my life?’
‘Well, what a way to start,’ he laughed. ‘According to Zoe, simply everyone is here.’ To give credit where it was due, Zoe had done an amazing job with the guest list; the right mix of money, celebrity and press. Apparently she had secured the attendance of several key society people by promising them a Milford bag and once they were on board, the rest of London Fashion Week had followed as word trickled out that it was the week’s hot party.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Ruan,’ whispered Emma. ‘I haven’t a clue who anyone is.’
‘Well, you know Clover Connor,’ said Ruan, nodding over at the model who was looking stunning in a white Grecian mini-dress.
‘I’d rather Clover had kept away,’ said Emma, wincing. The face of Milford was apparently on her first night out after a short spell in rehab. Emma had nearly died when she’d read a story in the tabloids a few weeks earlier about a supermodel caught naked and completely out of her head at a party in Mykonos. The piece had been a blind item, but although the model was unnamed it was clear it was referring to Clover.
‘Don’t be daft,’ laughed Ruan. ‘Clover is like Teflon. No scandal ever sticks. In fact whatever she does seems to make her more famous, more sought-after.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ laughed Emma nervously.
‘How’s the family?’