She ignored his question and instead walked into the small, immaculately furnished living room, taking a position by the large bay window. Glancing at his friend, Giles followed her and shut the door behind him.
‘Cassandra, what on earth is wrong?’ he said, now looking very concerned.
She stood quietly for a moment, arms folded in front of her chest.
‘You’re fired,’ she said finally.
Giles’s mouth dropped open.
‘Are you joking?’ he stuttered, his face paling.
‘No, Giles, I am not,’ she said simply,
picking up a photo from the window-sill and examining it. Giles sank into a blue leather wing-chair.
‘But why?’
She looked at him, his eyes welling with tears, and felt no pity. She had helped him, trusted him, and this is how he repaid her. It only confirmed to her that her philosophy of life had been correct all along: trust absolutely no one.
‘You knew the Georgia Kennedy shoot was confidential and yet you told Glenda McMahon.’
‘I did not,’ he said quietly. ‘I never would do that.’
She snorted. ‘You were in New York last week. Look me in the eye and tell me you did not visit US Rive.’
Colour had stained his cheeks and his aristocratic façade was visibly shaken.
‘Yes, I went in to see Alannah, the features director. But she’s my friend. We met to go for coffee.’
Cassandra met his gaze full on.
‘Of course,’ she said walking to the door.
Giles sprang from his chair and grabbed her by the arm.
‘I swear I did not tell a soul about the Georgia Kennedy shoot. After all our time working together – after our years of friendship – you should believe me.’
Cassandra snorted. ‘After all my time in the industry, Giles, I believe no one.’
She looked down at his restraining hand until he finally released her, his arm flopping by his side.
‘Goodbye, Giles,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your squid.’
46
Tom drove Stella down to Trencarrow in Julia’s car, fearing his own beaten-up Mini might not make it past Bristol. Stella winced every time Tom lit one of his red label Marlboros, trying not to breathe the noxious fumes that filled the car. But she knew she was in no position to complain. It had been so nice of him to drive her down to her father’s farm in St Ives and he seemed more than willing to listen to her relationship traumas as they hurtled down the A303. It wasn’t until they were passing Stonehenge that Tom finally noticed Stella’s polite coughs.
‘Sorry, are my ciggies bothering you?’ Tom asked, frantically rolling down the window. ‘God, I’m such a selfish pig.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she smiled. ‘I feel so on edge, I’ve been tempted to bum a fag off you ever since we left Chilcot, even though I haven’t smoked since I was fifteen.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t weaken now. Filthy habit,’ he grinned.
Despite his occasional thoughtlessness, Tom was good company, thought Stella affectionately. He seemed able to read her mood, making jokes and singing along to the radio to make her forget her problems, but keeping quiet when he could see a troubled, thoughtful expression on her face.
‘You know I’m going to be an emotional wreck by the end of the day,’ smiled Stella looking at Tom’s profile. ‘I just want to say thanks for putting up with me.’
‘Your dad’s wife has run off with someone and your boyfriend, my friend, has proved himself to be a complete arsehole. I think that’s more than a decent excuse if things get a little watery-eyed.’