He pulled away and propped himself up with a pillow. ‘Listen, I’m flying to New York this afternoon. I’ve got some business over there to sort out, then it’s Thanksgiving.’ He rolled his eyes and grinned. ‘If I don’t turn up to the family gathering my dad will cut me off without a cent.’
‘We wouldn’t want that, Rockefeller,’ replied Emma, feeling happy and relaxed.
‘So I think we’d better think about getting back.’
That was the test she thought to herself. He would be nice to her lying in the bed where they had just had sex, but what would it be like when they got back to Chilcot? Would they forget it had ever happened, or would it be something more significant? Looking at his ruffled bed-hair squashed against the pillow she knew which one she wanted.
‘I’m back next Monday. How about we do something?’
‘Maybe something a little less rock and roll,’ she smiled.
‘I’m all for that. How about dinner?’
‘Hot date at the Feathers?’
‘If you’re lucky!’ he laughed, then hesitated and, for a minute, his bravado had gone.
‘Or how about you come up to London for the night?’
He touched her cheek and she felt the reassuring complicity between them.
There was a knock at the door and a grumbling of keys.
Joan the farmer’s wife bustled in with a tea-tray.
‘We didn’t make arrangements for breakfast last night,’ she said, ‘so I thought I’d bring it to you. I know you lovebirds like breakfast in bed.’
Rob and Emma grabbed the quilt around their bodies as Joan put a tray of croissants and apple juice on the bedside table.
‘Don’t be so coy, lovies,’ she smiled, taking her time to pour the tea. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’ As she turned, she gave them a long wink. When the door closed, Rob and Emma looked at each other, then roared with laughter.
43
‘I have Glenda on the phone for you,’ said Lianne, calling through to Cassandra.
Cassandra twizzled her Eames chair so she was looking out of the window and picked up the receiver.
‘Glenda. What can I do for you?’ she asked, rolling her gold pencil between her fingers.
‘You’ve got Georgia Kennedy,’ said an irate, barely controlled voice down the receiver.
Cassandra was momentarily floored. How the hell did she know?
She paused before speaking.
‘We’ve entered into a dialogue with her people,’ she said coolly. ‘But frankly it’s unlikely. As we both know, it’s a pretty impossible get.’
‘Entered into a dialogue?’ repeated Glenda, sounding astonished. ‘Don’t give me that crap! You shot her in Sulka. She’s your March cover. I know what happened.’
Cassandra felt her face flush with anger, wondering furiously how there could have been a confidentiality breach. Laura was too timid to ever disobey Cassandra’s instructions; Giles she could trust. As for the photographer and hair and make-up team, she had made it perfectly clear they would never work in fashion again if word of the shoot got out. Was Glenda bluffing? Cassandra knew she could carry on denying it, but there was a certainty in Glenda’s voice that suggested the woman was telling the truth – she knew.
‘Glenda. This is our exclusive. We have gone to a great deal of effort, time and money sorting this out. It came through a personal contact and Georgia only wants to do UK Rive, that was part of the deal.’
‘We’ve both been trying to get her for two years. How come you’ve suddenly got the coup …’
‘You’re wasting your time, Glenda. She is our cover. End of story.’
‘I hope you know this is career suicide!’ yelled Glenda, causing Cassandra to jerk the phone away from her ear. She was well known for ruling her office with fear. Glenda was no grand dame of fashion who operated with icy froideur; she could scream, shout and intimidate like an Eighties Wall Street trader.