‘Just like Rob and Emma,’ replied Cassandra, smiling. ‘Just like Rob and Emma.’
50
Tom was in love. He realized it on the M4 heading out of London towards Oxfordshire. The clues were all there: the Kensington town-house he was house-sitting was luxurious – silk sheets, basement pool, home cinema – yet here he was, making the journey out to Chilcot for the weekend in the slim hope of bumping into Stella in the Feathers. Stella he thought with a ridiculous grin on his face as he pressed down the accelerator of his ancient Mini. Just her name was enough to get his heart leaping. She felt so good for him, so right and now she was single. And it didn’t help that she was gorgeous, of course. He had fallen in lust with her the minute he’d first laid eyes on her at the Milford shoot. Not that he’d been silly about it; he’d still slept with at least a dozen stunning women in Ibiza, but the point was that he’d found it difficult to shake Stella from his mind. Yes, her luminous beauty beguiled him, but having got to know her and spend time with her through her recent traumas, it was her strength and kindness that had really won him over. After the smoky journey to Cornwall, Stella had presented him with a gift-wrapped box of nicotine patches. It was an affectionate joke, but he had not smoked in two weeks. He’d been off the drugs too – all right, so he could barely afford them – but it was more than that, it was because Stella had given him something else to look forward to.
Tom flexed his frozen fingers; they were nearly numb and the Mini’s heating couldn’t have picked a colder night to give up the ghost. Despite the weather he was in a good mood as the car chugged off the motorway, onto the A-roads and finally down the winding country lanes towards Chilcot. The night before he had seen a fantastic band, Red Comet, play at one of his favourite pubs in Camden. He’d chatted to the band at the bar and after a number of drinks had convinced himself they were the next big thing. Now Tom was keen to catch up with Rob Holland to pass on their CD and see if he was as excited by them as he was. Suddenly Tom’s smile faded. I’ve got to find some way of hitting the big time, he thought.
Rain was now spitting on the windscreen and visibility was poor.
His mother’s house was on the edge of the village and as he approached, he ducked his head to peer through the smeared windscreen. Dammit! Her car was already on her drive and there wasn’t another parking space within a hundred yards of her house; by the looks of it there was some function going on at the Feathers. He drove past the house and turned into a lane that led off towards the common. He got out quickly, zipping his jacket up to his chin and started walking briskly back towards the house.
Tom barely felt the blow; it all happened too quickly. Something solid cracked hard against the back of his head and his body simply slumped to the ground. Instinct told him to raise his hands to his face, and between his fingers he could make out the shape of a boot coming towards him again and again. His nose cracked and he could feel the blood pour down his face. Blows were raining down all over his body, pain everywhere. Finally he was jerked upwards and a strong hand lifted him by the collar of his jacket.
‘You know why we’re here, doncha, sunshine?’ growled a voice, close to his face. ‘If we don’t get what we want, we will be back. And next time, we’ll cut your balls off.’
The man released Tom, letting him drop, his skull banging against the pavement.
Tom curled into a ball, expecting more kicks, feeling the raw pain all over his body but he didn’t dare cry out in case he provoked more violence. He only began to moan when he heard a car engine gun and roar away. Wincing, he reached into his pocket but realized he’d left his mobile in the car. He rolled over and dragged himself off the ground but was only able to walk doubled-over in a crouch. It was only fifty yards to Julia’s house, but it might as well have been a thousand. He could feel blood dripping down his cheek onto the pavement. Vomit was rising in his throat. Not much further, he told himself, willing his body to move forward. He fell against his mother’s front door. Time seemed to stretch out as he pushed the doorbell.
‘Tom!’ screamed Julia as she opened the door and watched her son fall towards her. ‘Darling, what’s happened?’ She knelt on the ground and rested his head in her lap, blood smearing over her skirt.
‘Who did this?’ she asked, weeping.
It was a minute before Tom could even open his bruised mouth to speak.
‘I owe some people money, from Ibiza. A lot of money, Mum. And now they want it back.’
51
Christmas was one of Cassandra’s favourite times of the year, in spite of being a hectic time in the office. Production of Rive shut down for ten days over the holiday season which meant that not only did they have to have the February issue finished and at the printers, but they also had to have completed most of the March issue as well. The pill was, however, sweetened by the glut of presents that came flooding in from grateful advertisers and fashion houses all thanking her for a ‘wonderful year’. The cream B&B Italia sofa in Cassandra’s office was already piled high with gifts: a set of Prada skis, a large monogrammed suitcase from Louis Vuitton, an Alberta Ferretti cashmere coat, fourteen handbags and a beautiful card from Dolce & Gabbana instructing her to go into the shop and pick anything she wanted.
These were what Cassandra called her A-division presents, gifts she would keep for herself or possibly put in Ruby’s Christmas stocking. On another pile on the Perspex table were the B-division presents: bottles of champagne, leather purses, a Tiffany key-ring, an assortment of kitchen appliances, three Smythson diaries, a Roberts radio and a certificate for a course for six micro-dermabrasion sessions. These were presents destined for her mother, favoured members of staff or to be ‘re-gifted’ to friends not in the fashion industry who wouldn’t suspect that they were free. Perched on an office chair by her desk were offerings so gross that Cassandra could barely comprehend how they could come from anyone working in the fashion industry: cheap chocolates or low-grade scented candles. Cassandra snatched up a nasty-looking red passport holder and smelt it. Not even leather!
‘Who the hell is this from?’ she said, thrusting it at Lianne who was cataloguing the gifts ready for thank you notes. Her assistant pulled a face.
‘That’s from Glenda McMahon.’
Cassandra was about to give her opinion on the kind gift when she saw Jeremy Pike, Francesca Reeve and David Stern at the door.
‘What’s this? A military coup?’ said Cassandra, sitting back in her chair.
‘We hate to disturb you,’ said Jeremy, eyeing the gifts with undisguised envy, ‘but the whole office is really worried.’
‘What is it?’ asked Cassandra, tossing the wallet into her drawer.
‘There’s a story on the Media Guardian about Alliance being sold.’
So the wheels were in motion, she thought, trying to keep her face impassive.
She’d had several meetings in the last few weeks with Girard-Lambert boss Pierre Desseau at his smart Neuilly townhouse. By necessity, they had met in complete cloak-and-dagger secrecy as this was nothing less than industrial espionage. Cassandra had fed Pierre everything she knew about her company: its plans to launch new magazines, its digital strategy, the planned and actual marketing spend, plus the holy grail for a competitor – their unmassaged sales figures. In return, Pierre had outlined his plans for the takeover. She had been aware therefore that he was about to buy up Alliance stock which was floating on the open market in preparation for his bid, but she wasn’t aware that he had yet approached Isaac Grey to make his offer. Cassandra felt adrenaline flood into her system: the game was afoot. A sales rumour probably meant the hostile bid might be imminent but it might also make the deal vulnerable to other media sharks smelling blood. She hoped against hope that it was the former because she only had a week. The deal had to be do
ne before Christmas or her moment of glory would be in jeopardy.
‘To my knowledge Isaac Grey doesn’t want to sell,’ said Cassandra evenly, meeting the anxious gaze of her team.
‘But is it possible? What about our jobs?’
‘What about our expense accounts?’ asked Francesca. ‘Isaac really understands our needs, but it’s a nightmare at some companies. They won’t let you take taxis, let alone helicopters.’