‘You said you weren’t having sex.’
‘Cassandra, she’s my wife,’ he said fiercely.
She tasted blood on her lip and licked it away, pulling herself up into her most majestic stance.
‘Well, let her have babies! That’s what trophy wives do, isn’t it?’ said Cassandra tartly.
Max stood up and started pacing back and forth across the rug; the same rug they had made love on so many times, planning their future together.
‘Cassandra, it’s more than that. We are having a family,’ he said. ‘Another little me, I have to give it a go. I have to try and give it a go. At least for now. This child is the heir to Hildon.’
Cassandra walked to the table and poured herself another vodka, ignoring the tonic. He looked at her.
‘I’m sorry, Cass. You are a breathtakingly exciting woman. You are passionate and beautiful and sex is incredible. But…’ He hesitated.
‘That’s all I am to you,’ she said quietly, putting down the empty glass and walking towards him, ‘Sex? An easy fuck when your wife’s back is turned?’
He grabbed her hands but kept his distance.
‘No. No. You and I, we are the same creatures. We enjoy the thrill, we want each other but we don’t need each other.’
It was as if he’d punched her in the stomach. From that first night Cassandra had felt that she and Max were soul mates, that their similarities had linked them on a deep and intimate level, but Max had just managed to make their connection feel inconsequential, something he could take or leave whenever he felt like it.
She nodded slowly, determined not to show her feelings. She was Cassandra Grand. She didn’t cry.
‘What about Clochiers?’ she asked, not daring to breathe.
Max shook his head.
‘I don’t think we should see each other any more. You tempt me too much.’
Their eyes met for a moment; then she looked away.
‘Just go,’ she said.
He hung by her side for a moment, for once unsure of what to do.
‘I saw the Georgia cover,’ he said. ‘It looks incredible. You see, you really don’t need me, do you?’
‘Clearly not,’ she replied.
He smiled sadly, looked at the key he had left on the table and walked out of the door. And for the first time in a very long time, she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.
58
The next two weeks seemed to pass in slow motion. To Cassandra, it was as if she were detached from her own life, watching it all unfold on a movie screen. Guillaume Riche was on the phone immediately after he heard of Cassandra’s ‘resignation’, insisting she recuperate at his chateau. She politely declined, knowing he was knee-deep in preparations for couture, but she was grateful for the support. Astrid Brinton also offered the use of Greywood, but the gesture was slightly undermined by Astrid’s insistence that Cassandra step down as chair of the Charles Worth exhibition and party at the V&A. ‘We don’t want to lose people because they feel awkward do we, darling?’ she had said. Cassandra soon found that this was a common feeling among many of her so-called friends. When she’d been appointed editor-in-chief of Rive, there had been fifty-seven bouquets of flowers waiting in her office from people in the fashion industry. On the news of her ‘resignation’ there were none; just a yawning, embarrassed silence and a couple of regretful texts from David Stern and Jeremy Pike. No magazine executives called, desperate to sign her as an editor, no fashion houses begged her to add her vision to their brand. She was, at least for the moment, a pariah.
Cassandra wasn’t entirely surprised. You couldn’t spend your entire working life air-kissing and not be aware how shallow the industry was. What did shock her, though, was how hard it hit her. Her whole life had been built around fashion and now it seemed she was frozen out, with no one to lean on. But by far the worst thing was that she had to deal with the loss of Max completely alone. No one knew about their affair. Over the last six months the one person with whom she had shared all her problems was Max and now he was gone. Cassandra had always been self-reliant, happy in her own company, but now she felt more alone than she had ever been. Famed for going to three or four parties a night, she now sat at home in her cashmere joggers and socks, staring at the walls. She had never been depressed, there had never been time, there was always so much to do, so much to look forward to, but now she felt crushed by the weight of everything. What was the point? Who cared what happened to her, anyway? Deep down, she knew she was letting the waters pull her under and the old Cassandra reared up enough to finally get her out of the house, to visit the health club at the Berkeley hotel. She was sitting by its beautiful rooftop pool, staring at a magazine, when she took the next body blow: her phone rang.
‘Cassandra, it’s Guillaume.’
‘Oh, hello, darling,’ she said, vaguely. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, fine. Just wondered if you had heard the latest from Rive?’
She stayed silent, not sure if she really wanted to hear.
‘Well, the big news is that Francesca Adams is the new editor-in-chief,’ said Guillaume, not waiting for an answer, ‘and the magazine is going to go weekly.’