Tasmina Perry - Guilty Pleasures

‘I wanted to drop by and see if you were OK,’ he said with a note of concern. ‘How is it going so far?’

‘Difficult,’ she said honestly.

‘Roger?’

Emma caught the co-conspirator’s smile.

She grinned back and nodded.

‘Roger always had a high opinion of himself. Always been the failing of this company in my opinion. Saul allowed him to get away with far too much, indulged Roger’s ego. Actually, I think he was a little afraid of him. As I’m sure you know, Roger can be very charming, but he’s also very manipulative. Saul made him creative director at 25 because, well, because that’s what Roger wanted. And the company has been going downhill ever since.’

‘Well, he isn’t creative director of Milford any longer.’

‘You fired him?’ said Christopher, surprised.

‘Not exactly. Moved him along.’

‘Well, good for you,’ said Christopher. ‘But watch out for that one. You know what a rat will do when it’s cornered.’

Emma frowned. A rat? It was obvious Christopher didn’t think much of Saul’s younger brother, but that last comment was laced with venom.

‘Sorry, Emma,’ interrupted Christopher, glancing at the clock on the wall, then at his own wristwatch, ‘I really must be going. Chessie is at the Feathers. We’re staying there tonight and then we’re off to London.’

‘Oh. OK, if you must,’ said Emma, following him out of the library towards the door. ‘It’s always lovely to see you. How are the children, by the way?’

‘All fine. Well, I think they’re fine. I don’t see as much of them as I’d like. My two eldest live in Scotland. Stella, my youngest, lives in the States now. She’s a fashion designer. I tried to get her to follow in her old man’s footsteps – she studied sculpture at the Slade, but it seems she prefers working with cloth rather than clay.’

Emma’s ears had pricked up.

‘She’s a designer. Really? Who does she work for?’

‘Oh, some trendy American company in LA. Can’t even remember the name,’ he laughed.

‘LA?’

‘“La-la-land”, I know, but her mother lives on the West Coast. Stella went over there after college and never came back.’

‘Is she a good designer?’ asked Emma cautiously.

He laughed heartily. ‘How could she fail with my genes? Hey, maybe you should give her Roger’s old job? I’d be glad to have her back in the country.’

Emma smiled weakly. ‘Maybe it’s not such a crazy idea,’ she said under her breath.

‘Really?’ said Christopher, pulling a black leather diary from his inside pocket.

‘Then maybe you should give her a ring,’ he said, writing something down. ‘She doesn’t call me much, but the last time I heard she seemed to be quite happy out there – takes all sorts, I suppose. Here’s her number, anyway. You’ll get her answer machine, she’s never there. But if you leave a message she usually calls you back.’

Christopher hugged Emma then stepped back, holding her by the shoulders.

‘You stay strong, young lady,’ he said. ‘Saul gave you the company for a reason. Saul was many things, but he wasn’t a fool and he chose you to carry on his legacy – not any of those vultures in your family. I, for one, think he made a splendid choice and I know you’ll make him proud.’

He pulled down his hat and tipped a salute back inside the house, then he was away into the darkness and gone.

Emma stood there on the doorstep, feeling a distant wave of hope.

‘Who was that?’ asked Ruan, coming behind her with a glass of wine.

‘Milford’s lifeline,’ said Emma.

‘She is such a bitch !’ said Stella Chase indignantly. ‘Have you seen this shit?’ She thrust a copy of US Rive towards her friend Tash, stabbing a finger at the page. Moments earlier, the two girls had been sitting quietly in Venice Beach’s Fig-tree Café, eating frozen yoghurt and idly leafing through the latest fashion magazines. Then Stella had come across a twelve-page photo story on handbag designer Cate Glazer. Alongside a series of sumptuous photos of her palatial Hamptons home, the article gushed about Glazer’s life: how she had started as a bit-part soap actress, fallen in love with and married Hollywood producer Lance Glazer, then launched her must-have range of bags and purses. The cherry on the cake, said the article, was Glazer’s recent triumph, being crowned CFDA Accessories Designer of the Year.

‘Which bit are we referring to?’ asked Tash, taking a lick of double-berry yoghurt while she scanned the feature. ‘The photo of their new forty-million dollar home in Sag Harbor or the roll-call of her former boyfriends? There’s some pretty cute guys in that list, you know.’

‘This bit,’ said Stella, pointing at the page so hard her fingernail almost went through the paper. ‘That entire section boasting about the “Beverly” bag. How the design came to her in a dream. A dream !’

Stella jumped up, grabbed her things and barged out from the air-conditioned cool of the café into the bright heat of early spring afternoon in Los Angeles. She dumped the paper sack bulging with groceries she had bought from Whole Foods that morning into the basket of her bicycle as Tash tagged along behind her, the magazine fluttering in her hand.

‘Are you going to bring it up with her?’ asked her friend.

‘I won’t even be seeing her until Wednesday. You know it’s the Oscars tomorrow; she always takes the next two days off to recover.’

‘Cate loves to party,’ said Tash weakly.

Stella stopped dead on the boardwalk, causing a muscled in-line skater in only shorts and headphones to swerve dangerously to avoid her.

‘Three years!’ she said. ‘Three bloody years I’ve been working for that company! And what thanks do I get?’ she continued, determined to get it off her chest. ‘I work fourteen-hour days. I design every purse, dress and shoe for that company and she tells the world the idea for her latest It-bag came to her “in a dream”.’

‘What you need is a good night out,’ replied Tasha, putting a reassuring hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Apparently there’s this great party in the Hills tonight. Like an unofficial pre-Oscars party. I hear Brad’s gonna be there and …’

‘You know Lance is gay, don’t you?’

Tash threw her frozen yoghurt in the trash.

‘Stella, honey! Let it go! It’s bad for your karma.’

Stella didn’t seem to hear her, starting to push her bicycle along the beach again. Across the wide expanse of sand, the sea twinkled in the distance.

‘Maybe I’ll go to that good tarot reader on the boardwalk on the way home,’ mused Stella vaguely, ‘I think I need some psychic intervention to tell me what to do.’

‘What you need to do is come out tonight,’ said Tash firmly. ‘Go home and get ready.’

Stella shook her head. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t.’

‘What’s more important than a party on Oscars weekend?’ asked Tash seriously.

‘Oh, a friend of the family is in town,’ she said.

‘So bring her to the party.’

Stella grimaced. ‘I really don’t think she’s the partying kind.’

‘Orlando is going to be there,’ persisted Tash.

‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ said Stella already on her bike, ‘call you later.’

‘Brad! Orlando!’ called Tash after her, ‘that guy out of the OC?’

Stella just turned back and waved, knowing that not even the cutest boys in Hollywood could lift the black cloud surrounding her today.

The two-mile cycle ride back to Santa Monica did little to clear Stella’s head. The Santa Ana winds were blowing making it artificially warm for an early spring day. To her left the Pacific Ocean sparkled silver while in the distance, as if to welcome her home, the pier jutted out into the sea looking every bit as magical as it had the first time she had seen it almost four years earlier. And look how far I’ve come, she thought, with just a hint of irony. She had come to California six months after she had graduated, ostensibly to be nearer her mother who had moved from Cornwall to Montecito to ‘reinvent’ herself as an aromatherapist. But within weeks Stella had drifted down to LA, got a flat in Santa Monica and a job in a boutique on Melrose. Her wage was a pittance; the trade-off for them turning a blind eye to her lack of a green card. The boutique was hip and Stella was pretty which meant that she was often invited to parties. She went along for the free food and drink, but even at the most chic Hollywood Hills soiree, Stella was always the most stylish person there in the little dresses she customized from thrift shop finds or rolls of spare fabric from the shop. It was at one of those parties that Stella had met Cate Glazer, wife of the famous movie producer Lance, who had ambitions to be LA’s answer to Kate Spade. Cate Glazer had been knocked out by the beautiful blonde Brit, but was more knocked out by the white jersey T-shirt dress she said she had run up that afternoon. It was simple but chic, cleverly using the material to show her figure off to best advantage. The kid clearly had talent.