Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin

‘This just came for you,’ said Sadie, bustling in and passing Cate a large white bag tied up with a black ribbon.

Cate put down an espadrille and grinned at Vicky. ‘We may not be Class magazine, but looks like you’re still getting the perks of the job,’ said Vicky. Cate pulled off the ribbon and peeked inside. There was a message on a compliment slip: ‘For all your hard work. Good luck. Rebecca.’

‘What the hell is this?’ whispered Cate, pulling crumpled handfuls of white tissue paper out of the bag.

‘Rebecca? Not Rebecca Willard from Mode PR?’ said Vicky, reading the card.

‘The very same,’ said Cate, raising an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And also Nick Douglas’s girlfriend,’ she whispered.

‘You’re kidding,’ said Vicky, her hand over her mouth. ‘I would never have put those two together in a month of Sundays. Anyway, what have you got? She’s just got the account for Alexander Dupont, maybe it’s something from him! Ooh, let’s see!’

At first Cate could just see a flash of yellow. She pulled out the garment bit by bit, catching a flash of a huge gaudy gold button.

‘Eek!’ giggled Vicky, pulling a face. ‘Not one of his classic pieces then.’

Cate held the jacket up. It was one of the most revolting items of clothing she had ever seen. It was vast and vulgar, with vivid gold stitching and hideous outsized buttons. And there were horribly dated patch-pockets on the front. ‘I think this is the sort of stuff he aims at his Saudi customers,’ said Vicky diplomatically. ‘Not really you, is it?’ she smiled, ‘although I suppose it was nice of her to send it over.’

Like hell! thought Cate, putting the jacket over the back of Vicky’s chair.

Just then Nick strode into the room, pulling a suit jacket on over his shirt and jeans. ‘What you got there, Cate? A pressie?’ he asked.

‘Rebecca sent it over for me, actually,’ said Cate, holding it up for him to see.

Nick tried to suppress a look of horror. ‘Oh that’s umm, the colour is really, err, bright,’ he said. ‘Perfect for, well, summer I suppose.’

Vicky started giggling as Cate carefully folded the garment and put it back in the bag. ‘Perfect for the bonfire …’ she began to mutter before stopping herself. Her reaction could so easily get back to Rebecca through Nick, and she wasn’t going to let her rival win this round. She knew that woman’s game.

‘Yes, it’s really kind of her,’ said Cate to Nick. ‘Every woman wants an Alexander Dupont piece after all. I must phone her and thank her this afternoon.’

She caught an expression in his face that she couldn’t quite work out. Was it relief or embarrassment? Or something else? She picked up her jacket and left Vicky to pack the clothes into big wheelie suitcases, ready to take to the south of France on Monday. ‘So anyway, falafel?’

Nick nodded. ‘Falafel.’

Borough Market on a Friday lunchtime never failed to make Cate smile. Hungry crowds filled the warehouse-like covered market, slick City workers jostling with East End housewives at the organic fruit and vegetable stalls, while a hundred different exotic smells mingled in the air. Chorizo with cheese, flowers with fish, pies with pickles. It was a wonderful assault on the senses, and Cate always came back with her stomach full and her arms laden with bags of scallops, pastries and long French loaves.

‘I’m really excited about the advertising,’ said Cate as they queued at the Turkish food stall. As usual, she wanted to keep the conversation with Nick strictly about work. Sand’s tiny advertising team had managed to secure twenty-five pages of excellent, high-end advertising: vital if they were going to have a successful launch.

‘Yes, considering the time we had to land them all, it’s an amazing line up,’ nodded Nick, as they collected their falafels. ‘Pity some of the biggies like Chanel are still waiting to actually see the first few issues, but I’d say the signs are pretty good. So I think I can safely come to Monaco without the fear of bankruptcy looming over us just yet.’

Cate pulled off a piece of pitta bread and looked at him cynically. ‘Good point, Mr Douglas. If you’re so bothered about the cover-shoot budget, why are you coming down to the south of France with us?’

She noticed his cheeks go a little pink, but it could have been the sun. ‘You may have noticed, Miss Balcon, that I’m paying for it myself. EasyJet to Nice.’

‘Honestly,’ laughed Cate, digging him gently in the ribs, ‘the mere whiff of a supermodel and you’re on the first budget flight there.’

‘I’m a class act, I know,’ he laughed. He took his thumb and wiped a dollop of hummus from Cate’s chin. The simple intimacy of it startled her and she stepped back, stumbling on a barrel of apples. Collecting herself, she realized that she really didn’t want him coming down to Monaco for the shoot. She had by now blocked out what had happened in Milan, and seeing Nick and Rebecca at Tom’s the previous weekend had made her realize that any thoughts of a romance between them were both ill-advised and futile. The charge between them had disappeared and the chumminess they had felt before was returning, although Cate still felt as though she could not talk as freely with Nick as she could have done before Milan. While she had successfully squashed any feelings for him into the tiniest darkest recess of herself, she really didn’t want to put herself into another vulnerable situation. Self-preservation, that’s the name of the game, she thought to herself.

By the time they got back to the office, it was almost empty. Only Ruth Grey, the picture editor, had been left sweltering in front of her screen. It was a boiling-hot afternoon, a real scorcher considering it was still May.

Cate pulled open a window to let in some fresh air and sat down behind her desk, squirting a spray of Evian mist over her face. She looked at the magazine plan in front of her. One more week before everything was due at the printers’ and it all looked in pretty good shape. The only thing really missing was the cover shoot. She hated leaving such an important thing so late, but it had been worth it to get Sybil, the glamorous New Yorker who was the biggest noise in the modelling world since Kate Moss. Cate switched her computer back on and began sorting through her backlog of emails, noticing that one from ILF model agency was flagged up as urgent. She clicked on the envelope icon with a frown. She was sure that Sadie had sent over all of the flight and hotel details to Sybil’s booker earlier that week. As she read the email, Cate’s blood ran cold.

Hi Cate,

Sorry to give you this news at such short notice, but Sybil Down will be unable to attend the Sand magazine shoot from Monday. As you know, she was only able to accommodate this shoot because she was going to be down at the film festival, but is now unable to attend due to illness. Please give me a ring to discuss.

Best regards,

Caroline Davis, head booker.

‘Shit!’ shouted Cate, almost spilling the bottle of water sitting on her desk. She never swore. But this time she couldn’t help it.

Ruth, the picture editor, looked up from her light-box where she had been looking at some photos from paparazzi agencies. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Bloody Sybil Downs has pulled out from the shoot!’ said Cate, screwing up her itinerary and throwing it towards the wastepaper basket.

‘You’re kidding!’ said Ruth. ‘How come?’

‘Apparently she’s too ill to get to Cannes,’ said Cate, already up and beginning to pace around the room. ‘But she was fine yesterday when they confirmed.’

Ruth began to sort through a huge pile of photographs on her desk. ‘That’s weird …’ she murmured, moving from the prints to her computer, where she scrolled through yet more celebrity shots on her screen. ‘… I’m sure I saw … yes! Here it is! Come and have a look at this, Cate.’

Cate strode over to Ruth’s desk and looked at the digital photographs from the previous evening’s parties in Cannes. And there – walking up the steps of the Cannes Palais des Festivals in a strapless white gown – was Sybil Down, looking stunning, happy and perfectly healthy.

‘Not in Cannes! That bitch!’ shouted Cate, rushing back to her desk and snatching up her phone. She punched in ILF’s number in New York. ‘Bloody hell, she’s on voicemail!’ said Cate after a moment. ‘No wonder!’ she added, slamming the phone down.

She had to think quickly. The magazine was due down at the printers’ in ten days and they had no cover to print. ‘Right, Ruth!’ barked Cate across the room, ‘Call up all the picture libraries and see what they have got in terms of celebrities or the really big models. On a beach, on a yacht, wandering through St Tropez, I don’t care what they’re doing, it just has to look really “holiday”.’

Cate pulled her hair back into a tight bun as she always did when she was nervous.

Nick poked his head around the door. ‘Swearing like a navvy, Cate?’ he teased. ‘What’s up?’

‘Let’s go back into your office,’ said Cate, pulling at his shirtsleeve

Cate quickly filled him in on what had happened.

‘Bugger,’ said Nick, sinking down into his chair. ‘That’s the cost of all those flights and hotels up the Swanee.’

‘Forget the money for a minute,’ said Cate irritably, ‘we have no cover. Ruth is looking for an image we can buy in, but that’s a last resort. If our first cover isn’t an exclusive, then the industry is going to think we’re amateurs, just another run-of-the-mill magazine with no pull in the world of fashion.’ She paced around Nick’s office, her brow furrowed.

‘As soon as Vicky gets back, she can ring around all the other model agencies and see if there are any other big girls around next week. I’ll call some publicist friends, although offhand I can’t think of any Brits who’d be right for the cover. We need it to be glamorous. It’s only really the Hollywood stars or the big, big models that really sell.’

‘What about Serena?’ asked Nick, looking up at Cate. ‘Isn’t she supposed to be in London and Cannes over the next week or so?’

Cate started nodding absent-mindedly, gazing out of the office’s tiny window overlooking a car park. Of course she had thought about asking Serena, who was arriving in London the following day en route to Cannes, but that was the last thing she wanted to do. Everyone was expecting her to put her sister on the front cover, and Cate didn’t want to be predictable. She wanted to show that – while she might be a Balcon sister – she could do things her way; edit this magazine on her own terms without resorting to family connections.

‘So …’ said Nick, ‘give her a ring.’

Cate turned to face him and placed her hands on the desk. ‘Look, I’d rather not,’ she said. ‘You can understand why I don’t want my sister on the first issue.’