supposed to do?’ asked Venetia, a look of panic on her face. ‘I’ll get booed if I try and stop this.’
Incensed, Serena had decided to take matters into her own hands. She walked to the front of the crowd and stood in front of Maria Dante, the smile on her mouth saying, ‘How delightful!’, her eyes blazing and hostile. Oswald looked on from the bar, enjoying the single malt in his hand, but not as much as seeing the cat-fight brewing between his daughter and girlfriend. Oswald crept over to stand behind his daughter and whispered in her ear. ‘Highlight of the evening, isn’t she?’
‘She’s ruining my evening,’ said Serena, her voice wobbling, ‘Daddy, please!’ she implored. ‘Please do something.’
Oswald smiled, loving the drama of Serena’s discomfort, feeling her misery and disappointment build as the song grew, spiralling into its triumphant crescendo.
‘Please,’ whispered Serena. ‘Please.’
Maria’s voice rose like a balloon, filling every corner of the house with light and beauty. Her voice was so strong yet so intimate, it was as if she was giving each and every guest a personal audience. Locking eyes with Serena, Maria drew her hands together in front of her and brought the music to a close, her eyelids closed, her head bowed in exhausted rapture.
The crowd exploded into a rich applause, the musicians looked elated, and Maria Dante smiled triumphantly at her audience. For the briefest moment, she glanced over at Serena, who was mechanically clapping and smiling with perfect, gritted teeth.
‘Get up there,’ hissed Venetia to Serena, looking at her watch.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ purred Maria. ‘Now let me introduce the real star of the evening: Serena Balcon.’
But her words were drowned out by the chatter of the crowd, who were talking excitedly about the performance and drifting towards the bar.
Serena was right, no one wanted to hear her after that performance. Fury welling up inside her, she curled her hands into such a tight fist that her nails clawed into her palm. She wanted Maria Dante out of her father’s life as soon as possible, and she was going to do whatever was necessary to make that desire happen.
Milan still cut a glamorous dash, even in the middle of March, thought Nick Douglas as his eyes panned across the Piazza del Duomo. Although the carnival of Fashion Week had rolled out of town two weeks earlier and the city was wrapped in a grey, damp drizzle that reminded him of Manchester, it still buzzed with a sophistication and elegance that was hard to match in any other city in the world. Not even Manhattan’s Upper East Side could boast so many immaculately groomed women shopping for groceries in full-length sheared mink coats and dark sunglasses. New York might be the land of opportunity, where a tie-salesman like Ralph Lauren could become a retail billionaire, he thought, but Milan was the real centre of the glamorous fashion universe, particularly when it came to glossy magazine publishing. Without impressing the city’s fashion giants – Armani, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Versace – and securing their lucrative advertising spend, a glossy magazine launch was as good as dead in the frothy, rose-scented water.
Cate and Nick sat in a tiny café in the shadow of the enormous cathedral and celebrated a productive afternoon’s work with a Bellini. Prada had made positive noises about coming in after the first couple of issues if they liked what they saw, while Giorgio Armani, who insisted on inspecting and OK-ing every magazine personally before he would green-light any advertising, had been even more positive. Not only had he committed to advertising the Armani Collezioni line in Sand’s debut issue, they had even talked about doing a shoot and interview with the fashion legend at his sumptuous home on the Italian island of Pantelleria.
‘Have we really only known each other a month?’ smiled Cate, now on her third Bellini and feeling a bit giddy. She was flipping through her pink Smythson diary to make a note to contact the Armani PR and had noticed the line ‘Meet Nick Douglas in Flask’ scrawled on a page in early February. ‘Seems like a lifetime,’ she said.
‘I think you’ll find it’s six weeks,’ corrected Nick, looking over her shoulder to peek at the diary. ‘And you’re too right. I feel like I’ve grown another head – yours.’
She kicked him playfully under the table and reached to scoop up a handful of peeled almonds from the bowl on the table.
‘Want to go and get some dinner? I’m starving,’ she said, peering through the café window at the sky. Pink clouds were floating over the spire of the Duomo and she couldn’t stop a smile spreading across her face.
‘Although I wouldn’t mind changing out of the career-bitch power-clothes,’ she added, looking down at her slate-grey Helmut Lang trouser suit.
‘OK, come on,’ said Nick, throwing a fifty-euro note into the small silver ashtray. ‘Back to the hotel.’
They were staying at the sumptuous Bulgari. The hotel was well over their budget, but it was a suitably impressive address to give to the various fashion PRs. ‘A lot of money just to dish out a posh fax number,’ Nick had grumbled. Still. There was no denying it was gorgeous. The lobby was a riot of black marble and elegant styling. In the rooms, crisp linens lay on huge squashy beds, while the marble bathrooms were laden with white fluffy towels and expensive toiletries.
As she wasn’t due down at the bar until half past seven, Cate took a swim in the gold mosaic swimming pool before returning to her suite. She ran a frothy bubble bath and, for the first time in weeks, allowed herself a long, luxurious wallow. She wiggled her big toe in the balloon-shaped tap, letting the hot water spurt out around her skin and the bubbles rise up her back until she was lying neck-deep in the suds.
God, she felt good. She’d never felt so proud and satisfied with herself, even when she’d got her first internship at New Yorker magazine, or when she’d won the prestigious PPA New Editor of the Year award, or even when Class magazine had first outsold Vogue on the news-stand. Doing it for yourself, under your own steam, was something else – especially when it all seemed to be coming off. She smiled to herself and wondered what Nick was doing in the adjacent bedroom. Hopefully getting ready, she thought with an eye on the time. She imagined him getting into the shower and running his soapsudsy hands over that cute crop of brown hair. She felt herself blush.
What was she thinking? She couldn’t start having sexy fantasies about Nick Douglas! Annoyed with herself she climbed out of the bath, damp hair dripping down her neck, and started vigorously towelling herself down to distract herself. She padded over to the walk-in closet to choose an outfit for dinner, selecting a rust and bottle green Missoni dress with a deep scoop neck that clung to every curve. Inspecting herself in the mirror she was pleased. The colours brought out the russet strands in her thick, wavy hair, and the sky-high beige Manolo Blahnik slingbacks made her long, curvy legs look sensational. Rubbing a musky Donna Karan body cream onto her legs and clipping a sheaf of hair to one side with an antique diamanté clip, she threw her hotel key card into her clutch bag and she was ready. She paused, slightly puzzled – but ready for what?
The Bagutta restaurant was humming. Famous for its enormous Tuscan steaks, it attracted a glamorous crowd that wasn’t afraid to eat.
‘What do you fancy?’ asked Nick, running a finger down the wine menu. ‘I reckon today calls for champagne.’
‘Pink champagne,’ agreed Cate. ‘To go with an enormous chunk of meat.’
She looked at Nick. If she wasn’t very much mistaken, he had made as much effort as she had for the evening out. Instead of his usual jeans and a sweatshirt, he looked suspiciously as if he was out to impress with his tailored grey trousers and black cashmere jumper. He smiled back, his big hazel eyes crinkling at the sides.
‘To us,’ he said, lifting up a flute to clink against hers.
‘And to our magazine,’ she replied, suddenly nervous