Daddy’s Girls. Tasmina Perry

working his way through the layouts, spreading them out onto the battered wood of the pub table as Cate launched into a passionate description of her vision and her belief that there was a real niche in the market.

      He carried on flipping the pages, occasionally glancing up at Cate. She was sitting under a wall-lamp, the light spilling down on her face. She looked as if she was glowing in happiness.

      ‘I love this,’ said Nick at last, ‘I’m genuinely impressed. It’s so fresh. Makes all those dull travel magazines look so bloody boring and personality-free. And the fashion is gorgeous,’ he said, pointing at a picture of Serena astride an elephant, a late-evening Indian sun shining on her skin. ‘It makes the fashion mags look so po-faced.’

      ‘Well, that is a Mario Testino shot,’ shrugged Cate, trying not to burst with pride. ‘He makes people look so exotic and luscious.’

      ‘Even so, this is brilliant, Cate. I know the advertisers will just love it. It’s glamorous, it’s escapist, it’s new. And there’s certainly nothing on the shelves like it.’

      He shut the file, which closed with a whispering thud.

      ‘So?’ Cate had gathered he liked it, but wasn’t sure whether he thought of it as a business opportunity.

      ‘It’s exactly what I, sorry, we, need,’ he continued carefully. ‘From a business point of view, it would be madness for a small start-up publishing company to launch a mainstream women’s magazine like Marie Claire or InStyle. Our pockets just wouldn’t be deep enough to compete. And if we did try, the big publishing companies like Alliance would just try and destroy us with their muscle at the news-stand. But this,’ he clinked his empty pint of Guinness against Cate’s glass, ‘this is brilliant. A travel and fashion magazine is niche enough for us to build a thriving business under everyone else’s radar. But it’s also commercial enough that I think we could easily shift fifty thousand a month. And we’d get good advertising too.’

      Cate was tingling all over. ‘So what does that all mean?’ she asked.

      ‘It means it could work.’

      She felt her tummy leap with excitement. ‘That’s fantastic. So what’s the next step?’

      ‘The first thing we need is a business plan to take to potential backers. I’ll do the figures and draw up a publishing strategy. You need to prepare a really slick presentation of what you’ve just shown me. All this is great editorial stuff, but we’ve got to demonstrate a gap in the market so I need all the facts, figures and circulation figures of any competitors we can think of.’

      Ideas started to bounce between them like a Wimbledon tennis rally.

      ‘I’ll get a list of all celebrities, publicists and photographers we can get on board.’

      ‘And I’ll get in touch with my ad contacts. If we could just get Armani, British Airways, Chanel – any of the major advertisers – on board before we go to the City, that would be fantastic.’

      Cate furiously scribbled down everything into her little black Moleskin notebook. When she looked up, she saw him smiling at her.

      ‘What’s so funny?’

      ‘You. Like a little beaver.’

      In all the excitement and planning, she had almost forgotten that Nick Douglas was the most smug, cocky man she had met in ages.

      ‘Well, Mr Douglas, if you think I’m so funny, forgive me for spoiling your little cabaret show. I have to be going.’

      Nick looked around and, noticing that the pub was emptying out quickly, slipped his arm into the scarlet silk lining of his coat. ‘I’ve got to be off, too. The girlfriend gets nervous if I’m out too late with other ladies,’ he teased, sensing she was a little cross. ‘If it’s all to her honourable’s approval, does that mean the pair of us are in business?’

      He flashed her a smile that would have been heart-meltingly sexy if it hadn’t been coming from such an arrogant face.

      Against her better judgement, Cate extended her hand and gave him something resembling a smile. She was angry all right, but something about tonight’s planning had made her prickle with excitement. If it was a choice between him or her magazine – well, she was just going to have to take her chances.

      She put out her hand. ‘Nick Douglas, I think you just might have a deal.’

       13

      Serena was so bored she could hardly keep her eyes open. Although she usually loved talking about herself, she was sick to death of repeating the same glib sound bites about her ‘work’ on To Catch a Thief. Since she’d got back from Mustique two weeks ago, there had been three draining days of interviews in London and hundreds of phone interviews with all sorts of Japanese and European publications. Boring questions from people who could hardly speak a word of English. Now she had another two days of press and television interviews in New York, and if she had to trot out one more tired, clichéd line about, ‘What attracted me to the movie’, she swore she’d commit hari-kari with the heel of her Jimmy Choo.

      ‘Final question, please,’ said Clara the publicist, popping her red-bobbed head into the Four Seasons Suite overlooking Central Park where Serena was enduring her final interview of the day.

      Thank Christ, thought Serena, forcing one final smile for the journalist from Time Out New York. She took a dainty sip of Badoit mineral water and crossed her legs, smoothing down the sharp crease of the Gucci slacks with her fingers. ‘Fire away.’

      The journalist shifted in his chair. Clara had warned him that all questions related to Serena and Tom Archer’s recent break-up were strictly off the agenda, but with minutes of the interview to go, he had to give it a shot.

      ‘So then,’ he began, pushing his Dictaphone a little further in front of Serena, ‘you and your sisters are big stars in England. Do you think you can be as successful in New York?’

      Serena tossed a sheaf of hair over her shoulder. This was the sort of question she enjoyed. ‘Well, of course I’m rather well known in London,’ she smiled, trying to sound modest. ‘And because of that my sisters have some degree of popularity …’

      Having warmed her up, the journalist decided to change tack.

      ‘You went on a cruise on Roman LeFey’s boat. Did you enjoy it?’

      Serena’s eyes instantly narrowed.

      ‘Yes, Roman is a very good friend of mine and we often travel together.’ She instantly knew where this was going and she wasn’t going to let this sallow hack get any sensational headline out of her.

      ‘Egypt is a beautiful country. I had a wonderful time,’ she said obliquely.

      ‘And I understand Roman introduced you to the billionaire hotelier Michael Sarkis?’

      Serena gave up, a cloud of disapproval evident on her face. ‘I’m here to talk about the movie,’ she snapped, so ferociously that even the thick-skinned writer drew back in shock.

      ‘Of course,’ he stammered, ‘I just thought one quote about …’

      Serena picked up the telephone beside her. ‘Clara, darling, we need you in here one moment.’

      Clara bustled back into the room, her clipboard held tightly against her chest and a fixed smile on her face. She was one of the best publicists in the business and could get rid of unwanted attention in an instant. Serena pointed at the journalist haughtily. ‘Personal questions, darling,’ she said, shivering with distaste.

      Clara beamed at the journalist and thrust a press pack into his hands. ‘I think that’s it for today. Any other information you might need should be in there. Goodbye!’

      The