Guilty Pleasures (29 page)

Even though Tom Grand was of a generally optimistic disposition, life as the manager of Ibiza Town’s Sugar Bar was turning out better than even he could have hoped. He had pretty girls lining up to sleep with him, a cellar full of cold beer and he got to sleep in until noon; it was as if some genie had granted him three wishes without bothering to ask. He swivelled the pink Plexiglas stool away from the bar and sat back, sipping a cool San Miguel and letting the late afternoon Mediterranean sun warm his face. Not for the first time in the four weeks he’d been in Ibiza, Tom looked around him and offered up a prayer of thanks. The Sugar Bar was tiny, but it was in a perfect position. On the corner of the harbour front and the wide lane leading to Ibiza Town’s main square and beyond it, the castle, it was the ideal place to catch the party crowd as they geared up for a night in one of the big clubs outside town. Tom’s bar had a small seating area inside, but the main action was focused on the wide, red neon bar that faced onto the street. With a DJ spinning the party sounds, frozen daiquiris lined up on the bar and the inevitable gaggle of babes-in-hot pants surrounding Tom, the Sugar Bar acted like a honey pot attracting bees: it had been crammed every night, often with hundreds of happy clubbers gathering outside in the lane. And all Tom had to do was chat up the girls and count the money at the end of the night. Well, that wasn’t strictly true; he’d had a hard afternoon of it today, auditioning promotions girls. The set-up was that the Sugar Bar acted as a ‘feeder’ bar for Spice, the club night his partners Jamie and Piers ran at Desire, a brand new superclub in Ibiza Town’s marina. Accessible only by a boat known locally as ‘the
disco tub’, Spice was achingly exclusive and aimed at the fashion and jet-set crowd. Jamie had ambitions for it to be the new Pacha and had spent a fortune on refurbishing the place in gold and black, complete with an ergonomic ‘floating’ bar. The trouble was that so far, Spice had proved far too exclusive for its own good. It was certainly a beautiful crowd, but there simply weren’t enough of them to compete with the real Pacha, despite Jamie and Piers’s extensive London contacts. Their contract was for a twelve-week run from the end of June to the closing week parties at the end of September and with Spice only running at half-capacity Tom had been given the task of funnelling more glamorous high-rolling punters their way.

‘Give us a twirl, darling,’ said Tom, as Melena, a pneumatic pole dancer from somewhere in the Baltic States arrived to try out for the promo gig. Frankly, all the girls had to do was walk up and down wearing go-go boots and a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the word ‘Spice’, but Tom liked to be thorough with the recruitment process. Currently, he’d narrowed it down to Peaches, the former Manumission podium dancer and Suki a vivacious blonde with the biggest silicone tits he had ever seen.
But then again, Melena’s ticking all the right boxes too,
thought Tom with a smirk. Unfortunately, Melena didn’t speak very good English, so sadly she was ruled out – for the promotions job, anyway.

‘I’ll give you a call, babe,’ he said, thinking that he’d do exactly that. Tom had quickly found that as manager of the bar he had a never-ending supply of gorgeous women desperate to get in to bed with him in return for getting on the guest list to one of the big clubs; he just couldn’t miss out here. Plus there was always someone willing to supply him with drugs on the never-never. It was something like paradise.

He was distracted by the sound of a scooter pulling up outside the bar, tooting its horn as it approached. Jamie pushed his sunglasses off his face and balanced the bike on its kick-stand.

‘Wotcha.’

‘All right, Jamie? Just sorting out the promotions girls. Have you got the flyers sorted yet?’

Jamie pulled a face and took Tom’s beer, knocking it back.

‘No, they’ve been held up in customs, or some such rubbish,’ said Jamie. ‘I don’t know why someone on the bloody island couldn’t do gold-leafing, but this is the shit I have to put up with.
Now I’ll have to go down there and bribe the fucking customs to get them released. I hate this fucking place sometimes.’

‘Hey, maybe we could …’ began Tom.

‘Yeah, and “Maybe you could” shut up,’ he snapped. ‘Honestly Tom, running a business is not all just leaning on the bar and banging the barmaids, you know. While you’re twatting about down here, Piers and I are working our arses off dealing with much bigger financial matters.’

Tom looked at his friend and noticed for the first time that he had dark bags under his eyes. The truth was, Tom had no idea what the other two were doing most of the time and he had even less of a clue how the finance worked. All he knew was that the bars themselves were owned by a Spanish businessman, rumoured to own a sizeable chunk of Ibiza Town. Jamie and Piers had put the money up front for a lease on the bar and the club, while Tom was a partner in name only. For this arrangement Jamie and Piers were to get 45 per cent of the net profits to Tom’s 10 per cent at the end of the season. In the meantime Tom was working for a basic salary which was enough to rent a small apartment on the outskirts of town. Clearly there was more to it than that, but looking at Jamie’s frowning face, Tom was glad he wasn’t involved.

They both jumped at the sudden blare of a car horn. Tom turned to see a battered and dusty delivery lorry parked by the rear entrance to the bar.

‘Doors are open!’ yelled Tom to the driver who waved and jumped down from his cab. They had a deal with the Spanish owner to provide the bars with cheap alcohol which was a gift for Tom. In the weeks before he arrived he’d heard all sorts of scare stories about the island being overrun by Russian and Romanian gangsters, but if it were true, they had been left alone so far.

‘We’re off back to London on Tuesday so you’ll be manning the fort until Friday,’ said Jamie. Tom looked at him in surprise.

‘You’re going again?’

‘We
are
working over there, you know,’ said Jamie, finishing off the beer. ‘Which is actually what I wanted to speak to you about. We’ve got a big meeting with the PR next week because we’ve got a bunch of dance journalists coming out. We’re pulling out all the stops, putting them up at the Hacienda Na Xamenda. You know how fucking demanding journalists can be so I want you to plan some sort of sexy itinerary for them. Nude beaches and girls in the
day, drugs and girls all night. Maybe throw in a boat-trip to Es Vedra, that freaky pagan islet down south; you know, tell them it’s spiritual and shit, give them some acid. Make it memorable.’

‘Bloody hell, how much is all that setting us back?’

‘Enough,’ said Jamie with an expression that suggested argument was not wise. ‘But we need the publicity.’

Tom was about to reply, but the van driver nudged his arm and pushed a clipboard in front of his face.

‘Puede usted firmar para esto
?’

‘Que?’
asked Tom.

Jamie rolled his eyes. ‘He’s asking if you can sign for it.’

‘Oh sure,’ smiled Tom, scribbling on the page.

As the man walked away, he looked over at the truck which had its rear doors open, loaded to the roof with beer crates and boxes of spirits.

‘Man, that’s a fuck of a lot of booze.’

‘Well, I hate to tell you this Tom, but people drink at bars,’ said Jamie, irritably, before softening his expression as another curvaceous blonde walked up to the bar. Tom held up two fingers to her and motioned for her to sit at the bar.

Jamie’s eyes lingered on the girl as she jiggled onto a seat, then turned to Tom.

‘Now can I count on you to pull this rabbit out of the hat? We need a big night.’

‘You can count on me, boss,’ said Tom, doing a mock salute.

‘Well, I certainly hope so,’ smiled Jamie, climbing back on the scooter.

‘Don’t worry,’ shouted Tom over the harsh roar of the engine, nodding towards the girl at the bar, ‘I think this one’s going to be the best ever!’

Pierre Desseau sat at his walnut desk, glancing at his watch impatiently. Pierre was not accustomed to being kept waiting. He was the chief executive of Girard-Lambert, the second biggest publishing company in the world. Pick up any book or magazine from anywhere in three continents and there was a strong chance his company had produced, printed and distributed it. He was rich and powerful, and yet here he sat, drumming his fingers, waiting for Cassandra Grand. She swept in dressed in the dark Dior suit she had worn for the couture show earlier that day. She carried a leather folder under her arm and wore a professional expression on her face.

‘Pierre,’ she smiled, offering her hand.

‘Miss Grand, sit down.’

For a man of fifty, Pierre was very attractive. His nose was long and straight, his eyes were dark and searching. His crisp blue shirt looked just a little brighter beside his tanned skin. But Cassandra was also aware of his gaze from the other side of the desk. She knew she was looking beautiful, as she sat there in her crisp white shirt. She knew it gave her an edge.

‘I was intrigued by our conversation the other day,’ began the Frenchman, recalling their meeting at the start of the week. Cassandra had cornered him at a cocktail party after the Chanel couture show and informed him that she had a proposition that could make his company the number one publishing company in the world. ‘Shall we cut to the chase?’

Cassandra nodded and put her folder on the edge of his desk.

‘I wasn’t sure if you were aware that Isaac Grey had recently sounded out a number of media brokers regarding a possible sale
of the business?’ she began cautiously. She certainly did not want to insult him. As a leading figure in the publishing industry she supposed he made it his business to be aware of every movement within his field; after all, if Glenda McMahon’s husband was aware of it, the news must be buzzing all over the financial and business communities. But she couldn’t be sure and wanted to put herself in the driving seat from the very start of the meeting.

‘And?’ said Pierre, giving away nothing, coaxing her to divulge more information.
It’s a game of poker,
thought Cassandra.

‘He didn’t instruct anyone,’ she said with a shrug.

‘Meaning that he has changed his mind about a sale of the company?’ said Pierre. He flicked a switch on the coffee machine behind him and pulled out two demitasse cups. Cassandra sat back in the chair and crossed her long legs, aware that his eyes were following her movements.

‘Everyone knows there are inheritance issues in the Grey family,’ she continued. ‘Isaac has a wife but no children. He’s not close to his nieces or nephews and he’s almost seventy. Everyone has been presuming for years that he’ll sell his stake in the company.’

Pierre laughed. ‘He has also been emphatic for years that he will
not
sell.’

Cassandra felt her nerves jangle. It was a game of poker all right, a dangerous, high-stakes game where she had wagered all her chips. For all she knew, Pierre could be best friends with her boss and if Isaac got wind of anything discussed in this meeting, she would certainly lose her job and possibly even face criminal charges. But when the rewards were so high, you had to take big risks, so she opened her briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

‘I know that you made a move for Alliance eighteen months ago.’

Pierre nodded.

‘I tabled a friendly bid, yes.’

‘Five billion euros,’ said Cassandra flatly.

‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘Five billion is a lot of money, but then it’s a glittering prize. With the exception of Condé Nast there isn’t a publisher who has a more prestigious portfolio of up-market magazines. You want Alliance Corporation. Most publishing companies do.’

Pierre paused.

‘But everyone knows the money is in the mass-market sector.
What makes you think I would prioritize the high end of the market?’

‘One word: advertising. Access the top end of the advertising – fashion, autos, beauty – and your profits will skyrocket. Oh, and there’s this …’

Cassandra produced a clipping from the
Wall Street Journal
which she put on the desk in front of him.

‘Your most recent interview, dated March this year, in which you say you’d love a slice of Alliance if it ever became available.’

Pierre did not smile.

‘What is it you want, Miss Grand? I am the CEO of a publishing company, not a detective agency. If it was the latter I would certainly give you the job of my right hand man. As it is …’

‘Isaac knows he must sell,’ interrupted Cassandra, ‘but his heart rules his head. That’s why he won’t let go until he has to.’

‘Carry on,’ said Pierre.

‘Isaac owns 70 per cent of the company. The rest is floated. But if a single shareholder acquired 25 per cent of the company they could make life so difficult that he’d be given no choice but to let it go.’

‘What you are essentially suggesting is a hostile takeover,’ said Pierre, rubbing his chin. ‘Without the cooperation of the Alliance board, due diligence would be impossible. Much as I admire the company as a CEO, I would not be prepared to take the risk of buying into the company blind. Yes, the portfolio is prestigious, but Alliance titles are also plagued with rumours of poor advertising yields, bulk sales propping up various titles, astronomical expenses, and a troubled online division. Without knowing if that’s true, well…’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘The odds are too high.’

Cassandra nodded. She had anticipated his reaction. Now she had to take the biggest gamble of her career.

‘But if you had somebody on the inside of Alliance, someone senior, they could do much of the due diligence for you. They could certainly provide enough information for you to take a considered view about whether you’d want to buy such a large volume of shares.’

Their eyes met and she felt a surge of electricity run through her; it was the thrill of dealing with an industry giant on equal terms, but also the adrenaline rush of betting every penny you owned on one spin of the wheel.

‘You’re taking a big risk, Miss Grand,’ said Pierre, his face impassive. ‘I could put a phone call in to Isaac Grey as soon as you leave this room.’

‘Do you think I got where I am today without taking any risks?’

He smiled. He had bright white teeth and a lip that curled slightly upwards. ‘You and me both, Miss Grand. So seeing as we have such a great deal in common, why don’t you level with me? What do you want? An editorship of a flagship title?’

She shook her head slowly.

‘It’s hardly worth taking such big risks for little more than you already have. No. I was thinking the currency of my information would be worth a great deal more than that.’

‘How much more?’

Cassandra’s heart was pounding, but her face remained calm, composed.

‘I want my own magazine.’

Pierre frowned.

‘But you’re already an editor.’

‘You misunderstand,’ she smiled. ‘I want a magazine. In my name. I want it to be called
Grand
and I want it to be run from a satellite company, half of which would be owned by Girard-Lambert itself; the other 50 per cent shareholding would belong to me.’

Pierre took a sharp breath.

‘That’s a big ask.’

‘It’s a big get,’ she replied coolly.

Pierre Desseau looked at the gorgeous woman in front of him with respect. He was glad he’d waited for Cassandra Grand now.

‘Let me think about it,’ he said finally.

Cassandra stood up and flipped her folder shut.

‘You have seven days and the clock’s ticking now.’