Read Online Guilty Pleasures by Tasmina Perry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tasmina Perry
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aristocrats – had the opportunity to study everything from Calculus to Mandarin, not to mention the wide range of extracurricula activities. Apart from the annual ski trip to Klosters, the most popular after-school activity by far was Briarton’s monthly careers evenings which pulled in guest speakers to give the Oxford Union a run for their money.
That evening’s guest speaker looked around the packed lecture theatre and took a sip of water. Cassandra Grand had been tempted to turn down the invitation to speak as it was slap bang in the middle of London Fashion Week, but when she had heard that in the last two years alone the speakers had included two cabinet ministers, a Nobel prize winner, Richard Branson and an Oscar-winning actress, Cassandra had found time in her diary.
She was glad she had; forty-five glorious, uninterrupted minutes talking about her glamorous life as a glossy magazine editor and – the girls hung on every word of this – how she had got there. Cassandra would reveal how she had left a similar school to this one eighteen years ago with the sole ambition of wanting to work for an upmarket fashion magazine. How her six months as an intern at US
Rive
almost killed her: lugging suitcases full of clothes to fashion shoots, unpacking them and ironing them, getting shoutedat by the photographer, the art director and the models, running here and there to fetch coffee, batteries or pick up dry-cleaning, then repacking the suitcases, lugging them back to the office late at night before neatly folding the clothes back into padded envelopes for return to the fashion houses. She would tell them how she got her big break when she met Carla Miller, one of the hottest fashion names of the early Nineties, back in London. Carla styled shoots, catwalk shows and advertising campaigns for the likes of Calvin Klein and Versace and it was she who gave Cassandra a job as her assistant. She would tell them how Carla grew so confident in Cassandra’s abilities that she would recommend Cassandra for small jobs that she was too busy, or simply too important to undertake. And she would describe how another chance meeting with Alliance Chairman Isaac Grey landed her a job as fashion editor on US
Rive
where she rose through the ranks to become their deputy editor and eventually seconded to salvage the UK edition as their editor-in-chief. Cassandra had loved talking about herself and reliving her apparently charmed life, leaving out the ruthlessness, the back-stabbing and political chicanery that was really at the heart of her success.
She was, however, unprepared for the onslaught of questions from her eager audience, hands darting into the air like fireflies.
‘How much money do you earn?’ asked a blonde in the front row.
‘What famous people have you met?’ asked a Chinese girl further back.
‘Do you get free clothes?’
‘Do you have to be thin?’
Cassandra looked out onto the sea of eager faces wondering how many of them would make it. The fashion cupboards of glossy magazines, of course, were full of pretty young things like these who wanted to play with clothes all day long, killing time until a rich banker husband came to sweep them off their feet and out to the country.
‘What do you need to get to the very top, other than a fabulous fashion eye?’ asked a beautiful blonde girl. Now she looked more promising. Her blouse looked vintage YSL and she had that indefinable X factor. Stylish, confident, focussed. Cassandra smiled at her.
‘Having a fashion eye certainly helps, but it’s not essential. Peoplewho reach the very top know how to pick the best team, how to get the most out of other people’s talent. What the editor-in-chief needs is passion, determination and a way of thinking commercially. Knowing what the reader wants. Knowing how to woo advertisers like lovers …’ She paused, realizing she had overstepped the mark, but she gave the blonde a helpful, conspiratorial smile. ‘If you want
That evening’s guest speaker looked around the packed lecture theatre and took a sip of water. Cassandra Grand had been tempted to turn down the invitation to speak as it was slap bang in the middle of London Fashion Week, but when she had heard that in the last two years alone the speakers had included two cabinet ministers, a Nobel prize winner, Richard Branson and an Oscar-winning actress, Cassandra had found time in her diary.
She was glad she had; forty-five glorious, uninterrupted minutes talking about her glamorous life as a glossy magazine editor and – the girls hung on every word of this – how she had got there. Cassandra would reveal how she had left a similar school to this one eighteen years ago with the sole ambition of wanting to work for an upmarket fashion magazine. How her six months as an intern at US
Rive
almost killed her: lugging suitcases full of clothes to fashion shoots, unpacking them and ironing them, getting shoutedat by the photographer, the art director and the models, running here and there to fetch coffee, batteries or pick up dry-cleaning, then repacking the suitcases, lugging them back to the office late at night before neatly folding the clothes back into padded envelopes for return to the fashion houses. She would tell them how she got her big break when she met Carla Miller, one of the hottest fashion names of the early Nineties, back in London. Carla styled shoots, catwalk shows and advertising campaigns for the likes of Calvin Klein and Versace and it was she who gave Cassandra a job as her assistant. She would tell them how Carla grew so confident in Cassandra’s abilities that she would recommend Cassandra for small jobs that she was too busy, or simply too important to undertake. And she would describe how another chance meeting with Alliance Chairman Isaac Grey landed her a job as fashion editor on US
Rive
where she rose through the ranks to become their deputy editor and eventually seconded to salvage the UK edition as their editor-in-chief. Cassandra had loved talking about herself and reliving her apparently charmed life, leaving out the ruthlessness, the back-stabbing and political chicanery that was really at the heart of her success.
She was, however, unprepared for the onslaught of questions from her eager audience, hands darting into the air like fireflies.
‘How much money do you earn?’ asked a blonde in the front row.
‘What famous people have you met?’ asked a Chinese girl further back.
‘Do you get free clothes?’
‘Do you have to be thin?’
Cassandra looked out onto the sea of eager faces wondering how many of them would make it. The fashion cupboards of glossy magazines, of course, were full of pretty young things like these who wanted to play with clothes all day long, killing time until a rich banker husband came to sweep them off their feet and out to the country.
‘What do you need to get to the very top, other than a fabulous fashion eye?’ asked a beautiful blonde girl. Now she looked more promising. Her blouse looked vintage YSL and she had that indefinable X factor. Stylish, confident, focussed. Cassandra smiled at her.
‘Having a fashion eye certainly helps, but it’s not essential. Peoplewho reach the very top know how to pick the best team, how to get the most out of other people’s talent. What the editor-in-chief needs is passion, determination and a way of thinking commercially. Knowing what the reader wants. Knowing how to woo advertisers like lovers …’ She paused, realizing she had overstepped the mark, but she gave the blonde a helpful, conspiratorial smile. ‘If you want
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