Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 55

She listened: frantic whispers, then footsteps. The door flew open and Julian was standing there naked, his face flushed, his p.e.n.i.s still erect. Behind him she could see Olivia sitting on the bed, her knees pulled up, clutching her dress to herself, her expression shocked and guilt-stricken.

'Connie!' gasped Julian. 'I can explain; it's not what you think ...'

She slapped him hard and he stumbled backwards.

'I'm going to tell your mother,' she hissed at Olivia. 'I'm going to tell her right this second.'

She turned and hurried back down the corridor, heels tapping the granite floor, eyes glazing over with tears.

It was dark. Connie was unfamiliar with the house and did not know where the light switch was. She was confused. Anxious. Maybe she should tell Alex or Sarah Brayfield first. This would just destroy her daughter.

She reached the top of a small flight of stairs that led back to the main wing of the house.

She began to descend the steps, but her shoe slipped on the polished stone, turning her ankle over. Her thin hand grabbed the banister, but she was moving too fast: the momentum carried her forward, pitching her over, cras.h.i.+ng down, down, hitting her head against the stone. Seeing flas.h.i.+ng light, momentary pain. And then she felt nothing.

64

From the comfort of her business-cla.s.s seat on a BA flight from Salzburg to London, Sasha read the news item in that morning's paper with wide eyes. She couldn't believe Connie Ashford was dead. The brief story on page nine reported that the sixty-five-year-old wife of the late billionaire businessman Robert Ashford had been killed in a tragic fall at the eighteenth birthday party of her grandchildren Olivia and Joseph Hernandez. For years Sasha had resented her former lover's wife, but reading about Connie's demise was sad and uncomfortable, bringing to the surface all the guilt she had long tried to ignore.

Don't dwell on it, she told herself. There were more important things to think about. The launch of Rivera Chinawear range at Selfridges on Tuesday. An interview with the Evening Standard Evening Standard, then three days in New York to meet executives at Saks, Henri Bendels and Bloomingdales about expanding their floor s.p.a.ce in the city's most prestigious department stores. Oh, and there was a board meeting at eleven o'clock this morning and it was already gone ten thirty. Sasha felt a vague sense of guilt, as Steven Ellis, the Rivera CEO, had been making a big fuss about her being there. It wasn't as if they could start without her, she smiled to herself. She was the president of Rivera, in charge, in control. Everyone made time for Sasha Sinclair.

Take the past weekend, for example. She had been staying at a fabulous schloss just outside the Austrian capital to attend the wedding of Princess Marie Louise of Hamburg. Marie Louise had not married in Rivera not through lack of trying on Sasha's part but Sasha had still accepted the bride's invitation to the nuptials, knowing the event would be bristling with the high-profile Euro-rich.And everyone had wanted to talk to her: oligarchs, billionaires, princes, wives of princes. Most exciting of all had been George Liu, the Hong Kong retail magnate, who had sounded her out about a consultant's position with his company. She had stayed up late into the night discussing the proposition with him, missing her lift back to London on a friend's private jet. Which was why she glanced at her watch she was going to be a few hours late for that b.l.o.o.d.y board meeting. They would wait for her. They always did.'Where is everyone?' snapped Sasha, running into Rivera's Chelsea headquarters.

Harriet, Steven's PA, looked apologetic. 'In the board meeting.'

'They've started without me?' she said incredulously. 'Why did no one contact me?'

'We knew you were flying. Steven said not to bother you.'

'Did he now?' she said, striding up the stairs to the second-floor boardroom. If Steven thought he could do anything without consulting her first, he had another think coming, she fumed as her heels click-clacked up the steps. She stopped suddenly at the top. The boardroom door was open and they were all filing out. Sasha walked straight up to Steven.

'You've finished?' she said, fist on hip.

'We waited until eleven thirty, Sasha,' said Steven, glancing about nervously. 'Randall couldn't wait. He has to be in Geneva this afternoon. '

'Randall was here? Why didn't you tell me?'

Sasha was even more furious she had missed Randall Kane, chairman of Duo Capital, who owned the majority shareholding of the company. And she was sure Steven would have given her absence his own particular twist.

'Can we just have a quick chat back in the boardroom, Sasha?' he said, pointing behind him.

She smarted at the tone of his voice. How dare he make her feel as if she was a teenager caught smoking behind the bike sheds? His beady eyes and weak chin added to the image of an ineffectual head teacher. She followed him in, crossing her arms.

'What?' she said.

'AF Holdings have gone into administration,' he said simply.

AF Holdings were an Italian licensing and production company that manufactured the Rivera diffusion line.

Sasha shrugged. 'Well, we find someone else.'

'This is serious, Sasha,' he said. 'We'll have to cancel the show.' The Rivera Sport fas.h.i.+on show was due to be staged in Paris in ten days' time.

'How ridiculous. We show the collection and then get someone else to manufacture the line. It's inconvenient, yes, but hardly a disaster. To be frank, Steven, this is exactly the problem with the Rivera management at the moment: too much flapping, not enough doing.'

Sasha watched with satisfaction as Steven jerked back in his chair. That one had hit home, she thought.

'Well if that's how you feel, perhaps you could have made your feelings known at the meeting instead of gallivanting around Europe.'

'Gallivanting? I was up until four o'clock this morning being the face of this company at one of the most high-profile society events of the year. As I do almost every night of the week. My networking is worth millions of pounds of marketing to this company.' I was up until four o'clock this morning being the face of this company at one of the most high-profile society events of the year. As I do almost every night of the week. My networking is worth millions of pounds of marketing to this company.'

'So you keep telling me,' said Steven, a sour look on his face. 'But forgive me for questioning what this company has to sacrifice in order for you to do it. You're barely in the office these days. There's always a lunch or interview or party. Perhaps you'd like to come in and tell us how to magically sort out the company's problems.'

'I am the president of this company, Steven!' she said. 'I should not have to be sorting out problems for you. The Rivera staff are handsomely paid to handle any blip like this.'

Steven stared at her. She could tell he was just as angry as she was, but his bland expression gave nothing away. They had rarely seen eye to eye over the running of the company, but Sasha could do little about it. Steven had been appointed by Duo Capital, the private equity house that currently owned the majority share in Rivera, so she would be unable to manoeuvre him out.

'I'm glad you brought up the subject of money,' he said. 'Your so-called marketing initiative of going to parties does have a monetary cost. Last year, five hundred thousand pounds went on your clothing allowance and fifty thousand on your driver alone. That's without adding in the cost of international travel and hotels, et cetera.'

'Do you expect me to catch the bus to go and meet the editor of Vogue Vogue? Besides, those were the terms of my contract at the last buy-out. '

Sasha closed her eyes tight. She refused to let Steven's jealousy get to her. She had worked ferociously for Rivera for well over a decade, built it up into a prestigious luxury brand, extending their range from clothing to accessories to scent and homeware, with thirty stores worldwide and a flouris.h.i.+ng wholesale business, supplying to all the major stores in the world. She wasn't going to let some stick-in-the-mud jobsworth dictate to her.

'What's the real problem, Steven?' she said. She thought she knew exactly what it was. In the New Year's Honours list she had been granted an MBE for services to fas.h.i.+on, and Steven had almost blown his top at the news. 'It's my gong, isn't it?' she said triumphantly. 'People know my name, not yours, and you hate it.'

His expression soured. 'This is business, Sasha, not a popularity contest.'

'We are in the business of popularity, Steven,' she snapped.'That's why I work so hard getting the right people into our clothes, getting them seen in the right places. Rivera is a fas.h.i.+on brand. The moment we cease to be fas.h.i.+onable, we are dead.'

She looked at her watch. d.a.m.n, it was half past one already. She had a lunch to get to.

'And this is exactly why I can't stand here arguing with you,' she said, moving towards the door. 'I'm just off to meet Princess Jali Ha.s.san. And before you ask, it's work. Not pleasure. I have an interesting commercial opportunity for us.'

'What is it?' he said sceptically.

She didn't have time for this, but she was aware she needed his support. She sighed and turned back.

'As you know, the princess' family owns half of Abu Dhabi. They've seen what's happened in Dubai and are looking to be the new tourist force in the Middle East.'

'What has that to do with Rivera?'

'They want to stage a major polo tournament out there and are looking for an international luxury brand to be the headline sponsor.'

She frowned at the silence, watching Steven's round face crinkle, the gla.s.ses pus.h.i.+ng up his nose. He was so conservative.

'I'm not sure how relevant hospitality marketing is any more in this climate.'

'Hospitality marketing is completely completely relevant, Steven,' she said, her irritation mingling with a slight sense of panic. She'd already told Princess Jali that of course Rivera would be the headline sponsor. The lunch today was to get the ball rolling, and Sasha was especially looking forward to fles.h.i.+ng out the details preferably at Jali's family palace on the Gulf Sea. relevant, Steven,' she said, her irritation mingling with a slight sense of panic. She'd already told Princess Jali that of course Rivera would be the headline sponsor. The lunch today was to get the ball rolling, and Sasha was especially looking forward to fles.h.i.+ng out the details preferably at Jali's family palace on the Gulf Sea.

'Times are tough, Sasha, even for luxury brands, and we need to look really hard at where we put the marketing spend.'

G.o.d, he's so small-minded, she thought.

'But this isn't just about marketing, Steven. One of our company priorities is global expansion. The Gulf is a hugely important market for us and Abu Dhabi is eclipsing Dubai as the new Middle East playground and honey-pot for investment. Look at Formula One. The newest race on the circuit is there.'

'You're right, Sasha,' he said, pausing just long enough to make her think she had won, then continued. 'One of our company priorities is global expansion. But in an economic downturn, we still have to tighten our belts, and I won't sanction wasting hundreds of thousands of marketing money on sponsoring a polo match.' of our company priorities is global expansion. But in an economic downturn, we still have to tighten our belts, and I won't sanction wasting hundreds of thousands of marketing money on sponsoring a polo match.'

Sasha ground her teeth. She could tell when Steven was about to dig his heels in, and as chief executive he had the final say-so on sign-offs unless it was a matter that needed board approval. How was she supposed to explain that that to Princess Jali over Dover sole? to Princess Jali over Dover sole?The answer it turned out was simple: she postponed the lunch, citing a migraine, and made a call. If there was one person more powerful than Steven in the company, it was the chairman of Duo Capital, Randall Kane, who in essence was their owner. Randall had a hands-off approach to the business which Sasha usually appreciated; she didn't like anyone micro-managing any part of her life. And anyway, why would Randall care how Rivera was run, as long as it was making him money? The label was just one of his many investments, spread out over the globe, and so he was constantly in the air, taking meetings in New York, Houston or Shanghai.

She booked the best table at Scott's restaurant and was wearing her most flattering figure-hugging cashmere dress as she slowly walked to the table, swinging her hips.

'Randall,' she smiled, leaning across to give him a kiss and a brief flash of cleavage. 'So sorry to miss you at the board meeting the other day. You know how it is with these royal weddings.'

'No I don't,' he laughed. 'But I hope you're going to tell me.'

Randall was a fifty-something East Coast WASP who had made a fortune in hedge funds over the last decade. Sasha was sure this was why he was investing in Rivera lunches with one of the most desirable women in fas.h.i.+on, plus the social ammunition of Sasha's juicy insider gossip which he could then use at his next dinner party.

'Funny you should ask about that.' She smiled. 'I actually have an exciting business proposal for you involving a princess.'

'A princess? She single?'

Sasha laughed. She knew she had him. Steven wasn't going to like her going over his head, but he had forced her hand. It was dog eat dog out there.

'Well, you know Abu Dhabi is the most exciting Gulf state right now,' she began, touching Randall's hand conspiratorially. 'Oil-rich, progressive. Well, an interesting commercial opportunity has just presented itself ...'

65

April 2010

Miles sat on the deck of the super-yacht Simba Simba, listening to the gentle breeze ruffling the sails and the c.h.i.n.k of the ice in his vodka. He had his own tub of course the 125-foot Conifer Conifer he'd inherited from his mother but the he'd inherited from his mother but the Simba Simba, belonging to the Indian steel magnate Anil Chawla, was magnificent. Two hundred and forty feet of sleek engineering genius, it could glide along with wind power like an America's Cup winner, or cruise effortlessly across the Pacific in a gale using the Rolls-Royce engines. Plus it had its own swimming pool. Luxury yachts were the boardrooms of the twenty-first century, where global deals were hatched in secret, and it was infinitely preferable to talk business here, moored off the coast of Corfu, than it was in some bland air-conditioned office block in London or Manhattan. Miles was not p.r.o.ne to envy, but he certainly admired this boat and the man who owned it.

'I'm sorry about your mother, Miles,' said Anil. He was sixty years old and looked twenty years younger, his latte-coloured skin remarkably free of lines, his wiry body yoga-toned. He was worth a conservative estimate of twenty billion dollars, but the whisper was that there was far more hidden away.

'Thank you,' said Miles, looking away and sipping his drink. His grief was still raw. He had never been particularly close to Connie, in fact had only seen her two or three times a year in the past decade, but her loss had hit him harder than he had imagined. He had felt quite choked speaking at the funeral in front of four hundred people; his grief being worse because he simply hadn't expected it. Despite her slight frame, Connie had always been the Ashford family's powerhouse, and he just couldn't believe she was dead. The precise events surrounding her death were still unclear, but apparently it was as simple and tragic as that she'd had a few too many drinks celebrating her grandchildren's birthday and had got disorientated wandering around Julian's monstrous mansion. One fall in the dark and that was it she was gone.

They talked for a while about the people they knew in common. It felt good to be treated as an equal by someone of Anil's stature.

'I hear that the Chelsea Museum is about to come on the market,' said Anil.

Miles had heard that rumour too. Every heavy-hitting developer was going to be after the site. It was without question the most exclusive pocket of London.

'Are you going to bid?'

Miles shook his head. 'Unlikely. I think I have enough property in London at the moment.' The truth was that he wasn't sure he could afford to take on the project. The last two years had been tough; they'd only just managed to scrabble out of the Las Vegas debacle by the skin of their teeth and he'd lost millions in the project in Dubai when the Middle Eastern bubble burst. The money was still coming in, but Ash Corp.'s reputation had been dented and Miles badly needed to spread out into new markets. And for that he needed allies.

'Yes, I have seen your developments there and in New York,' said Anil. 'In fact I bought my son one of your Hyde Park penthouses. '

Miles was of course aware of that. In 2007, at the height of the market, Anil had bought it for forty-five million as a wedding gift for his son.

'Well if London is overplayed for you, perhaps you will be more interested in this,' said Anil. 'I have just purchased a parcel of land in Mumbai. I have money to invest but not developing expertise. I think we could work well in partners.h.i.+p.'

Miles did not betray his feelings, but he was immediately excited. Ash Corp. had suffered in the downturn, but it was not a global depression. There were pockets vast pockets of prosperity. Wealth was s.h.i.+fting from the West to the East, the emerging nations riding a wave of conspicuous consumption, and India was a future superpower. Miles knew that his strategy of courting the super-rich, building them apartments beyond their own lurid dreams, would work perfectly there. But first he needed to establish a foothold.

'What sort of figures are we talking about?' he asked casually.

Anil shrugged and named a figure. A huge figure. A figure that represented a big risk for Ash Corp. If it succeeded, of course, Miles could buy his own version of the Simba Simba. Something even bigger, sleeker. But if it failed and foreign developments were fraught with endless hidden pitfalls, as he had found to his cost in Dubai then the company would be dangerously exposed. Miles pursed his lips thoughtfully, his face a diplomatic mask. His poker face. Should he bet or fold? Push all his chips in the middle or stick with the safe option?

He smiled to himself. Safe wasn't in Miles' vocabulary. He had been adamant he would keep investing through the recession. Like a shark, if you stopped swimming, stopped moving forward, you just died. But the banks had tightened up their lending facilities even for clients as wealthy and prestigious as Ash Corp. They were unlikely to extend more credit to him unless he liquidated some a.s.sets first. He would need to free at least fifty million dollars in liquid cash just to get started. How could he get hold of that money so quickly without going to the banks?

A butler dressed in an all-white uniform handed him a gla.s.s of ice-cold la.s.si. It felt thick and creamy on his tongue. Corfu glistened in the distance and the answer became instantly clear to him. The island The island.

Not a year went by without someone making a serious offer for Angel Cay. American oil men, the wealthiest Hollywood celebrities, de luxe hotel groups. Lately it had appealed to Russian oligarchs and the new Chinese super-rich. But Robert Ashford, and then Connie, had always refused to sell. It was their sanctuary. Miles had no such love for the island, and after his parents' death, it was his to do with as he liked. In fact, he would be glad to be free of it.

He put out his hand to Anil.'I think you've got yourself a partner.' He smiled.

66

June 2010

Although it was a ninety-minute journey from London to Miles Ashford's Oxfords.h.i.+re estate, everyone who had an invitation to his summer party came. It was a tradition his father had started gather the top players in every field together, ply them with the finest wines and make them feel as if they were at one of the best parties of their lives. Miles had to hand it to the old man, it was a clever move. The party cost almost half a million pounds but it paid dividends in goodwill, great contacts and information.

As Miles looked down on to the lawns from the terrace, he knew he had scored another hit. It was the perfect sort of hot Sunday afternoon, the kind of hazy English summer day which made Ashford Park look particularly spectacular, and his party planners had done a splendid job converting the gardens into a vision of an Edwardian English park. There were pedaloes on the lake, a bra.s.s band playing a medley of Beatles. .h.i.ts in a striped bandstand, while the peac.o.c.ks strutting around the lawns were no match for the guests Mayfair hedge-fund kings, Hollywood stars, national treasures, sporting legends, Euro-royalty and dot-com billionaires. This wasn't just a party. Miles' summer party was now one of the key social events of the year.

He smiled as his friend Arnaud Dauphin the financier approached with two other guests.

'Excellent party, Miles, as always,' said Arnaud. 'Do you know Randall Kane and Steven Ellis?'