Kiss Heaven Goodbye (16 page)

‘Well I guess that depends on which toad you’re backing,’ said Gabriel, looking at her meaningfully as Grace felt a shiver of pleasure.

When the race was over, Grace and Gabriel took their drinks to a booth at the back of the dark bar.

After an hour, she felt dizzy from drink and anticipation of where the night might lead.

‘Are you from Colombia?’ she asked, trying to recall what she’d read on the back of his book.

‘I actually live in New York now, but my family are from Parador, just close to Colombia. People call us Colombia’s little echo.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning we have many of the same problems. Coca, from which cocaine is made, is our biggest cash crop, and while we don’t produce anywhere near as much coke as Colombia, we still have too much for the needs of Parador.’

‘So it all gets exported?’

He nodded. ‘The drug cartels are more powerful than the government. Which causes trouble for my family. My brother is leader of CARP, one of the opposition parties in Parador. They pledge to bring down the drug lords. Although how much anyone can really do is questionable.’

‘I had no idea,’ said Grace, leaning closer. ‘So is your dad a politician too?’

Gabriel looked away. ‘He’s dead.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘He was assassinated over twenty years ago in Palumbo, our capital, just before he was about to be elected president. I was thirteen. Since then, Parador has taken huge strides backwards; we’re almost a third-world country now. Two years ago my uncle took over the party and my brother Carlos is the new figurehead, fighting for justice and social initiative, campaigning against our corrupt government who accept money and favours from drug barons.’

‘Why not you?’

‘I was born second,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Anyway, Carlos is good; the people believe in him. I’m not sure the same would be true with me.’

‘But isn’t it terribly dangerous for your brother?’ asked Grace, her face so serious, Gabriel laughed.

‘All change involves risk,’ he said. ‘I am proud of him for making a stand.’

‘I wish I could say the same about my brother,’ replied Grace, instantly wishing she hadn’t.

‘Really? Do you not get along?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not sure he’s a good person. The frustrating thing is that nobody else sees it. He’s been lined up to take over my father’s company even though he’s arrogant, expectant, underhand . . .’

‘Or maybe because of it.’

Grace laughed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Anyway, I can understand the pressures of family expectations,’ said Gabriel. ‘They’re proud of my achievements, of course, but Parador is an inward-looking country. To them, anything which happens outside the motherland is irrelevant. Including my writing career.’

‘Yeah, my dad’s like that with the business. I could be the world’s greatest artist or musician, but if you’re not doing it for the family, it’s not important.’

Gabriel raised his bottle in a toast. ‘To being the black sheep of the family. To rebellion!’

Grace was uncomfortable discussing it. Then again, the fact that she had even talked about Miles at all suggested a connection with Gabriel she hadn’t felt with anyone else.

‘So where next?’ she said, not wanting the night to end.

‘Actually, I did have one idea,’ said Gabriel. They walked back down Macrossan Street until they came to his hotel, and he summoned a valet to get his car.

‘Being involved with the movie has one or two advantages,’ he confided in a low voice. ‘First, they all think I’m some LA hotshot here and treat me like a king. And second . . .’ he said, as the valet roared up in a silver convertible Saab, ‘I know a few secrets.’

They got in the car and drove up into the hills, the headlights carving their way through the dark. For a second Grace thought how foolish it was being driven off by someone she had known just a few hours. But then she felt the thrill of being in a fast car with a strange man, not entirely sure where she would end up, or how the night would finish.
So this is what adventure feels like
, she thought and giggled.

‘What’s up?’ asked Gabriel, his eyes momentarily flicking across.

She smiled. ‘I was just wondering where you’re taking me.’

He grinned. ‘You’ll see . . .’

The car was plunging down some very narrow and steep roads now and Grace could tell from the glorious aroma on the breeze ruffling her hair that they were close to the sea. The ocean at night had a special smell that spoke of mystery, promise and an emptiness waiting to be filled.

Gabriel parked the car and pulled a bag out of the boot. Then he took her hand and led her through the rainforest towards the sea.

‘Are you sure you know where you’re go—Wow!’ gasped Grace. They had walked out of the trees on to the most beautiful sweep of silver moon-washed beach she had ever seen.

‘How did you find this place?’ she said with wonder. ‘I’ve been here months and I’ve never heard anything about it.’

Gabriel had dropped to his knees and was leaning over an oil lamp. ‘The location manager told me about it.’

‘Is this going to be in the movie?’

He struck a match and a dim glow came from the lamp. ‘They couldn’t use this place as a location because there’s no access for the trailers and trucks. But at least we get to see it.’

He spread a blanket on the pale silky sand and they sat down, bathed in soft light. Grace kicked her flip-flops off and stretched her long legs out on to the sand. The intimacy of the situation – their closeness, the complicit silence only punctuated by the gentle roar of the sea – made Grace want to blurt out her innermost thoughts, desires and closely guarded secrets. For the first time since she had left England, she felt light and giddy and
happy
. She felt free, as if she was letting go of her old self, coming up for air in a whole new life where she could be whatever and whoever she wanted.

‘What are you smiling about?’

‘This.’

‘Good.’

He reached over and kissed her, gentle touches at first, growing deeper, his fingers burrowing through her hair. Instinctively she sat up and pulled off her top in one movement as he unbuttoned his own shirt. She pulled the fabric from his arms and stroked the circle of dark chest hair, the hard ripple of muscle, as he unclipped her bra. His hands moved across her body, the curve of her rib cage, the tip of her nipple, which made her gasp.

‘You don’t know how sexy you are,’ he murmured.

For once in her life, she felt it. Not because the shape of her body had changed over the last year, or because she was lit by the flattering glow of the oil lamp. But because of how her skin felt at his melting touch. It had been too long since she had been intimate with anyone, and then it had been student fumbles. Nothing like this. Finally she understood what all the fuss was about.

He unzipped his shorts and slid out of them. His lips brushed her throat, slow butterfly kisses, working down her body as his fingers peeled off her panties. Spreading her legs, he blew lightly on her swollen clitoris, then stroked it with his cock as she groaned in almost unbearable pleasure. Finally he dipped into her, and as they rocked together, feeling his thickness, her stomach knotted in pent-up desire, her back arching as she reached the brink, and then
oh yes, oh yes,
that sweet release, the flood of liquid fire that rippled towards every nerve ending in her body. And then a blissful calm.

Afterwards, they lay on the blanket, damp bodies spooned together, naked in the soft saffron lamplight.

‘I’ve never done that before.’

‘Sex?’

‘Sex on a beach.’

‘Me neither.’

She laughed again and pushed him over on his back.

‘What’s funny now?’

‘Oh, just that I thought a sophisticated literary figure like yourself would be doing this sort of thing all the time.’

‘Well, I hope I can keep disappointing you this way.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked, feeling bold.

‘Seeing you, hopefully.’

‘For a repeat performance.’ She giggled.

‘Come back to my hotel with me,’ he said, circling his fingertip around her nipple. ‘Why wait until tomorrow?’

15

Miles lifted his head from the pillow. What was that? His fuzzy brain, slowed by two bottles of claret at the Bear Inn, struggled to focus. He cursed at being woken up from his slumber. These poky little rooms in Oriel College were too old, too creaky, and with their stone floors and wood-panelled walls, you could hear everything all the way down to St Mary’s Quad. Miles grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head. He did, of course, have one of the better rooms in college, but still it was more than any civilised person could be expected to bear; and what
was
it, anyway?

Growling in annoyance, he pulled the pillow away and lifted his head, cocking an ear. It sounded like singing ... no, chanting. It was almost haunting, melancholy, like a Gregorian chant, as it echoed down the halls. And then a shout went up: ‘We’re coming, you wanker!’ Finally Miles’ sluggish brain made the connection and his heart gave a leap: it was the Carrington Club!

The Carrington was the most elite society at Oxford, nominally a dining club, in reality an excuse for the very top boys from the best families in the university to get together and forge vital links with people who would be the next generation of political leaders and captains of industry. The ‘Carrie’ was over two hundred years old, and membership was strictly limited: always male, usually second- or third-year undergraduates and almost exclusively confined to those who could afford it – even the uniform, of Oxford-blue tails and amber waistcoat, bought only from Ede and Ravenscroft, cost skywards of a thousand pounds. And of course, you did not ask to be a member of the Carrington Club. You were selected by secret ballot and your invitation to join was delivered by way of a visitation from the club’s membership in the dead of night. Traditionally, they would kick in your door, trash your room and force you to undergo a variety of humiliating initiation rituals. A smile crept on to Miles’ face. He’d expected his invitation, of course, but not this soon. It was rare for a member to be initiated in his first year, unless they were considered an exceptional candidate. Father won’t be able to ignore this, he thought as the noise swelled to a crescendo, bracing himself for the boot on his door.

It never came. The chanting, shouting procession passed on down the corridor, then stopped. There was a sudden terrible silence as Miles strained his ears, frowning. What the hell was going on?

Then there was a crash from next door and a roar of a dozen voices at once, and rising above them all, the shouts of one excited voice calling them all bastards. Miles recognised it immediately: Ewan Donaldson, a boy from the year above him at Eton. He was popular, sporty and clever; more importantly, his father was some influential European ambassador. They had come to initiate Donaldson, not Miles. ‘Bastards is right,’ hissed Miles, pulling the pillow back over his head.
Bastards!

Even after the noise had faded, Miles had found it impossible to sleep, tossing and turning, running it over in his head. Donaldson was such a stiff; the only reason anyone talked to him was because he was good at rugger and because they wanted to get to know his father. The Carrington could be so bloody predictable. Finally he admitted defeat when the dawn light began pushing under his curtains, and he got up and dressed, sitting in his window seat, chain-smoking. He tried not to get too worked up but it was a struggle. He was genuinely enjoying Oxford. After the Angel Cay holiday, he’d been desperate to go to university, having spent the rest of the summer staying with various friends to avoid seeing too much of his sister and parents. Oxford had been his sanctuary, his refuge; although at times like this it was traditional and stifling.

At eight thirty there was a knock at the door and Miles glared towards the entrance. He had no desire to speak to anyone this morning, and anyway, who would be bothering him at this hour? Everyone knew that Miles tended to pass on morning lectures as a rule. He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed.

‘Enter.’

Jonathon Taylor bounced in. He was an old Etonian friend also reading History at Oriel. He was big-boned, awkward and a little clumsy – Miles had always thought of him as a big floppy Labrador. But like the dog, Jon had hidden teeth, and he always had his ear to the ground regarding gossip.

‘Where were you at breakfast?’ he said, taking one of Miles’ cigarettes without asking and perching on his desk. ‘Did you hear about Donaldson and the Carrington?’

‘Of course I fucking heard about it,’ snapped Miles. ‘I could hardly miss it, could I? Bloody racket woke me up and kept me up all night. Don’t they realise prelims are around the corner? I’ve got a good mind to complain to the Dean.’

Jonathon laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, they absolutely trashed his room and sprayed fire extinguisher foam all over his Patek Philippe.’

‘Boo fucking hoo.’

Jonathon slapped his leg in delight. ‘You’re jealous!’

‘Jealous?’ said Miles, snatching his cigarettes back.

‘Come on, Ashford. You want to join the Carrie and Donaldson got the nod.’

Miles glared at him. ‘What crap. The Carrington’s for blue-blooded pricks. Their pranks are idiotic and juvenile. I mean, what’s the point in smashing up Dono’s stuff? If they’d done that to me, I’d have had the coppers on them so fast it would make their heads swim.’

Jonathon was laughing now. ‘So you’re telling me you’d have turned them down? Not that they’re ever going to ask you, of course.’

Miles narrowed his eyes at his friend. How dare he? At least two members of the Carrington had discreetly indicated they were putting his name forward. But then, Jonathon Taylor was rarely wrong when it came to these things.

‘What have you heard?’ said Miles.

Jonathon grinned, knowing he’d hit a nerve. ‘Come on, Miles, don’t act so surprised,’ he said. ‘You’ve pissed off so many people over the years, not just here, but at Eton, you can hardly expect there to be a unanimous vote for you.’