Kiss Heaven Goodbye (21 page)

‘Would it be possible to get a glass of water?’ she said, not wanting to go back into the cold quite yet.

Ben pointed towards a tiny kitchen at the back of the studio. As she walked through, she inspected the mannequins and sketches on the walls.
Elle
had been right to feature Ben Rivera, she thought. His designs were sumptuous and innovative, but also flattering to the female form. Approaching the kitchen, she spotted a large French armoire from which billowed pale lilac chiffon, like a cloud at sunset. She stepped closer. The gown was exquisite; such fine needle-work and tailoring, it could have been the very finest Parisian couture.

‘What’s this?’ she asked with a rush of excitement.

‘It was a costume for the Royal Ballet,’ said Ben flatly.

‘Has it been used?’

‘Eventually, no,’ he said with disappointment.

‘Ballet dancers are skinny, right?’ said Sasha, thinking out loud.

He snorted. ‘That is
not
a party dress, my dear. It took two hundred hours to make that dress. Five thousand beads sourced from Rajasthan were stitched on by hand.’

‘Please?’ she said.

‘It’s not for sale.’

‘Please.’

He laughed. ‘You march in here, you ask for the earth, you don’t even tell me your name.’

‘It’s Sasha and I’m not asking for the earth. Just this dress.’

‘How do I know you are not going to run off with it?’

She smiled. ‘You don’t.’ She met his gaze. ‘How many gowns do you sell a month, Ben?’

He looked defensive. ‘It’s not about quantity . . .’

‘Of course, and you can see the quality in every stitch.’ She nodded sincerely. ‘But the tragedy is I bet you don’t do more than twenty dresses a year, do you? A few rich women know your number but that doesn’t make you Gianni Versace. Look, this is one of the biggest parties of the year and my client is a very connected woman.
Very
connected. You have an amazing talent, Ben, but you need to market yourself. You can be the best designer in the world, but if no one knows your name, you’re going to stay in this room in Battersea for a long time.’

Watching his face, she knew she’d hit home. Unless he was independently wealthy and was doing this for a hobby, there was no way he could afford to turn down selling the dress, and if she could sweeten the deal by offering him the lifeline of ready-made advertising to his key audience, all the better.

‘I couldn’t let it go for less than eight thousand pounds.’

‘Five thousand,’ she said quickly. ‘Think of the publicity.’

‘How will you get me the money?’

‘I will take you to her. Bring your pins and your sewing kit. I promise you, Ben, this will change your life.’

‘You’re late,’ said Annalise, opening the door with a stern expression. Her face was fully painted with evening make-up and her hair had been swept up into a dramatic chignon, but she was still wearing a white towelling robe. ‘And who is this?’

Sasha walked straight in, taking Annalise’s arm and leading her out of Ben’s earshot.

‘This is Ben Rivera. He’s the new Lagerfeld,’ she whispered. She didn’t want him getting ideas above his station, not before she had the chance to use him to the fullest.

Upstairs, Ben confidently swept the dress out of its linen bag and Annalise’s tense facial expression relaxed instantly. The gown floated through the air as if it was made of feathers.

‘Is it couture?’ whispered Annalise.

Sasha and Ben nodded. Strictly speaking it wasn’t couture. Strictly speaking only the handful of designers who showed their collection twice a year in Paris and were members of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture were considered ‘couture’. But the Chambre weren’t coming to the party.

‘Normally you don’t buy dresses like this, Annalise, you
order
them,’ said Sasha confidentially. ‘But today Ben Rivera himself has come to fit you with his latest creation because I told him about your incredible taste.’

Eagerly Annalise stripped off and allowed herself to be fitted in the gown, Ben weaving his magic with the corset using delicate stitches until it fitted like a second skin. Sasha went into Annalise’s dressing room and selected a pair of silver Manolo Blahniks and drop diamond earrings. She looked magnificent. When she moved, the long slits in the fabric, meant for the movement of a dancer, showed off her toned legs in an elegant, sensual way.

‘You look beautiful,’ cooed Sasha.

‘What do I owe you?’ asked Annalise, the expression on her face as she looked at herself in the mirror something like love.

‘Eight thousand for the gown,’ said Sasha, giving Ben just the slightest smile. Without hesitation, Annalise opened a drawer in her dresser and pulled out a chequebook, writing one to Ben, then another for Sasha, which she folded and slipped into her hand whispering, ‘You’re fabulous.’ She pulled a white mink shrug over her shoulders as they all headed down the stairs. ‘Wait till my girlfriends hear all about you,’ she said. ‘They’re going to be green with envy.’

Opportunity hung in the air and Sasha reached out for it with both hands.

‘How about lunch to discuss a new wardrobe?’ she asked.

‘Great idea,’ said Annalise. ‘How about San Lorenzo at one tomorrow?’

‘I look forward to it,’ said Sasha.

Straight afterwards, Sasha would hand in her notice to Venetia. She didn’t need a has-been weighing her down. No, Sasha Sinclair was on her own now, and she was taking Annalise Tuttle and all her high-spending friends with her.

19

The club was called the Youngblood Society and its intentions were clear from the start. Hipper, more meritocratic than the Carrington and Bullingdon, less fey than the Piers Gaveston, more debauched than the Assassins, Miles wanted to create a modern club for a modern Oxford. He did not consider himself a snob, simply superior, and he wanted his club to be full of men like him, brilliant men who would one day be Masters of the Universe and who wanted to play hard along the way.

Wandering around the Youngblood’s inaugural Christmas party, he smiled to himself. No wonder some of the Carrington boys were sniffing around, angling for membership. The party was being held at Graveseye House, a four-storey former rectory just outside Oxford. Ideally, Miles would have preferred a grander venue. Then again, as a second home belonging to the parents of Alan Johnson, an eccentric Scot angling for membership, it had cost nothing to hire, which had freed Miles up to spend more money on the actual party. When he’d been researching the history of the gentlemen’s club in preparation for creating the Youngbloods, Miles had stumbled across an account of the Great World, a legendary club in 1930s Shanghai, a place that fascinated him for its blend of opulence and debauchery. On the Great World’s first floor you could find fortune-tellers and gambling, but by the top floor you would discover opium and sing-song girls, the Chinese courtesans. That was exactly the ambience Miles had been aiming for, and as he glanced around, he could see that the theatrical set-builders he’d employed to transform the house for the night had got it exactly right. Scarlet silk drapes disguised the Johnsons’ flocked wallpaper, gold and velvet oriental furniture had been brought in and the entire space was lit by candles spilling ghoulish shadows around the rooms. It had taken much longer to co-ordinate than he had imagined, but by God, it was worth it.

‘Miles!’ shouted a dozen voices as he strolled through the ground floor, accepting handshakes and slaps on the back. There were only twenty-five Youngblood members, each dressed in the society uniform of French navy coats with gold frogging and brass buttons, but they were surrounded by models dressed as angels, oriental waitresses and a handful of magicians, contortionists and other performers.

Miles took his place at the head of the dining table.

‘I think everyone’s expecting a few words, Ashford,’ said member Tom Samson.

Miles nodded and stood, straightening his white military tailcoat as he prepared to speak. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began to hoots and cheers, quickly dying away as he gave them a stern look. ‘Gentlemen, you represent the best students at the best university in the world,’ he continued, his voice commanding and clear.‘Unlike many elite clubs at Oxford, you’ve been chosen not because of where you come from, but because of where you’re going.’

They all cheered, thumping their hands on the table, rattling the fine china. Miles liked the sound of his own voice but he knew his fledgling hedonists hadn’t come here for a lecture.

‘Fellow ’bloods, I won’t keep you, because there’s fun to be had, memories to be created and a bond to be forged. But let this historic phrase ring in your ears: the Youngblood Society is officially in session!’

The members roared their approval as Samson handed Miles a sword and, gesturing for the crowd to stand back, he swung it in a glittering arc towards a jeroboam of champagne standing on the table in front of him. To the amazement and delight of the Youngbloods, it sliced the top of the bottle clean off, the bubbling liquid shooting into the air like a geyser.

Amazing what a little spectacle can do to people
, thought Miles as he began to circulate through the throng. On the second floor, two strippers writhed around a brass pole in the centre of a platform specially erected for the evening. Smiling, Miles thought of Alan Johnson’s parents – currently in Thailand for Mr Johnson’s diplomatic career – and wondered what they would make of this. Their son, who had his head over a long line of cocaine, was clearly not giving it much thought. And what would his own father think of all this? he wondered. Certainly, he knew, Robert would give him hell about his lacklustre academic performance at Oxford, which had been a consequence of all the time the Youngbloods was taking up. Lately his tutors had been on his back for missed essays and poor attendance, but Miles couldn’t rouse himself enough to care. Why did it matter whether he got a first- or third-class degree – Ash Corp.’s human resources were hardly going to penalise him for poor exam results, were they?

‘Let me fuck the albino,’ whispered a second-year PPE student, Ian Thomas.

‘I believe her name is Abigail,’ said Miles with amusement. ‘And she is yours for the right price.’

‘Anything, I’ve got to have her,’ Thomas said hungrily.

Miles smiled as he watched him beckon to the girl, who willingly followed him up the stairs. He was pleased with all the women the agency had sent over to act as waitresses and ‘companions’, each of them beautiful, accommodating and not afraid to multitask. ‘High-class escort girls’, that was how the agency had described them, but the insinuation was that they were all prepared to do anything for money. That suited Miles perfectly. He had transformed the bedrooms in the eaves of the house into seductive candlelit boudoirs and he would be charging the club members a hefty premium on top of whatever the girls asked. And judging from the constant stream of couples – sometimes threesomes – up the stairs, it looked as if business was going to be brisk.

A tall redhead came and sat beside him. She was older than the others, maybe even thirty. Crossing her legs, long and slim under elegant cream slacks, she leant over to him and stroked the underside of his jaw.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ she breathed.

Miles regarded her coolly. ‘Perhaps later.’

She gave a slight shrug but didn’t move away.

‘I take it from the white uniform that you’re the organiser,’ she said.

‘Founder of the society,’ corrected Miles.

‘Impressive.’ She smiled, running a finger up and down the stem of her champagne flute. ‘This is better than some parties I’ve been to in London and Paris, and believe me, darling, they were organised by some of the best hosts in the business. Movie stars, madams, even an ambassador’s wife with a taste, shall we say, for the exotic. You’re keeping up with the best of them.’

Miles was enjoying the flattery until she lowered her voice.

‘But are you quite sure it’s safe?’ she whispered.

‘Safe?’

‘There are some quite high-profile young men here this evening,’ she said, nodding towards Juan Carlos Constanta, the son of Mexico’s richest industrialist.

‘You’ve done your homework.’

‘I find it pays to be informed. An event like this isn’t just about the girls and the decor. It’s about security.’

‘Security from whom?’

She waved a hand. ‘Oh, the press, the police. A tabloid journalist could end careers here before they’ve even started.’

Miles frowned, privately acknowledging that she had a point. He had gone through life feeling bulletproof; with the exception of his spliff at Eton, he was one of those people who just didn’t get caught out. So tonight he hadn’t given
security
much thought.

‘It’s all under control,’ he said smoothly.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she purred, putting the palm of her hand across his crotch.

He lifted her hand from his trousers and placed it back on her own thigh. She was annoying, not arousing him.

‘If you’ll excuse me, this amateur has to go and check out the party,’ he said tartly.

He stalked downstairs to the basement, which had been turned into a low-lit opium den.

‘Problems, Milo?’ asked his friend Jonathon, catching Miles’ expression.

‘Nothing that won’t cure,’ he said, reaching for the hubbly-bubbly pipe Jonathon was holding and taking a puff. The smoke filled his lungs and sure enough his earlier irritation began to seem rather distant and unimportant.

‘Hey, you heard of the internet?’ asked Jonathon in a rather dreamy half-stoned voice.

Miles shook his head slowly as a mellow haze washed over him. ‘Should I have done?’

‘It’s the future, my friend. It’s knowledge, power. A guy called Assad, French guy at Magdalen, is looking to start up an internet café in Oxford. He needs investors. You interested?’

‘Is he good?’ asked Miles.

‘Apparently brilliant.’

‘Cool. Get me a meeting with him.’

Miles looked through heavy-lidded eyes at the bodies lying around on sofas and plump cushions, some half-naked. He had spent so long looking forward to this event but now he just wanted to lie here and for everyone else to just sod off home.