Kiss Heaven Goodbye (3 page)

The truth was that Alex had been quite happy at Macclesfield’s Ryles Park comprehensive until his mother Maureen, a widow, had sat him down after football practice midway through his first year of secondary school.

‘I was talking to Mrs Kennedy,’ she’d said nonchalantly. ‘She had an interesting idea.’

‘Oh yes?’ he’d asked suspiciously. He knew that his mum had been Mrs Kennedy’s cleaner for many years and had become quite close to the rich old lady. He’d been out to her enormous house in the swish village of Prestbury near their home and had been impressed by the size of her cars and the garden; she even had a swimming pool, which to Alex was the height of wealth for anyone.

‘I mentioned your talent for music to her,’ continued his mother, ‘and she thought you could try and get into one of the top boarding schools off the back of it. They offer music scholarships, you know. Mrs Kennedy said it’s a brilliant way of getting a first-class education. ’

‘Boarding school?’ he’d replied, appalled. ‘I’m not leaving my mates for some posho place down south. No way. Never!
Boarding school
.’

Maureen Doyle, however, was a persuasive woman. She had finally convinced Alex to at least visit one of them. That was all it took; Alex had been seduced by the public school’s grandeur and history, the feeling that you were surrounded by the ghosts of people who had done great things and the bodies of people who
would
do great things. So finally, having scored one of their prestigious scholarships, he had agreed to go to Danehurst, a huge gothic pile in West Sussex, which, despite the lacrosse pitches and croquet lawns, felt marginally more normal than the other schools he had visited, plus it was co-ed and in the sixth form you could wear your own clothes. Even better, classes were actually voluntary, although everybody seemed to attend, and in any given year there was likely to be a rock star’s daughter or a movie star’s son in residence.

People like Miles Ashford
, thought Alex, as he peeled off his T-shirt to catch some last rays of sun. Miles was glamorous, rich and connected and had arrived in the sixth form in a silver Bentley and a cloud of rumours, having been expelled from Eton when a master had found a small lump of hashish in his room. He and Alex had not become friends immediately; after all, there were plenty of other privileged neo-aristos for Miles to hang out with at Danehurst. Alex had, unsurprisingly, been considered an outsider, with his northern accent and his strange taste in indie rock, but in the end that seemed to be what Miles was drawn to.

‘You’re interesting, Alex Doyle,’ he had declared, walking into Alex’s room one night. ‘I’m so bored of all these rich halfwits. You think for yourself, you go your own way.’

Of course, it wasn’t long before Alex was going Miles’ way, visiting him in the holidays at the family house in the country, or being invited on head-spinning trips like this end-of-term blow-out on the island. But it wasn’t all one way; Alex had become Miles Ashford’s best friend because, unlike anyone else in his life, Miles knew he could rely on Alex, whatever happened.

Alex reached across to the ice box, pulling out another cold can of Red Stripe, and picked up his Walkman headphones. Ah, the new Pavement EP; he loved the way they were melodic, but spiky and angular at the same time, the way—

‘Arrggh! What the . . . !’ Alex leapt up howling as he felt a cold splash of water across his bare stomach. Wrenching off his sunglasses, he saw Oscar and Angus McKay, two of his Danehurst classmates, doubled up with laughter like stupid little schoolboys delighted at their prank.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ cried Alex, desperately trying to towel off his Walkman and praying it wasn’t ruined.

‘Just checking you’re still alive, Dolly.’ The twins knew their nickname for him grated on his nerves, but at least it had never caught on at Danehurst.

‘What are you listening to anyway? Brass band music?’

Angus, the smaller of the twins, was still so amused he was clutching his rib cage. Alex fought the urge to punch the little squirt.
Don’t screw it up on your last day here
, he thought.
Don’t let them get to you
.

Although Danehurst was a liberal, progressive school which tended to attract the children of a rich media crowd, there was still a sprinkling of snooty and arrogant upper-class bores and Oscar and Angus typified the breed. Their father was a Scottish lord, their mother a minor Hollywood actress, and they had inherited both centuries-old snobbery and nouveau riche superiority from their parents. They had invited Miles to spend Easter in Aspen with them and they had all returned to school as thick as thieves, full of private jokes and stories. The twins had jealously tried their best to squeeze Alex out of Miles’ affections, and while it hadn’t worked, they had spent the final term making his life miserable. Somehow they had found out that his mother was a cleaner and had begun to make snide comments about the dust on the school cups or how their socks needed laundering. And the digs had continued on holiday. To his dismay, Alex had found that two of Grace’s friends, Gabby and Freya, had joined in.
It’s human nature to want to follow the pack, even if you know you’re doing something wrong
, thought Alex.

‘Well, make the most of lying about in the sun, Dolly,’ said Angus with a cruel smile. ‘Tomorrow it’s back to processed peas and meat pies. Where are you spending the rest of the summer – stacking shelves in Kwik Save, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll have an island like this one day,’ said Alex defiantly. ‘When I’m a famous rock star.’

‘Yah, right,’ said Oscar. ‘Dolly wants to be the new Billy Bragg. Up the workers, down the bourgeois. Better not tell the fans about your time moonlighting as a paid-up member of the rich. Then again, interloping hardly counts.’

Alex closed his eyes and pictured himself pushing both of them over the side of the yacht. He would have done it too, if he’d thought that Miles would take his side, but you could never tell with Miles. Besides, after five years at Danehurst, despite his mum drilling her mantra into him that ‘these people are no better than you’, Alex still didn’t feel secure enough in this world to make a stand.

Seeming to lose interest in baiting Alex, Angus pushed past him and grabbed a beer from the cooler.

‘Shit, I can’t believe we’ve got this boring dinner with Miles’ dad tonight,’ he said, pulling the ring off. ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have gone to Nassau.’

Alex couldn’t believe how ungrateful they were. All week they had found something to grumble about, despite the island’s incredible hospitality.

‘Why did you want to go to Nassau?’ he asked, containing himself.

‘To go to the casino, of course,’ said Oscar witheringly. ‘Although I doubt it would have been your scene, Alex.’

‘Do you play baccarat, Dolly?’ asked Angus.

‘Haven’t you heard of the Macclesfield Working Men’s Domino and Baccarat Club? It’s internationally famous,’ said Alex, trying to recover some dignity.

‘What’s going on here?’ asked Miles as he walked up from the cabin.

Miles Ashford was an impressive young man by anyone’s standards. Not conventionally good-looking, he had a manner and confidence that demanded attention. In shorts and a pale blue shirt, he looked older and more sophisticated than his years. Alex thought he resembled a movie star stepping out for drinks on the terrace.

‘Oh, we were just inviting Alex over to Nassau for a flutter on the tables.’ Oscar smirked. ‘I’m not sure he’s keen, though.’

Miles’ bright blue eyes darted between the three boys, correctly assessing the mood in an instant. ‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ he said with an elegant shrug of the shoulders. ‘Gambling’s a mug’s game. Probably why you clowns like it. House always wins – didn’t you know that? That’s why the smart move is owning a casino like we do.’

Angus curled his lip. ‘Business is still gambling, Miles. Stocks, shares. Property.’

Miles smiled. ‘In some respects. Then again, there’s a difference between calculated risk and pure chance. Incidentally, Angus, the gaming tables in Nassau don’t let you in if you’re under twenty-one, and I don’t think that fake ID you made at Prontoprint is going to get past the casino Gestapo.’

Angus looked embarrassed. ‘It might,’ he pouted.

‘Not when the name you put on it is Ron Jeremy.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well, he’s a porn star for a start. Incredibly well hung, which is more than can be said for you, if you believe the rumours Emily Reed was spreading round school.’

Angus glowered at Miles but didn’t say anything. They were all nervous of upsetting their patron. Miles was the Sun King, with everyone else circling round him like courtiers, and not even the twins, with their brashness and arrogance, dared confront him.

Miles walked over and flung an arm around Alex’s shoulder. ‘No, the only thing I’ll bet my shirt on is talent,’ he said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling a smoke ring towards the lavender clouds. ‘It’s why me and Alex have been friends for so long, isn’t it, Al?’

Oscar’s face fell.

‘Looks like we’re about to dock,’ said Angus sulkily. ‘Think I’ll go and find my baseball cap.’

Alex felt a surge of triumph as he watched them go below deck.

‘Wankers,’ said Miles as he watched them go. ‘I don’t know why I invited them here. They do nothing but moan.’

‘I don’t think they like me being here either,’ said Alex.

‘Ah, they’re just jealous of our manly love.’ Miles grinned, punching Alex on the arm playfully. ‘Listen, Dad’s just had some two-man Jet Skis shipped in from Miami. Up for trying them later? Plus I have some charlie back at the house.’

‘Jet Skis and coke? Not at the same time, surely?’ He said it as a joke, but he suspected Miles was serious. Alex wanted to be a rock star, but if he was totally honest with himself, drugs scared him a bit. Brian Dunne from the Moss estate had started on cannabis in the fourth year at Ryles Park and was a proper junkie now, which was why Alex kept his vices to nicotine and booze.

‘Come on, Alex,’ said Miles. ‘Life on the edge. That’s how we like it, isn’t it?’

Alex smiled and shrugged. How could he refuse on the last day of the holiday? How could he refuse Miles Ashford anything? Miles had changed his life. He’d do anything for his friend. Anything at all.

3

‘Is there anything else you wish me to do, Miss Sasha?’

Sasha Sinclair smiled with satisfaction as she looked at the dinner table shimmering in the light of a dozen hurricane lamps. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damn good; better than that mouse Grace Ashford could have done, anyway. Strictly speaking, Sasha was not the mistress of this house and, as a guest, she had no place making the arrangements for the final meal, but if
she
didn’t do it, who would? Miles’ mother Connie Ashford was at home in London. As for Grace? She was probably off somewhere with her nose stuck in a book.
Poor Grace
, she thought.
No idea of social occasions
.

Sasha walked around the table one last time, rearranging a fork here, a glass there, making sure everything was exactly where it should be. It had been her idea to have the dinner at the long table underneath the tiki hut on the beach; a stroke of genius, even if she did say so herself. The golden glow of the lamps on the sand spilled out glorious, flattering light; not that Sasha Sinclair needed any help looking exquisite. Naturally striking, with glossy honey-blond hair and almond-shaped eyes the colour of parma violets, she had brought three trunks for the week-long trip, but tonight the simplest thing in her wardrobe, an ivory kaftan that set off her deep bronze tan, made her look a million dollars. It had been no surprise to anyone that Sasha had landed a modelling contract with an agency in London; she would be going straight to Chelsea from the island tomorrow.

‘Miss Sasha, shall I set the place cards the same as last night?’ asked Juan the waiter.

‘No,’ she snapped, glaring at him. ‘Last night was a disaster.’

The previous evening they had dined in the island’s main house and Sasha had found herself trapped between Grace and her loud-mouthed friend Sarah. Neither of them had shown any interest in Sasha’s funny little story about how she had managed to buy the last Azzedine Alaïa dress from under Patsy Kensit’s nose and they had just chattered on about charity and politics and all those left-wing causes Sarah and her crusty parents thought were so important. Tonight Sasha had taken matters into her own hands, positioning Miles to her left, Freya to her right and – most importantly – Mr Ashford directly opposite.

She followed Juan as he placed the cards on each plate, ensuring he didn’t make any mistakes. The swarthy odd-job man was a permanent fixture on Angel Cay, but tonight there would be dozens of additional staff – butlers, boat boys, chefs – who had been drafted in to make the stay of Robert Ashford’s new guests as comfortable and luxurious as possible, and Sasha couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. Tonight was going to be special, she could feel it. Tonight was when Miles’ father –
Robert
– would recognise her as his son’s future wife and perhaps – though she barely allowed herself to think this – perhaps it would become official with a moonlit proposal. She didn’t expect anything too romantic. She knew Miles was not the most demonstrative of boyfriends – sometimes she even wondered whether he was capable of genuine feeling – but Sasha didn’t really care about that. What she cared about was
position
. She and Miles were a team, the king and queen of Danehurst, and she had no intention of giving that up now term had ended.

Sasha had set her sights on Miles Ashford the moment she had arrived at Danehurst two years ago after transferring from Wycombe Abbey, an academic school where they had gently suggested that the sixth form might not be the best choice for her. Sasha wasn’t fazed; she already had all the qualifications she needed: long legs, full lips and a ruthless focus on what she wanted. Beauty was just as important,
more
important than cleverness, and it had served her well at Danehurst as she had effortlessly seduced Miles. But now she needed to close the deal, make it binding with a ring on her finger before he left for university and she went to London to take up a modelling contract. It was obvious to anyone that Sasha would make the ideal wife for Miles – beautiful, ambitious, a true asset in any society marriage – but she was realistic enough to know that without a permanent claim on him, even she would struggle to keep the relationship together when Miles was at Oxford and she was in London.