Kiss Heaven Goodbye (4 page)

‘That will be all, Juan,’ said Sasha as soon as the table was set to her satisfaction, and he scurried off, leaving her alone on the beach. Sasha looked up towards the main house, where she could see the windows casting out a pumpkin glow. More than anything, she wanted to hold on to all of this. She loved Angel Cay, not only the white beaches and lush scenery but also the house with its dramatic entrance hall and stylish interior, an artfully arranged mixture of expensive pottery, mismatched antique furniture and bright batik drapes. But to keep this in her grasp, she needed Miles.

Sasha smiled at the prospect of marriage. While she found Sarah Brayfield’s ‘I don’t need a man’ brand of feminism misguided, she had never expected to want to settle down so soon. But Miles was one of the most eligible young men in the country; even
Tatler
had said so. The timing wasn’t ideal, of course; she would much rather have spent her twenties jetting around the globe on glamorous modelling assignments and being wooed by movie stars before she found her perfect man. But sometimes things didn’t go entirely to plan and you met a man so spectacular you couldn’t let him go; Yasmin Parvaneh hadn’t hung around when she’d met Simon Le Bon, or Priscilla Presley and Elvis. Besides. It could be a long engagement.

Steeling her resolve, she thought of her handsome brother Adam, who’d left Durham University five years ago with his 2:1 degree and the world at his feet. On his gap year, waiting for his Civil Service fast-track place to begin, he had met and fallen in love with a Chinese girl, following her to Hong Kong, where he was now a lowly police sergeant with a one-bedroom apartment you couldn’t swing a cat in. ‘Don’t make Adam’s mistake,’ her mother had said. Sasha did not intend to. Marriage was an alliance, not a romantic ideal.

She turned and stared out to sea, the white caps of the breaking waves just visible in the twilight. There was one fly in the ointment. Alex Doyle. Lately, Miles seemed to spend every waking minute with his best friend from Danehurst. Sasha had no idea what he saw in such an oik or what they found to talk about. Yes, Alex was good-looking, of course, but he was so boring, always going on about politics and miserable indie music. Still, he wouldn’t be a problem after tonight; they were off to different universities and everyone knew that childhood friendships soon faded away when you met more interesting and sophisticated people at uni. Sasha felt a rare flutter of anxiety as she realised that the same thing would apply to her unless she managed to have a serious conversation about the future with Miles tonight. She turned and marched back towards the house with determination. She knew what she wanted: she wanted this life, she wanted money, luxury, influence and a five-carat classic-cut sparkler from Tiffany. She wanted commitment from Miles Ashford and she was going to close the deal tonight. And nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to get in her way.

4

On the terrace below the house, two waiters were circulating with trays of canapés. Miles waved them over for a large vodka tonic. Dinner was not being served for another hour, and he didn’t think he could get through the night without a decent drink.

He thought of his earlier conversation with Alex – a grand tour of Europe – and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Until today he’d had some vague plans about hooking up with a few old Eton friends who were making a killing running illegal raves up and down the country. It sounded fun, but it was still work. After a handful of trust funds had kicked in on his eighteenth birthday, it was not as if Miles needed the money. But with three months of summer stretching out in front of him, he fancied more of an adventure. Already he had thought of a rough itinerary. Marbella for the tarts, the Greek islands for the parties, St Tropez for the little beach clubs, and Rome was always fun, he thought, imagining himself drunk, on a scooter, weaving his way through the streets of the Eternal City.

‘Starting a little early, Miles?’

He turned around to see his father looking at him disapprovingly. Even in middle age, Robert Ashford was still an attractive man. Despite a weak chin, he had strong blue eyes and thick brows that framed his face. His pale brown hair veered off uncomfortably into ginger in the sun, but the straw panama he put on to cover it was always worn with stylish rakishness. Miles shared the eyes and the elegant dress sense but had benefited from his mother’s better bone structure. They looked like uncle and nephew rather than father and son.

‘I’m on holiday,’ he replied with truculence.

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Robert wryly.

‘What does that mean?’ he asked, swigging his vodka defiantly.

‘I’d like you to come and see me after dinner. I’ve prepared a schedule for your time at Ash Corp. Sorry it’s taken me a little longer than I thought, but I’ve been waiting for the right project to come along for you to get your teeth into.’

‘Time at Ash Corp.?’ Miles looked at his father narrowly, still annoyed at the way Robert had gatecrashed his holiday, elbowing his way into their final-night dinner and then turfing them out a whole three days early because he had clients arriving.

Robert nodded. ‘You’ll be spending the time until you start at Oxford with me.’

Miles could scarcely believe his ears. ‘What?’

‘We’ve discussed this.’

‘Me? Work at the company this summer? I thought you were joking.’

‘Why would I joke about that?’

‘Because I’m knackered. Because I’ve spent the last six months swotting for my A levels.’

‘Not too hard from what I hear. I know Oxford require only two Es, but they do expect you to
aim
a little higher.’

Miles glanced away from his father, knowing the older man had a point. Miles had never been one to distract himself with study when there were pleasures in the world to be indulged in. Miss Lemmon, Danehurst’s head teacher, had taken him into her study at the end of the lower sixth and told him he’d be lucky to read theology at a polytechnic if he didn’t start applying himself. But beneath the waster front, Miles was fiercely intelligent and had taken Lemmon’s words as a challenge. He insisted he be entered for the Oxford entrance examination and after a two-week flurry of cramming had aced his exam and interview and was now due to go to Oriel College to study Modern History.

‘Look, it’s an interesting project. Surveying potential sites for a premium outlet village. Not a new idea, I know. Basically we’re importing the concept from the designer villages like Woodbury Common in New York State. But I think it could really work in this country. The site we want is just outside Coventry. Then there’ll be plenty of initial meetings with luxury labels to gauge interest in taking units. This is a huge market for us, a tremendous opportunity, Miles.’

‘You want me to spend the summer in
Coventry
?’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoilt your fun, Miles,’ said Robert Ashford, although his glib tone suggested quite the opposite. ‘Remember, it’s the business that funds all this. It’s not all pleasure.’

‘I understand the principles of business,’ sniffed his son. ‘It’s very straightforward, isn’t it? I mean, I get why your mates are flying in tomorrow,
for pleasure
. You need financing and generous planning permission to build your skyscrapers, so you fly your contacts out here and ply them with Krug and hookers.’

‘Pardon?’ hissed his father.

‘Prostitutes,’ said Miles innocently, prepared to use his trump card. ‘I mean, that’s why you’ve sent Dick Donovan into Nassau, isn’t it? To sort out the arrival of half a dozen hookers? I have to say, it’s not the sort of thing that makes one think more highly of one’s parent.’

Robert glared at his son and Miles felt a wave of power surge through him, grateful for the information he’d gleaned earlier that week. He knew his father took mistresses – over the years he’d noticed items of clothing around their London house that were definitely not his mother’s, and had heard Robert in his study whispering things that certainly weren’t to his business advisers. Then, on Tuesday, he’d heard a couple of staff sniggering about Ashford’s ‘female entertainers’. Slipping the pool cleaners two hundred dollars to tell him more, Miles had learnt that every year on Robert’s corporate Angel Cay weekenders, exotic dancers would perform on the beach, then clients would choose one of the girls for some personal entertainment of their own.

‘So Mum knows about the dancers, does she?’ challenged Miles. ‘Well then, how about we keep it between the two of us and in return you’ll let me have one last summer of freedom? It’s not that I don’t want to work for the company, Dad. I just don’t want to work at Ash Corp. quite yet.’

‘Don’t threaten me, Miles. It doesn’t suit you. Now perhaps we should defer this conversation till we both return to London. You’ve spent enough of your time and my money on ski slopes, exotic beaches and yachts. You are coming to Ash Corp. to work and that is an end to it. So don’t even think about trying to get the upper hand with me. Because I will make life so difficult for you it will make your head spin.’

Miles clenched his fingers into tight fists. He would gladly have strangled his father at that moment.

Nothing he had ever done had been good enough for Robert Ashford, from the moment Miles had proudly brought home a prize for excellence from his first school. The teacher had praised his creativity, intelligence and application, saying that through enthusiasm and hard work he was ahead of most of the boys in the year above him.

Robert had taken one look and dropped the certificate in his office waste-paper basket. ‘Only
most
of the boys?’ he had said. ‘Second place is never acceptable, Miles.’

Miles had been five years old.

He had waited in vain for a word of encouragement from his father – for his progress at the Pony Club, on the athletics field or in his exams. Even when Miles had flown through the Common Entrance exam to get into Eton, Robert failed to pass comment. It particularly grated on Miles’ nerves that to the outside world, his father was Mr Charming, supporting good causes and working tirelessly for charity. Whispers were that Robert would go into politics; only last month, with Thatcher’s power waning,
The Times
had run an opinion poll entitled ‘Who would you like to see as PM?’. Robert Ashford had polled over twenty-three per cent: not bad considering he was the only non-politician on the list. ‘Isn’t he a nice guy?’ people would say to Miles. ‘He must be so much fun to have as a dad.’

How wrong they were. Miles had never been able to please his father, and so he had rebelled. At fourteen, after a string of misdemeanours, his mother had sent him to see a child psychologist –
a shrink!
– who had suggested that Miles’ bad behaviour was the one thing that got his father’s attention. And so he partied harder and worked even less, until he was thrown out of Eton for drug use.

Part of Miles didn’t even want to go to Oxford, knowing that his looming matriculation there was something that secretly delighted his father. Then again, the elitism of Oxford and the fact that his father hadn’t even gone to university, let alone one of the best educational establishments in the world, appealed to him. He wasn’t going to turn the opportunity down because of spite.

Without another word, Robert Ashford turned on his heel and sloped off through the sand towards the house.

Miles suddenly felt a pair of warm hands cover his eyes as a damp kiss was planted on the back curve of his neck. He could barely be bothered to turn around and look at her.

‘Hey, lover,’ purred Sasha, stroking the lapel of his navy linen suit. ‘Why don’t you go and change? You look like Gordon Gekko on holiday in that thing.’

‘Maybe that’s the look I’m going for,’ he said flatly. If there was one thing Miles detested it was comments, derogatory ones, made against the sense of style he took very seriously.

‘Go and put something more casual on,’ pressed Sasha. ‘Shorts or something. I’ve got a few things planned for this evening.’

‘Like what?
It’s a Knockout
?’

‘Don’t be silly. Just chilling out. Making out,’ she whispered.

Miles felt his eyes close in frustration. Yes, he had enjoyed being top dog at Danehurst, and yes, being a power couple with Sasha had been a large part of that, but it did not make up for the fact that everything she did seemed to annoy him. The way she laughed, the way she flicked her hair, the way she spoke to her friends, it all set his teeth on edge. Even the sex was all a bit try-hard and it didn’t really turn him on. He knew it had been a bad idea inviting her to the island but it had been hard not to, especially when she had got wind that his sister and her friends were going to be here too.

She took his reluctant hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So what was that heavy chat with your father about?’

‘Me working at the company.’

‘Wow! That’s a great idea. I mean, really, what’s the point in wasting three years at Oxford when you know what you’re going to end up doing anyway?’

‘I’m going to Oxford,’ he replied, irritated. ‘He means working for the summer.’

‘Still,
amazing
,’ she laughed, squeezing his fingers again. ‘We can go flat-hunting when we get back to London. A little love nest
à deux
. What about Notting Hill or Chelsea? Yeah, definitely Chelsea. I was looking in the classifieds of
The Times
the other day and there was this great little mews for sale in that square behind Pucci Pizza. Not that I’ll be eating pizza once I start modelling, but it was really cheap. The house I mean. Like only nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds or something.’

‘I’m not working for my father this summer.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m going round Europe.’

Sasha looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose I could get an agent in Paris.’

‘No. I think you should stay in London.’

‘But what about Europe? Can we go to St Tropez?
Please?
’

‘I’m going with Alex.’

Her face crumpled and he felt a well of disdain.