Kiss Heaven Goodbye (57 page)

Opening his eyes, he watched Bill’s hand snake round the back of his wife’s neck, stroking her shoulder, looking into her eyes. Miles felt sick, genuinely nauseous. He’d much rather he’d caught them in flagrante; the easy and intimate way they laughed together in the blue shimmering water was harder to take. They looked like a couple in love.

He stepped backwards, padding away into the darkness, quickly grabbing his shoes and coat and turning off the lights. As he was heading for the door, he stopped and went back into the study, emptying his brandy glass and wiping it clear. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d ever been there. Out on the street, he quickly walked around the corner and pulled out his mobile phone, his breath puffing in the cold air.

First he called for his driver, then he scrolled down to Michael Marshall.

‘Michael,’ he said, surprised at how calm he sounded. ‘Sorry to disturb you so late, but I was wondering if I could just pop round? I wanted to test your knowledge of UK divorce law.’

Four weeks later, Miles was standing on his private terrace in the penthouse of the Dubai Laing, gazing out at the Arabian Sea shimmering like a sheet of black onyx in the moonlight. It had been a good day. A very good day. A 737 had shipped in the crème de la crème of London and New York to the launch of the latest Laing Resort. People of taste, influence or simply celebrity, they had each been given one of the ‘restricted suites’ with huge open-plan living space and personal spa complete with full-time masseur and private thirty-metre pool with direct sea views. Pampering, first-rate service and a gorgeous room, followed by a decadent no-holds-barred party on the beach: that was the way to spread the word about the unrivalled luxury of the Laing. A hotel was only as good as its reputation, and after today’s launch,
everyone
was going to want to check into the Laing.

He heard footsteps and turned as Michael Marshall approached him carrying a glass of champagne.

‘Are we celebrating?’

Michael nodded. The Dubai sun had bronzed his face, bringing out the colour of his eyes. In a blue shirt and cream trousers he looked liked Cary Grant. To his surprise, Miles felt himself becoming aroused, or maybe that was the thought of what was about to come.

‘They disappeared to the Bridge Suite about an hour ago and have just returned downstairs,’ said Michael, handing Miles a disc.

‘Good,’ said Miles, sipping the wine. ‘Give me twenty minutes and then send Chrissy up to see me.’

Miles finished the champagne watching the party scene below him. It was still in full swing, but for him, at least, it was over. He showered and changed into his silk pyjamas and monogrammed slippers. He heard the door open just as he was walking back through – perfect timing.

‘Hey,’ said Chrissy. ‘Michael said you wanted me. Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Miles, handing her a glass of champagne. ‘Great party, by the way. You did very well.’

Chrissy had made such a success of the Globe clubs, Miles had felt no qualms about bringing her on board for the development and launch of the Laing ventures. She had been invaluable in softening and feminising his design vision for the Las Vegas hotel, and in sole charge of the opening night, she had struck the perfect balance between glitz and discreet luxury. Here in Dubai, she had once again shown her talent, making full use of the resort’s amazing pool and beach area, keeping the dress code casual – ‘no shoes’ – and handing out Slush Puppies and hot dogs. Yes, the Laing is sumptuous and elite, she was saying, but it’s also somewhere you can have fun. Chrissy had really turned into an asset. She was worth having around, but only if he could keep her under control.

‘So why did you want me?’ she asked.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something. I want to renew our vows.’

Chrissy’s face gave nothing away, she merely raised her eyebrows. ‘Why would we want to do that, Miles?’

He smiled thinly. ‘Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Darling, what a wonderful idea”, perhaps, or “I can’t wait to tell everyone”. Not “Why?”’

Chrissy took a sip of her champagne. ‘Well, things haven’t exactly been brilliant between us recently, you have to admit that.’

‘Then what better way to get through this rough patch?’ said Miles. ‘We can have a fresh start; it will be just like the old days.’

Chrissy laughed wearily. ‘The old days are long gone, Miles, long gone.’

Miles shook his head and looked at her for a moment, then raised his glass in salute.

‘Have it your way,’ he said. ‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’

‘What do you mean?’

He picked up a remote control and clicked a button. The wide-screen television flickered into life, showing a single shot of two people making love. Chrissy’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger.

‘You and Bill seem to have had a particularly good time at the party,’ he said, turning down the volume as the orgasmic groans grew particularly loud. His wife looked shell-shocked.

‘I’m in love with him,’ said Chrissy finally.

‘How touching,’ sneered Miles, clicking off the picture. ‘Shame it can’t go on.’

‘Don’t blame Bill,’ she snapped.‘This is your fault. If you’d shown the slightest interest in me over the last few years, maybe I wouldn’t have had to go to another man. And Bill
is
a man, Miles.’

The colour drained from his face.‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t you think I know, Miles? You’re gay.’

He looked at her scornfully. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘How many dicks have you had in your mouth? Is that how you like it? Or do you prefer to give? Pretend that you’re still a man that way?’

He smiled callously. ‘I really don’t think you should be throwing stones in this particular glass house, Chrissy. You’ve built yourself a very comfortable life here, but it doesn’t take much to destroy someone’s reputation. The Hastings past, the junkie brother, the sordid little lesbian shows in Phuket. I could go on.’

She looked pale. ‘I’ve told you before, I was just a dancer . . .’

‘Don’t be so bloody naïve!’ he snapped. ‘Do you think any of those girls you worked with – who you
performed
with – would keep quiet for you? All it took was a few baht.’

‘It’s lies!’ she cried. ‘I never did anything like that.’

‘I know everything, Chrissy,’ he said fiercely. ‘You fuck people for money. That’s what you’ve been doing since the second I laid eyes on you.’

She stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I want a divorce.’

Miles laughed in her face. ‘Divorce is out of the question. I can’t have that sort of distraction when we’re at such a delicate stage of our expansion. It wouldn’t go down well here. Dubai is a very moral country.’

She snorted. ‘What would you know about morals?’

His expression softened and he raised his hand to touch her face. He’d known she wouldn’t take this lying down.

‘I do love you, Chrissy,’ he said. ‘We’re good together. Look what we’ve built.’

She glared at him. ‘You really expect me to go along with this? Play happy families with you?’

‘Think of it as playing a role, pretending to be something you’re not. You’ve always been good at that.’

‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you?’

Miles gave a small smile. ‘It has been said. Oh, and one other thing, Chrissy.’ He walked over to the desk and picked up a document.

‘What’s this?’

‘A post-nuptial agreement.’ He put the paper on the table next to her and twisted his Montblanc fountain pen open. ‘You see, my father was right about protecting the family interests, and, well, it was the exuberance of youth getting married without doing that.’

Chrissy picked the document up, scanning it, her eyes growing wider as she read.

‘Take my word, it’s a fair agreement,’ said Miles. ‘In the unlikely event of a divorce, you will receive a ten per cent share in Globe Holdings with a ten million ceiling. Don’t let anyone ever say I haven’t appreciated all your input into the business.’

‘You are kidding me?’ she gasped. ‘Ash Corp. is worth billions!’

‘Yes, it is, but I think ten million pounds is a fortune for a hooker from Hastings, don’t you?’

‘You can’t do this.’

‘Oh, I can,’ said Miles. ‘You see, if you don’t sign this now, I am calling the police.’

‘The
police
?’

‘You’ll be aware that infidelity is a criminal offence in Dubai. Punishable by twelve months’ imprisonment, I believe. It’s rarely upheld for foreigners unless a strong complaint is made to the authorities, but, as you know, I am very well regarded in the United Arab Emirates. And once the Dubai authorities see this DVD, I’m sure they’ll want this sort of behaviour held to account.’

Chrissy ran at him screaming, her fingers clawing at his face, but Miles caught her wrists and flung her into a chair.

‘I won’t do it!’ she hissed, her eyes blazing. ‘This is blackmail! I’ll fight it every inch of the way.’

‘You’ll be fighting it from a jail cell, and I hear the conditions in prisons over here are pretty grim. Mind you, I’m sure they’ll be interested in your lesbo show.’

‘Fuck you, Miles!’ she shouted.

‘No, fuck you,’ he spat, grabbing the contract and the pen and shoving them into her hands. ‘Did you really think you could screw me over, flaunt your affair with some underling in my face? No, you’ve fucked up, Chrissy, and there’s a price to be paid. Now
sign
.’

She looked up at him, her face a mask of hate. Then her shoulders slumped and her head hung down. She took the pen and signed the contract. Miles picked it up and slipped it into a leather document folder, then locked it in the safe. When he turned back, Chrissy was looking at him like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap.
Which I suppose she is
, he thought.

‘Please understand, this is just protection, Chrissy,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘It’s going to be far better if we work with each other rather than against one another.’

‘You can’t stop me seeing Bill,’ she said insolently.

He smiled cruelly. ‘I think you’ll find I can. I’m offering him the job as general manager of the Globe Sydney. That should be far enough to keep his filthy paws off you.’

‘He won’t take it.’

‘Oh he will. If he doesn’t, by the time I’ve finished muddying his reputation he won’t be able to get a job shovelling shit from the pavements in Soho.’

He stretched across to the small mahogany table and picked up the phone. ‘Room service?’ he said. ‘Mr Ashford here in the penthouse. I’d like you to prepare something special, perhaps that thing you do with quail? And retrieve a bottle of forty-seven Petrus from the cellar. My wife and I have something to celebrate.’

57

December 2008

When the Toddington Hall renovations were finally completed, after almost four years of work and five million pounds on structural and cosmetic alterations, Julian decided to throw a weekend house party to celebrate. To Grace’s disappointment, he invited art dealers, collectors and gallery owners, a very staid and serious crowd, and she was beginning to wish she’d laid on hors d’oeuvres on the terrace instead of a hog roast.

‘Never let it be said that your boyfriend doesn’t like the sound of his own voice,’ whispered Sarah Brayfield, loitering at the back of the west wing gallery, sipping a much-needed glass of red wine. Grace giggled behind her hand, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl bunking off a field trip. They were forty-five minutes into a guided tour and had yet to leave the gallery, where Julian was standing in front of his paintings and talking expansively about his early abstract period.

‘He’s just proud of what he’s done.’ Grace smiled.

‘Well I’m not sure about the paintings, but you can’t fault what he’s done with this place,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m just hoping you’re going to adopt me and I can move into the bedroom in that Rapunzel turret.’

Her friend was right. Toddington Hall was absolutely spectacular. The house itself was a labyrinth of rooms, secret turrets and huge bedrooms, while the grounds had miles of woods, lush meadows and lanes flanked by lavender and cow parsley where Grace would spend hours riding her bike in the sun.

‘Well that’s enough about my daubings,’ said Julian. ‘Now I’ve got something a little special to show you. Follow me, everyone. To the screening room.’

Grace smiled at the guests, showing them towards Julian’s specially constructed darkroom. He was keen to show off his new project, ‘Newspeak’, a wall of sixty-four television screens which would randomly flick between TV stations around the world. He had installed a giant satellite screen on the roof for the purpose.

‘I think I’ve seen enough for one day,’ whispered Sarah as they sloped off to hide in the kitchen, toasty from the Aga filling the room with heat. ‘Feels like we’re back in the Bristol house,’ she said, settling at the farmhouse table. ‘Remember how the boiler was always on the blink? Either tropical conditions or icicles on the cold tap.’

Grace nodded and filled up their glasses. ‘That seems a lifetime ago.’

‘For you maybe,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m still single, childless, careless . . . only difference is its five-hundred-quid Frette sheets keeping me warm at night.’

‘You were adamant last month you like being single.’

‘I said I’m not afraid of being single. Thing is, I don’t want just
anyone
. I want the right one. Speaking of which, did you read about Alex and Melissa’s divorce? Sounds messy.’

‘I spoke to him a few weeks ago,’ said Grace. ‘I invited him down tonight actually, but he couldn’t make it because his mum isn’t well.’

‘Still carrying a torch for little Alex?’ Sarah teased. ‘Can’t imagine what you’d see in a gorgeous millionaire rock star like that.’

‘Sarah, I’m a happily unmarried woman,’ said Grace, feeling herself blush.

‘I know that, but we can still talk about our “What if” men, can’t we?’

If Grace was honest, she had been dwelling on that very thought lately. She had begun to wonder how she had managed to end up rattling around another big, beautiful mansion with an absent partner and just a handful of staff for company. Julian was away four nights out of seven working on his ‘urban study’, an extension of his Newspeak project which involved installing a series of TV screens in and around east London. For that end, he was using a rented studio in Shoreditch rather than the five-thousand-square-foot space he’d just had built in the grounds of Toddington Hall. It felt like history was repeating itself.