Kiss Heaven Goodbye (64 page)

She looked at her watch. Damn, it was half past one already. She had a lunch to get to.

‘And this is exactly why I can’t stand here arguing with you,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘I’m just off to meet Princess Jali Hassan. And before you ask, it’s work. Not pleasure. I have an interesting commercial opportunity for us.’

‘What is it?’ he said sceptically.

She didn’t have time for this, but she was aware she needed his support. She sighed and turned back.

‘As you know, the princess’ family owns half of Abu Dhabi. They’ve seen what’s happened in Dubai and are looking to be the new tourist force in the Middle East.’

‘What has that to do with Rivera?’

‘They want to stage a major polo tournament out there and are looking for an international luxury brand to be the headline sponsor.’

She frowned at the silence, watching Steven’s round face crinkle, the glasses pushing up his nose. He was so conservative.

‘I’m not sure how relevant hospitality marketing is any more in this climate.’

‘Hospitality marketing is
completely
relevant, Steven,’ she said, her irritation mingling with a slight sense of panic. She’d already told Princess Jali that of course Rivera would be the headline sponsor. The lunch today was to get the ball rolling, and Sasha was especially looking forward to fleshing out the details – preferably at Jali’s family palace on the Gulf Sea.

‘Times are tough, Sasha, even for luxury brands, and we need to look really hard at where we put the marketing spend.’

God, he’s so small-minded
, she thought.

‘But this isn’t just about marketing, Steven. One of our company priorities is global expansion. The Gulf is a hugely important market for us and Abu Dhabi is eclipsing Dubai as the new Middle East playground and honey-pot for investment. Look at Formula One. The newest race on the circuit is there.’

‘You’re right, Sasha,’ he said, pausing just long enough to make her think she had won, then continued. ‘
One
of our company priorities is global expansion. But in an economic downturn, we still have to tighten our belts, and I won’t sanction wasting hundreds of thousands of marketing money on sponsoring a polo match.’

Sasha ground her teeth. She could tell when Steven was about to dig his heels in, and as chief executive he had the final say-so on sign-offs unless it was a matter that needed board approval. How was she supposed to explain
that
to Princess Jali over Dover sole?

The answer it turned out was simple: she postponed the lunch, citing a migraine, and made a call. If there was one person more powerful than Steven in the company, it was the chairman of Duo Capital, Randall Kane, who in essence was their owner. Randall had a hands-off approach to the business which Sasha usually appreciated; she didn’t like anyone micro-managing any part of her life. And anyway, why would Randall care how Rivera was run, as long as it was making him money? The label was just one of his many investments, spread out over the globe, and so he was constantly in the air, taking meetings in New York, Houston or Shanghai.

She booked the best table at Scott’s restaurant and was wearing her most flattering figure-hugging cashmere dress as she slowly walked to the table, swinging her hips.

‘Randall,’ she smiled, leaning across to give him a kiss and a brief flash of cleavage. ‘So sorry to miss you at the board meeting the other day. You know how it is with these royal weddings.’

‘No I don’t,’ he laughed. ‘But I hope you’re going to tell me.’

Randall was a fifty-something East Coast WASP who had made a fortune in hedge funds over the last decade. Sasha was sure this was why he was investing in Rivera – lunches with one of the most desirable women in fashion, plus the social ammunition of Sasha’s juicy insider gossip which he could then use at his next dinner party.

‘Funny you should ask about that.’ She smiled. ‘I actually have an exciting business proposal for you involving a princess.’

‘A princess? She single?’

Sasha laughed. She knew she had him. Steven wasn’t going to like her going over his head, but he had forced her hand. It was dog eat dog out there.

‘Well, you know Abu Dhabi is the most exciting Gulf state right now,’ she began, touching Randall’s hand conspiratorially. ‘Oil-rich, progressive. Well, an interesting commercial opportunity has just presented itself ...’

65

April 2010

Miles sat on the deck of the super-yacht
Simba
, listening to the gentle breeze ruffling the sails and the chink of the ice in his vodka. He had his own tub of course – the 125-foot
Conifer
he’d inherited from his mother – but the
Simba
, belonging to the Indian steel magnate Anil Chawla, was magnificent. Two hundred and forty feet of sleek engineering genius, it could glide along with wind power like an America’s Cup winner, or cruise effortlessly across the Pacific in a gale using the Rolls-Royce engines. Plus it had its own swimming pool. Luxury yachts were the boardrooms of the twenty-first century, where global deals were hatched in secret, and it was infinitely preferable to talk business here, moored off the coast of Corfu, than it was in some bland air-conditioned office block in London or Manhattan. Miles was not prone to envy, but he certainly admired this boat – and the man who owned it.

‘I’m sorry about your mother, Miles,’ said Anil. He was sixty years old and looked twenty years younger, his latte-coloured skin remarkably free of lines, his wiry body yoga-toned. He was worth a conservative estimate of twenty billion dollars, but the whisper was that there was far more hidden away.

‘Thank you,’ said Miles, looking away and sipping his drink. His grief was still raw. He had never been particularly close to Connie, in fact had only seen her two or three times a year in the past decade, but her loss had hit him harder than he had imagined. He had felt quite choked speaking at the funeral in front of four hundred people; his grief being worse because he simply hadn’t expected it. Despite her slight frame, Connie had always been the Ashford family’s powerhouse, and he just couldn’t believe she was dead. The precise events surrounding her death were still unclear, but apparently it was as simple and tragic as that she’d had a few too many drinks celebrating her grandchildren’s birthday and had got disorientated wandering around Julian’s monstrous mansion. One fall in the dark and that was it – she was gone.

They talked for a while about the people they knew in common. It felt good to be treated as an equal by someone of Anil’s stature.

‘I hear that the Chelsea Museum is about to come on the market,’ said Anil.

Miles had heard that rumour too. Every heavy-hitting developer was going to be after the site. It was without question the most exclusive pocket of London.

‘Are you going to bid?’

Miles shook his head. ‘Unlikely. I think I have enough property in London at the moment.’ The truth was that he wasn’t sure he could afford to take on the project. The last two years had been tough; they’d only just managed to scrabble out of the Las Vegas debacle by the skin of their teeth and he’d lost millions in the project in Dubai when the Middle Eastern bubble burst. The money was still coming in, but Ash Corp.’s reputation had been dented and Miles badly needed to spread out into new markets. And for that he needed allies.

‘Yes, I have seen your developments there – and in New York,’ said Anil. ‘In fact I bought my son one of your Hyde Park penthouses. ’

Miles was of course aware of that. In 2007, at the height of the market, Anil had bought it for forty-five million as a wedding gift for his son.

‘Well if London is overplayed for you, perhaps you will be more interested in this,’ said Anil. ‘I have just purchased a parcel of land in Mumbai. I have money to invest but not developing expertise. I think we could work well in partnership.’

Miles did not betray his feelings, but he was immediately excited. Ash Corp. had suffered in the downturn, but it was not a global depression. There were pockets – vast pockets – of prosperity. Wealth was shifting from the West to the East, the emerging nations riding a wave of conspicuous consumption, and India was a future superpower. Miles knew that his strategy of courting the super-rich, building them apartments beyond their own lurid dreams, would work perfectly there. But first he needed to establish a foothold.

‘What sort of figures are we talking about?’ he asked casually.

Anil shrugged and named a figure. A huge figure. A figure that represented a big risk for Ash Corp. If it succeeded, of course, Miles could buy his own version of the
Simba
. Something even bigger, sleeker. But if it failed – and foreign developments were fraught with endless hidden pitfalls, as he had found to his cost in Dubai – then the company would be dangerously exposed. Miles pursed his lips thoughtfully, his face a diplomatic mask. His poker face. Should he bet or fold? Push all his chips in the middle or stick with the safe option?

He smiled to himself. Safe wasn’t in Miles’ vocabulary. He had been adamant he would keep investing through the recession. Like a shark, if you stopped swimming, stopped moving forward, you just died. But the banks had tightened up their lending facilities even for clients as wealthy and prestigious as Ash Corp. They were unlikely to extend more credit to him unless he liquidated some assets first. He would need to free at least fifty million dollars in liquid cash just to get started. How could he get hold of that money so quickly without going to the banks?

A butler dressed in an all-white uniform handed him a glass of ice-cold lassi. It felt thick and creamy on his tongue. Corfu glistened in the distance and the answer became instantly clear to him.
The island
.

Not a year went by without someone making a serious offer for Angel Cay. American oil men, the wealthiest Hollywood celebrities, de luxe hotel groups. Lately it had appealed to Russian oligarchs and the new Chinese super-rich. But Robert Ashford, and then Connie, had always refused to sell. It was their sanctuary. Miles had no such love for the island, and after his parents’ death, it was his to do with as he liked. In fact, he would be glad to be free of it.

He put out his hand to Anil.‘I think you’ve got yourself a partner.’ He smiled.

66

June 2010

Although it was a ninety-minute journey from London to Miles Ashford’s Oxfordshire estate, everyone who had an invitation to his summer party came. It was a tradition his father had started – gather the top players in every field together, ply them with the finest wines and make them feel as if they were at one of the best parties of their lives. Miles had to hand it to the old man, it was a clever move. The party cost almost half a million pounds but it paid dividends in goodwill, great contacts and information.

As Miles looked down on to the lawns from the terrace, he knew he had scored another hit. It was the perfect sort of hot Sunday afternoon, the kind of hazy English summer day which made Ashford Park look particularly spectacular, and his party planners had done a splendid job converting the gardens into a vision of an Edwardian English park. There were pedaloes on the lake, a brass band playing a medley of Beatles hits in a striped bandstand, while the peacocks strutting around the lawns were no match for the guests – Mayfair hedge-fund kings, Hollywood stars, national treasures, sporting legends, Euro-royalty and dot-com billionaires. This wasn’t just a party. Miles’ summer party was now one of the key social events of the year.

He smiled as his friend Arnaud Dauphin the financier approached with two other guests.

‘Excellent party, Miles, as always,’ said Arnaud. ‘Do you know Randall Kane and Steven Ellis?’

Miles smiled broadly, shaking the men’s hands. He was aware of both men’s involvement with Rivera.

‘I’ve heard of both of you by reputation of course. Randall, I believe we met when I was out in New York?’

‘I do believe I dropped by the Globe Club more than once.’

‘You and the best of Manhattan.’ Miles smiled. ‘So how is the lovely Sasha?’

‘She’s fine,’ said Randall. ‘You two go back a long way if I remember correctly?’

‘We do. And of course I was the backer in the early days of Rivera. Is she still earning her keep?’

Miles did not miss Steven Ellis’ tight, fake smile: it told him more about the state of the company than anything a market analyst could cook up.

‘Sasha is Sasha.’ Steven shrugged, his smile never slipping.

After a few minutes of polite chit-chat, Randall and Steven disappeared across the lawns to check out the vintage car collection that had been parked beyond the bandstand. Miles and Arnaud exchanged raised eyebrows.

‘So what’s happening there?’ asked Miles. ‘Steven looked like he was sucking on a lemon at the mention of Sasha.’

‘No love lost between him and Ms Sinclair.’ Arnaud smiled.

Arnaud and his Argentinian wife Letizia were legendary social entertainers and were always to be found at the epicentre of London’s elevated social scene. Consequently, he could usually be relied upon to know the latest gossip.

‘Letizia was at lunch with Steven’s wife at Harry’s Bar on Friday,’ he said. ‘Apparently Steven and Sasha are barely speaking to one another these days.’

‘Why not?’

‘Steven is furious that despite all the hard work he puts into the company, Sasha takes all the reward. You heard she’s got an MBE for services to fashion?’

Miles shrugged. ‘To be fair, she did build the company up from nothing before the private equity boys got involved.’

‘Maybe,’ said Arnaud. ‘But she has never really been hands-on with the business side. That was always left to Steven and Lucian, the previous CEO. The company has only become an international force since they had a chief installed who knew what they were doing.’

Miles chuckled. ‘I don’t see what the problem is. After all, Sasha has always been a brilliant self-publicist. And now she’s just a glorified figurehead for Rivera, it gives her the opportunity to do what she does best: flouncing around the world in sexy little dresses talking about herself.’