Kiss Heaven Goodbye (65 page)

‘Well, either way, Steven is pissed off. He’s tired of the entire business community thinking that Sasha is Donald Trump in stilettos, when really all she’s doing these days is confusing marketing with partying. She should be careful anyway. It can’t be good for business when the CEO and the president of Rivera can’t stand being the same room.’

Miles nodded, his neutral expression never betraying how he was absorbing every detail and formulating a plan. He had been watching Rivera more closely for a while now. Just before Christmas he’d had one of his team prepare a report on the company which told him that the label hadn’t been too affected by the recession thanks to clever diversification and a flourishing accessories and scent line. However, the fact that Steven and Sasha were at each other’s throats was good news; in fact, it was excellent news. Looking back, Miles had been naïve to get rid of his holding. At the time he had been happy with a hefty return on his original investment, but now, quite suddenly, he wanted Rivera back. After the death of Robert Ashford, he had promised his mother that he would not interfere with the company out of spite or revenge, but now she was gone, and anyway, circumstances had changed. He would never forgive Sasha for what she had done; plus this was business. Miles could do with a company like Rivera; a luxury goods firm would sit nicely next to the Globe and the Laing brands. It wouldn’t do his own image any harm either – he could be seen as a style leader, and that could open up all sorts of opportunites for Ash Corp.: cars, travel, jewellery, media, any area where design and trend-setting were key.

He stared out into the party as he began to think. Certainly the timing was bad. If he made a bid for the company now, it wouldn’t come cheap. He had an injection of cash coming in this summer – the Fairmont hotel group had made an excellent offer to buy Angel Cay – but that was all earmarked for the residential Mumbai project with Anil. And then there was Sasha to consider. Although she was only a minority shareholder and couldn’t officially block a sale, she could still make things very, very difficult. No, what he needed was an interim buyer, someone who wanted to get in and out quickly with a tidy return – but not too tidy. A name popped instantly into his head. Simon Assad. He was the French guy he remembered from Oxford, the one who had made his first million with a string of internet cafés in the big university towns and had gone on to be one of the sharpest financiers in town. Assad had a fund that was comprised partly from his own wealth but with the financial muscle of other major investors. And he loved short-term investments that would turn over a quick profit.

Miles took a long drink of his wine as he felt a surge of excitement: he was sure that Simon was the man for the job, but how to play it? He couldn’t tip Assad off directly that Rivera was ripe for an approach. No, he would have to share this information with a trusted source, who could then advise Assad to make the move himself. And then Miles would be perfectly poised to take the company over.

Seeing that Peter Mandelson had just arrived, he walked down the steps to greet him with a renewed spring in his step.
Thanks, Daddy
, he thought to himself.
This party really is quite a splendid idea
.

67

At thirty-seven, Simon Assad was a man in a hurry. He had graduated from Oxford at twenty, finished his MBA at Stanford three years later and quickly made his name with Denton Barnes, one of London’s top investment brokers. Now he was out on his own, he worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week and for the past five years had taken no holiday longer than a three-day break. The plan was to retire at forty, and as that milestone was hovering in the distance, he had just three years to make another hundred million dollars. Rivera would help him some way towards that goal.

On paper Rivera had been one of the most exciting investment opportunities in some time. A strong, glamorous brand, it had enormous potential to expand quickly and successfully into the Chinese and Indian markets which would make for a fast and profitable return – exactly what Assad was after. The tip-off had come to him from Nat Churchill, a friend from Oxford who was now one of the most respected bankers in the City. An initial bid had already been made to Randall Kane, which had allowed Assad to start due diligence: the process of assessing a business’ true worth before a sale.

Sipping a glass of mint tea, Simon looked at the documents in front of him. They were transcripts of interviews he had commissioned with the staff, getting their opinions on the company’s strengths and weaknesses. Staff members were often reluctant to take part, seeing this sort of thing as disloyal or even dangerous – after all, who knew if the sale would go ahead and they might be left having slagged off the MD? But in this case, the company staff had been particularly open, either singling out Steven Ellis or Sasha Sinclair for praise. Everyone in the company was agreed that Steven was an excellent CEO but Sasha’s contribution, while more nebulous, was just as, if not more, crucial. She was a powerhouse networker and marketeer. More importantly she was the face of the brand, the person thousands of women wanted to be. For Simon it was a dilemma, as it was just as clear that Rivera couldn’t continue with them both. If he was going to buy the company he had to choose which one to keep as part of an ongoing management team. Which was why he had arranged supper at Mark’s Club with Nat Churchill, having asked his old friend to invite along Miles Ashford. Miles had been an early backer of Rivera, plus Nat had told him that he’d dated Sasha at school. Hopefully Miles would be able to give him some insight.

Ashford was late of course, breezing into the club with a silver-tipped umbrella and talking to half a dozen diners before he even got to the table.

‘Simon. You remember Miles Ashford from Oxford?’ said Nat as Miles finally sat down opposite him.

‘Of course,’ said Simon. Everyone knew Miles Ashford at Oxford. Assad had never actually met him – but he had seen him in the pubs along the river or smoking outside the Bodleian in his gold-piped military coat, like Napoleon on his lunch break. Usually Assad hated the gilded elite with their flash cars and braying girlfriends, but in a strange way he had admired Miles. The short-lived Youngblood Society was the stuff of Oxford legend, and Miles had gone on to make a huge success of the Globe brand without any support from his wealthy father, something which certainly demanded respect. Simon had expected him to spend supper boasting about his successes and name-dropping his celebrity connections, but in actual fact he was quiet and polite, laughing along at Nat’s overblown account of his recent expedition to Antarctica.

‘Just going for a slash, then I’m off,’ said Nat, glancing at his watch.

Both men watched him go.

‘Do you have to go too?’ asked Miles.

Simon shook his head. ‘Not really, why?’

‘I’ve got some excellent Scotch back at mine. Vintage single malt from a tiny distillery on Jute. We didn’t really get to chat tonight and I assume that’s what you wanted?’

Simon smiled. He should have known Miles Ashford would have seen through his ‘old mates together’ ruse.

‘Sure, that sounds good.’

Six months earlier, Miles had finally separated from Chrissy. Although he had no intention of divorcing her quite yet, she had stayed in their Notting Hill home whilst he had moved to a huge penthouse overlooking Hyde Park.

Back home he opened a drinks cabinet hidden behind a series of mirrored panels and poured two generous measures of the Scotch.

‘May I smoke?’ asked Simon.

‘Let’s go on to the terrace,’ said Miles.

They went out into the mild night air. The terrace was illuminated by soft light and a black granite water feature provided a soft gurgling soundtrack.

Assad leant against the balcony, and as he watched Miles take a seat on a mahogany recliner he felt an erotic stir. He wasn’t sure whether it was because his family were staunchly conservative French Catholics or because the macho culture of the City forced people to stay in the closet, but he had only recently admitted his true sexual orientation to himself. But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from the job in hand.

‘So I hear you’ve offered for Rivera,’ said Miles, swirling the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass.

‘Did Nat tell you?’

‘No, just a rumour,’ he replied. ‘But I’m assuming it’s true, otherwise why else are you here? Not just for my excellent Scotch.’

They exchanged a flirtatious glance. Assad had heard the whispers about Ashford’s sexuality, that he liked men
and
women. It wouldn’t surprise him. Men like Ashford wanted everything.

‘What do you make of Sasha Sinclair?’ he asked.

Miles put his hands behind his head and looked thoughtful. ‘I think she’s ambitious and a talented marketeer,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t agree with the style magazines who say she’s the most brilliant fashion and business brain of her generation.’ His laugh did not convey unkindness, rather affection, and Simon was intrigued. He’d done his homework of course; Miles had known Sinclair for two decades and had directly invested in her company. The chances were he knew her better than anyone.

‘I suppose what I’m asking is whether you think Rivera can thrive without her?’ said Simon.

Miles downed his Scotch. ‘Look, I’ll be frank. In the early days Sasha’s vision and drive was crucial. But now? Things move on, Simon. Gucci didn’t exactly go to the wall when Tom Ford left the business. Besides which, Sasha was never even the designer, just the stylist. Yes, she’s an ambitious woman with good taste and a fat contacts book. But since Rivera has become big business, she’s only really been, well, just a very pretty figurehead.’

Simon nodded. He’d almost been convinced by the arguments of the Rivera staff and respected observers of the fashion industry that Sasha Sinclair was
the
key component of the label. But from a purely commercial viewpoint, that made no sense at all. Steven Ellis was a strong leader backed up by a talented design team. What role did Sasha Sinclair play beyond being a photogenic and well-connected brand ambassador? Then there was her million-dollar clothing allowance and her seven-figure remuneration package: outrageous for the amount of time she appeared to be in the office. No. What Miles Ashford was saying made perfect sense: Sasha Sinclair was well past her sell-by date.

He glanced at Miles, his legs slightly apart on the lounger, two buttons open on his shirt, and allowed himself a moment to imagine in what other capacity he might well be useful, but then pushed the thought away.

‘Well, thanks for the Scotch, Miles, it was excellent,’ he said, standing up.

‘Leaving so soon?’

‘Perhaps we can talk again if this bid comes off.’

Miles held his gaze. ‘I’d like that.’

Simon walked towards the door. Temptation wasn’t what he needed right now. In the world of Simon Assad, everything was strictly business.

In the back of her car on the way to Claridge’s, Sasha flicked through her diary, both pleased and concerned that every single weekend was booked up until September. Hen nights, house-warmings, polo matches, fortieths in Ibiza and weddings in the Loire – if any more invitations came through, she was going to need a bigger mantelpiece. The weeks in between were no less hectic: parties, openings, premieres; it was getting hard to squeeze the business meetings in between. But when Simon Assad had called her the day before to invite her for dinner, she made a space in her diary immediately.

As a director and shareholder in Rivera, she had been aware that Assad had made an initial bid to Randall. She wasn’t necessarily against another sale, of course. After all, diluting her shareholding would net her several more millions and finally propel her on to the
Sunday Times
Rich List, but she was also well aware that Simon would not want both Steven and her attached to the new management. She’d already had quiet words with key members of staff, enticing them with bonusess and promotion assurances if they would tell Assad that Sasha was an irreplaceable visionary. Hell would freeze over before she allowed Steven Ellis to push her out of her own company, she thought as she left her driver idling by the kerb and walked into Claridge’s.

Despite her resolution not to sleep with him – Sasha had met few men for dinner who did not want to finish the evening in bed – she had made a special effort for their meeting, even getting her blond hair cut into a severe bob which made her feel more in control and powerful. Assad was already waiting for her in the elegant dining room at a quiet table by the window.

He got up from his seat and kissed her on the cheek, but she was disappointed when he didn’t even show a flicker of appreciation for how she was looking. In fact his manner was brusque, efficient, purposeful. If she’d been expecting lingering aperitifs, flirtatious small talk and footsie, she was very much mistaken – she knew immediately that this was strictly business. And serious business.

‘Sorry for getting you here at such short notice,’ said Simon. ‘But this shouldn’t take long. You’ll be aware I have made a preliminary offer for Rivera.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you also probably know that this company cannot continue with you and Steven steering the ship. The atmosphere is toxic, Sasha, and it’s starting to affect staff morale. More importantly, the industry is getting wind of it, which is going to affect business.’

‘I agree that something’s got to give, Simon,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light and non-confrontational. ‘If you ask around, I’m sure they’ll tell you that Steven’s “steering” has lacked the vision a creative company like Rivera requires.’ Sasha knew that someone with a purely commercial mind like Assad might favour Steven’s contribution to the business and she had to stay focused on what she wanted out of the Assad deal. She wanted Steven out, yes, but she also wanted a financial windfall from selling part of her shareholding and a greatly improved remuneration package.The only way to do that was to make Simon see that while bean-counter CEOs were ten a penny, an international player, a creative visionary, like her was indispensable to the business. Then again, she didn’t want to seem callous.