Alex picked up the bottle and looked at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Absinthe.’
‘Really? Isn’t this stuff banned?’ asked Alex, looking at the label. He’d heard of absinthe – it was supposed to be the drug of choice for artists and poets. He liked the sound of it.
‘It’s not technically illegal,’ said Miles. ‘You can get it if you know where to look. This is from Czechoslovakia. I got it back in February when I stayed in Prague.’
Miles produced two small glasses, a spoon and what looked like sugar cubes from his shorts pockets.
‘It’s eighty per cent proof. Excellent quality,’ he said distractedly as he poured a measure of the green liquid into each glass. Placing a sugar cube on the spoon, he dipped it into one of the glasses then balanced the spoon on the rim. Glancing at Alex, he flicked his gold Dunhill lighter and with a ‘pop!’ the sugar cube lit up.
‘Wow,’ said Alex, genuinely enthralled by the ritual. It was one thing he had noticed about the rich: they liked their rituals.
Miles tipped the sugar cube into the glass and poured water on top, dousing the flames. He passed the warm glass to Alex, who gingerly lifted it to his lips and took a sip. It didn’t taste all that great but he was determined not to show it.
‘Baudelaire, Rimbaud, even Aleister Crowley, the wickedest man in the world, loved this stuff,’ said Miles as he set his own drink on fire.
‘Aren’t we supposed to see a green fairy or something?’ said Alex, feeling his lips burn.
‘Fuck knows,’ said Miles, knocking his back. ‘Just drink it and see.’
They each had another, then Miles gestured towards the beach.
‘Let’s walk,’ he said. ‘And leave the bloody guitar here. I’ve had enough of Angus’ singing tonight.’
‘But I’ve had absinthe,’ said Alex with a smile. ‘I’m supposed to be at my creative peak. Maybe the world’s greatest pop song will come to me as I stare out to sea.’
‘I’m prepared to take that risk,’ said Miles.
They walked down a path along the side of the house which sloped gently downwards towards the beach at the east of the island. The vegetation thickened and for a few minutes they were walking through dark forest, the only light coming from the moon shining through the trees.
Alex was grateful when they emerged on a small crescent of sand known as Paradise Cove. The moon sent a cone of shimmering silver across the black sea and they walked out to the water’s edge.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Course.’
It was something he had been desperate to ask Miles for a long time. ‘Why are we friends?’
It had taken Alex a long time to fit into Danehurst. For the first three years he had taken refuge with the two other music scholarship boys, Kim Yip, a violin prodigy, and Ivan Blade, whose parents had defected from the Soviet Union. They stuck together like glue, bonded by their furious work ethic. Not that Alex needed endless practice because to him, playing music was as natural as breathing. But by the time he joined the sixth form, he considered himself quite cool. He loved bands like the Jesus and Mary Chain and The Fall, read magazines like The Face and ID and kitted himself out in army surplus clothes. Cool. But not cool enough to be friends with Miles Ashford.
‘You’ve been quite a project in social engineering, son,’ said Miles with a slow grin. ‘I think I’ve proved how anyone, even a horrible northerner like you, can acquire social polish just by hanging around with me.’
‘Right,’ said Alex, fearing all along that that might have been the answer.
‘I’m joking,’ he said flatly.
Alex felt relief, and then a strong pang of affection for his friend. ‘Well in that case, I’m going to miss you.’
‘We’ve got the grand tour of Europe to come yet.’
‘I thought you were just showing off to Oscar and Angus.’
‘Me? Show off?’ Miles smiled.
‘Come on, Miles. You know I can’t afford a trip like that.’
‘If you can pay for your travel, I’ll sort out the rest.’
Alex put a friendly arm around Miles’ shoulder and took his cigarette off him for a long drag. ‘When do you start at Oxford again?’
‘October sometime.’
‘That’s late, isn’t it?’
‘Short term-time for the elite, my friend,’ said Miles as he lit another cigarette. ‘Still, you can come down any time of course, although I expect I’ll be very busy. The thing about Oxford is that there are more opportunities than there is time to take them up.’
‘What do you have in mind? President of the Union? The student paper?’
‘God no! The social life.’
‘You can come to London, too.’
‘And stay in your fleapit student digs?’ Miles said mischievously. ‘No thank you.’
‘I need to sit down. That absinthe is evil.’
‘Over here.’
They walked back up the beach to the gentle slope of still-warm sand that ran up to the virgin forest behind them and flopped down. For a few minutes they lay in silence, looking up at the inky star-sprayed sky. Alex wished he had his Walkman with him. A moment like this deserved a soundtrack – something bittersweet and melancholic like The Smiths or REM. He closed his eyes, trying to lock the memory into his brain.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Miles, laughing gently. He had turned on his side and was propping himself up on his elbow, watching his friend with amusement.
‘Trying to remember the moment. You know, for when I’m stuck in my fleapit student garret with a view of nothing but dry rot.’
‘Alex?’
Before Alex even realised what was happening, Miles had moved towards him, cupping his hand around Alex’s chin to pull him closer, his lips descending on to Alex’s in a soft kiss. For a moment Alex relaxed into Miles’ embrace; it felt strange, but not unpleasant, like biting into some unknown exotic fruit. Miles’ tongue gently pushed into his mouth, his breath shuddering with arousal, and they were caught in a moment of desire. But, in a rush, Alex suddenly felt Miles’ erection through his thin linen shorts and he sprang away as if he’d been burnt by fire. He scrambled to his feet then froze, paralysed by embarrassment, looking intently away from his friend, not daring even to breathe.
‘I thought that’s what you wanted,’ said Miles quietly. His voice was low, with a hint of menace.
Alex glanced at his friend, who was now lying back on the sand, and suddenly he felt angry. It was typical of Miles to twist this situation and make him feel as if that sudden, unexpected kiss had been his own fault. Alex certainly had affection for Miles, in fact it may even have bordered on hero-worship at times, but this wasn’t what he wanted, not at all. He felt his stomach clench: had it been what Miles had wanted all along? Was that why they had been such unlikely friends? He searched his mind for memories at Danehurst – an unwanted touch perhaps or a lingering look as they showered together after rugby – but there was nothing. He shook his head. Miles wasn’t gay; he’d been going out with Sasha for ever.
‘Come on, Miles,’ said Alex with a nervous laugh. ‘We’re both just a bit pissed. No need to get all soppy, eh?’
Miles sat up and fixed Alex with a stare as he lit a cigarette. ‘You fucking started it.’
Alex suddenly realised they weren’t alone. Both boys looked back towards the path. Standing watching them was a young man in Angel Cay’s navy-blue staff shorts and polo shirt.
Miles jumped hastily to his feet and gave the boy a confrontational stare. ‘What are you looking at?’
The boy took a few steps back. ‘Sorry, nothing.’
He had an American accent. Alex could see he was about their age.
‘Who the fuck are you anyway?’ snapped Miles, his cheeks colouring in the moonlight.
‘I’m Bradley. I arrived this morning. Just working on the boats for a few days.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Miles. ‘And what’s that?’ He pointed to the bo
ttle in the boy’s hand.
‘Just a beer,’ he said defensively. ‘I’m just having a drink. It’s Independence Day and all.’
‘I don’t care what day it is,’ replied Miles, his voice hard. ‘This isn’t a holiday for you. You are an employee of my family and you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just one beer.’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence,’ snapped Miles. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said the boy nervously, backing away. ‘Listen, I’d better go.’
Miles flicked his cigarette across the sand. ‘If you’re not drunk, then walk in a straight line and pick that up.’
For a few seconds the boat boy stood motionless, not knowing what to do.
‘Go on,’ said Miles, a nasty edge to his voice. ‘Pick it up.’
Shrugging, the boy walked slowly over to the cigarette and bent to pick it up. He was still crouched on the sand when Miles took another cigarette from his packet and threw it six feet behind Bradley.
‘Now pick that one up.’
Reluctantly, Bradley turned round and stooped to get the cigarette.
‘Now that one,’ Miles said, flicking another cigarette, ‘and that one.’
Cigarettes rained down on the sand. Miles was laughing now as the disorientated boy crawled around, fumbling to pick them all up.
‘Come on, get a move on,’ he barked. ‘It shouldn’t be so difficult if you’re sober.’
‘Miles, stop it,’ said Alex. ‘This isn’t funny.’
‘Of course it’s not funny,’ snapped Miles, pulling his arm away. ‘We have a drunk working for the family. I should fire this lying sack of Yankee shit right here and now.’
Finally Bradley had had enough. He stood up and glared at Miles. ‘Just because you own this island doesn’t mean you can speak to me like that,’ he said, his voice trembling.
Miles’ mouth remained in a thin, firm line. He took a step forward until they were just a couple of feet apart and slowly raised the last cigarette to his mouth, lighting it and blowing the smoke into Bradley’s face.
‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, boat boy,’ he said coldly. ‘This is, as you correctly say, my island and I make the rules here. So I suggest you do exactly what I say: take your lying face and your stolen beer back to the servants’ quarters where you belong.’
The boat boy’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘Asshole,’ he whispered.
The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion for Alex. He watched Miles’ face twist in fury and contempt, his nostrils flaring, his upper lip curling back. He saw Bradley’s look of quiet defiance change to fear and disbelief, his mouth slowly gaping. But most of all, he saw Miles lift his cigarette and jab it into Bradley’s face. Then, just as suddenly, everything came back into real time: Bradley’s stagger, his scream, his hands covering his face. Alex leapt forward, yanking Miles’ arm away, but Miles pushed him so hard, he slipped over in the sand.
‘Jesus, Miles,’ cried Alex. ‘What the hell...’
The truth was, Alex was afraid of Miles in this mood. He was vicious, cruel, out of control. Alex had seen him reduce people to tears, seen him slap them, but never anything like this.
Miles was standing over the crouched form of the boat boy. ‘Go on, fuck off,’ he growled, throwing the cigarette butt at his back in a shower of sparks.
With a hurt glance up at both of them, Bradley jumped to his feet and, still holding his cheek, ran up the path towards the house. For a moment it was silent except for the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ said Alex, but Miles didn’t seem to hear him. The look on his face was distant and detached.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said quietly and strode off.
Alex watched his friend disappear away from the house towards the furthest part of the island and felt himself overwhelmed with anger, disgust and confusion. But above all, he felt regret and, to his surprise, loneliness. Because in the space of a few short minutes, he knew that his relationship with his closest friend in the world had changed for ever.
6
Sasha was livid. The dinner on the beach had been her idea. She had arranged it with the staff, decorated the table and spent hours poring over the seating plan – and then what happens? That pompous prat McKay spoils everything by falling out of a coconut tree.
Too busy voicing their phoney concerns for Oscar, not one person had commented on the ambience of the evening or her cleverness for thinking of moving their ‘last supper’ to the water’s edge. To add insult to injury, Miles had practically ignored her for the entire meal and that slut Freya had spent an hour doing some sort of hamfisted seduction on Robert Ashford. The whole thing had been a disaster from start to finish.
She sat down on the stone wall behind the beach and took a swig from the bottle she was carrying. At least it was Krug; the one positive of Miles’ father arriving was that he had brought decent bubbly with him.
Where is Miles? she thought angrily. What does he think he’s playing at?
Sasha certainly had better things to do than spend the whole night wandering around the island looking for her so-called boyfriend. After dinner, he’d practically sprinted to the beach then spent half an hour goading Angus to drink a bottle of rum and jump over the bonfire. He’d barely looked in her direction. What was his problem? She had a good mind to dump him – then he’d come crawling back. Well, maybe. After this evening’s performance Sasha wasn’t entirely sure of anything. It certainly wasn’t going according to plan; she had to admit that it didn’t look like a proposal was on the cards tonight.
‘Has he abandoned you for the boys again?’
Robert Ashford strolled up to her, cupping his tumbler of peach juice.
‘No, just taking a break,’ she said, trying to lift her mood. ‘Miles’ friends can be a little ...’
‘Immature? Stupid? Irritating?’ suggested Robert with a smile.
‘Yes, exactly.’ She giggled.
He took a seat next to her and suddenly she felt very grown-up. Robert Ashford was one of Britain’s most successful entrepreneurs. Under the umbrella of Ash Corp., he had a commercial property portfolio that spanned the globe, with interests in everything from hotels to casinos, car parks to out-of-town shopping malls. The smart parts of London that weren’t owned by the older, moneyed families like the Grosvenors, Cadogans and Portmans were, by and large, part of the Ashford group. But Robert Ashford was a self-made man and believed in the famous Tory slogan of getting ‘on your bike’. He’d started his empire from a run-down guest house in Notting Hill in the 1960s and worked his way up to a billion.
She was glad she had prepared for moments like this. Although her usual reading material consisted of Tatler and Vogue, in the days before the Bahamas trip she had swotted up on the Financial Times to deep-freeze some conversational nuggets.
‘So will we be seeing you at Ashford Park over the summer?’
‘Well, I start modelling as soon as I get back,’ said Sasha confidently. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be seeing you at some stage.’
He eyed her closely. ‘Miles said you had no plans for college.’
‘No, but I’ve been taken on by one of the best agencies in London. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. I’m not convinced about the merits of university to be honest. I sometimes wonder why Miles is bothering with Oxford. Not having a degree didn’t stop you from becoming one of the country’s most successful businessmen.’
She silently congratulated herself on making this point. She didn’t want Miles at Oxford next term, she wanted him in London. And the only thing that could stop it was intervention from his parents. If only Robert could see the good sense in her suggestion.
‘I don’t know, Sasha. I think college will give Miles the time to mature. Make contacts. You should think about it yourself once you get your A level results. See what you can get through the UCAS clearing system. Mode
lling isn’t easy, you know. Have you thought about how the recession is going to affect the fashion industry?’
She visibly smarted. Was he implying she wasn’t beautiful enough to model?
‘Well, Linda Evangelista says she doesn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day, so I’d say the modelling world is having a boom at the moment.’
‘So you’re going to be a top model?’ he chuckled.
‘Of course,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
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