The ceiling fan revolved lazily above them as his hand slid up to her breasts, and as he rubbed his palm over her nipples, she tipped her head back and groaned. Turning, she kissed him hard on the mouth, pulling urgently at his belt, pushing down his jeans. Her fingers found his cock, and as her hand moved up and down the shaft he grew, to his enormous relief, harder and harder in her grip. Her mouth sank down over his cock, taking him whole.
He moaned, pulling out with a soft ‘pop’. He scrambled to shed the rest of his clothes, then tore at hers, falling on to the rug, his greedy mouth on hers.
She slipped a condom on him, and they fucked on the floor, urgent, hungry, her back arching as he kissed her ear lobes, her throat, his hands sweeping over her slicked skin, pulling her hips to him, and she came quickly, shuddering as he gave one last feral thrust into her, collapsing on to her breasts, their bodies pressed together. And Miles grinned to himself as he turned his head away, listening to the hard beating of her heart.
Harsh white sunlight breaking through the thin curtains woke him. Blinking, for one moment he wondered where he was, then he smiled as he saw Chrissy making breakfast in the small kitchen area, naked except for a blue lace thong and a white shirt she had left undone. He lit a cigarette and scratched his balls with satisfaction.
‘What’s on room service?’ he asked.
‘Lipton’s tea,’ she said, padding back through and thrusting the mug into his hand. ‘The best I can do, I’m afraid.’
She perched on the edge of the bed and, smiling, slipped her hand under the covers to rub his cock.
‘Oh, I think you can do better than that,’ he said, putting his tea down.
‘Hey, I thought I was going to show you the island,’ she protested.
‘The island’s not going anywhere,’ he smiled.
Two hours later, Miles found himself standing on a pier, watching with fascination as Chrissy jabbered away to an old fisherman in Thai. Whatever was said, it ended with Chrissy handing over a fistful of notes and the little man leading them to a small fishing boat that took them out into the Andaman Sea.
It was a perfect day for a trip across to the outlying islands. The boat scudded across the bright emerald waters, past shanty towns clustered along the shore, washing hanging to dry and herds of long-boats crowding the docks. Chrissy pointed out sea gypsy communities and glittering temples seemingly placed at random. As they got further out to sea, the landscape grew more dramatic, with huge karst rising from the water like giant limestone fingers. Miles closed his eyes as the warm wind whipped through his hair. He was used to travelling in luxury, private jets, de luxe hotels, but the raw natural beauty caught him by surprise.
Finally the boat’s engine chugged to a stop. The captain pulled a battered kayak from beneath a tarpaulin and Chrissy helped him to lift it over the side.
Miles sat at the back of the kayak and followed Chrissy’s lead, raking the green foam first with one paddle, then the other. They ploughed through the water towards the sheer cliffs until he saw a gaping hole in the side of the rock, barely big enough to squeeze through.
‘Open Sesame,’ said Chrissy, turning around to smile at him.
‘We’re going into a cave?’ said Miles incredulously.
‘Come on, rich boy, live a little.’
In seconds they were in an eerie blue-grey darkness, cold and strange after the baking sun of the open sea.
Miles shivered, unnerved by the strange twilight of the cavern, nothing below them but lapping blackened water. Suddenly they slid around a corner and the narrow walls opened out into a cave mouth, cliffs rearing behind them, a cornflower-blue sky above.
‘Holy shit,’ said Miles, truly incredulous. They had passed straight through the wall of the island and into a hidden lagoon. Directly in front of them was a curve of blinding white beach.
At twenty-one, Miles considered himself a man of the world. He had dived off the cliffs in Mexico, skied down treacherous off-piste runs in Whistler, but this was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
‘Pretty cool, huh?’ said Chrissy as they dragged the kayak up the beach. She peeled off her denim shorts and lay on the sand in her black bikini, her legs looking even longer and browner than before.
Laughing, Miles threw himself down next to her and kissed her. ‘Thanks, Chrissy,’ he said.
She looked surprised. ‘What for?’
‘For being different.’
‘Ah, now different I can do,’ she said, reaching for his zip.
It was hot on the beach and the two litre bottles of water they had brought were quickly drunk. Trying to cool off, they swam across the lagoon and tried to climb the rock face, finally giving up in a tangle of screams and laughter. And then they sat on the rocks and fucked again, slowly this time, touching, tasting, enjoying each other’s deepest and most sensitive places. It was one of the best days of Miles Ashford’s life.
When they got back to Patong, Chrissy had gone to work and it had seemed the most natural thing for Miles to hang around her flat, just drinking tea, watching badly dubbed movies on cable and reading Chrissy’s collection of hard-boiled detective fiction. He had dozed off when he heard the click of the door and Chrissy climbed naked into bed beside him, curling herself into the hollow of his body like a cat.
They spent the next day together and the day after that, and the day after that. After a week, Miles stopped paying for the room at the Marriott and moved his bags into Chrissy’s studio and their days fell into an easy routine. By day they would swim, explore the island on scooters and make love in lonely coves off the beaten track; by night, he would smoke dope in her little studio and wait for her to return from work. But slowly, the nightly absences began to get to Miles. He was missing London, his old life and the certainties of his position in the world.
One night it was getting him particularly down. By the time she got home at 4 a.m., he was spoiling for a fight.
‘You still up, baby?’ she said, coming over to kiss his neck. He pushed her away impatiently.
‘Where have you been?’ he snapped.
‘Where do you think?’ she said. ‘At work.’
‘Oh yeah?’ he said petulantly.
‘Miles, what’s going on?’
‘I think you should leave the bar,’ he said flatly.
‘I am leaving the bar,’ she said, walking through to the kitchen and filling the kettle. ‘You know I’m starting at Hooters in January.’
He looked at her, his face like thunder. ‘You’re not listening. I don’t want you working at Sundown either.’
She slammed the kettle down. ‘Piss off, Miles.’
‘Chrissy, you’re better than this.’
‘Better than what?’ There was ice in her voice.
‘Better than tarting around clubs in tiny skirts, jiggling your tits at Japs. Better than this shit-hole.’
‘Fuck you, Miles,’ she shouted. ‘This is my shit-hole, paid for with my shitty money. I work bloody hard for what I’ve got, but that’s not something you’d know about, is it?’
He stood up unsteadily. ‘I know what you’re really doing to earn that money,’ he began, but she silenced him with a stinging slap across the face.
‘Get out,’ she growled.
Miles stared after her, touching his stinging skin. ‘Come to London,’ he said.
She didn’t speak, just shook her head.
‘You think your life is better than mine, don’t you?’ she said eventually. She looked so defiant, so angry, so sure of her place in the world that Miles almost laughed.
‘Come back with me,’ he repeated.
‘I’m happy here.’
He threw his hands up. ‘Well I’m not.’
The anger in her face melted into sadness. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know.’
He strode across to her and took her hands in his. ‘It’s not you, Chris, don’t think that. It’s just this place, it’s closing in on me, and we’ve got the whole world to explor
e together.’
Miles knew he didn’t want to stay in Thailand for ever. Sure, it was fun and cheap, like a teenager mainlining on Thunderbird, but the novelty of slumming it was wearing off, and he was missing the familiar luxuries of his London life. But he didn’t want to lose Chrissy. It had been a long time since he had felt he had a partner in crime – not since he’d buggered it all up with Alex, in fact – and he loved how she made him feel: clever and adventurous and brave. How shallow and sapping his relationship with Sasha had been, how pointless the interchangeable society blondes he’d toyed with at Oxford. Chrissy was real, an equal, a genuine soulmate.
‘Look, Miles,’ she said softly, ‘it’s fine if you have to move on . . .’ No! he thought, his heart lurching. The more she pulled away from him, the more he wanted her.
‘I have money to buy a flat. Something smart in Chelsea, South Ken. We could live there,’ he began.
‘And do what? Play happy fucking families?’ She laughed harshly.
He hesitated.‘You and I are so alike, Chrissy. We’re good together. We can have a better life in London.’
She stepped forward and put her arms around his neck. ‘Look, Miles, I really, really like you. But I know how these things work. I move to London and you get back with some posh ex-girlfriend your daddy approves of and I have to start all over again. Besides, I like it here.’
An idea popped into his head so remote, so stupid, so wrong, it seemed right. He pulled her closer.
‘I want you, Chrissy Devine.’
‘I’m not a fucking sports car, Miles.’
He paused, his mouth suddenly going dry. Oh fuck it, he thought. ‘Marry me.’
Chrissy blinked at him, a flicker of a smile crossing her face. ‘Marry you?’ she repeated.
Miles started chuckling. The last six weeks had been incredible fun. He felt armour-plated when he was with her. He dropped down to one knee, still holding her hand.
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ she giggled.
Miles shook his head. ‘I’ve never been more serious about anything.’
Carefully, she knelt down to face him, looking into his eyes and threading her arms around his neck.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Miles, a smile spreading across his face.
‘I said yes.’ She laughed.
‘Really?’
‘Yep,’ she said. ‘I mean, why the fuck not?’
Cackling with laughter, he grabbed her face and kissed her again and again.
They flew back to London via Vegas, and after a twelve-minute ceremony at the Little White Chapel of the West, Miles Ashford and Chrissy Devine became man and wife. They spent their first night in a suite at the MGM Grand, drinking champagne and taking coke. Lying back on the huge circular water bed as Chrissy stroked his cock, Miles couldn’t remember when he had experienced feeling this high, unfettered and free, the fact that he had not yet told his parents only heightening the delicious feeling of rebellion and power. In his quieter moments he preferred not to dwell on the fact of whether he really did love Chrissy – he supposed he cared for her as much as any married couple did these days. Whatever, he was looking forward to playing Professor Higgins to his own Eliza Doolittle. The first thing he proposed to do when they got back to London was to take her shopping and change his dirty little sex kitten into a Chelsea Blonde. He chuckled to himself. Whoever would have thought he’d be married at twenty-one? Well, he did pride himself on being a little unconventional. He drifted off to sleep, knowing that his night in that filthy booth in Bangkok seven weeks ago was well and truly erased.
25
December 1992
Miles had been to many parties at Ashford Park, his parents’ thousand-acre Oxfordshire estate. He could remember summer parties for the company being held on the large lawns that led down to the lake, where there would be pony rides for the children, a huge marquee serving Pimm’s and an open-air dance floor by the water. Robert Ashford had built a reputation for his hospitality, but as he drove his rented Mercedes up the driveway towards the main house, Miles could tell that the boat had really been pushed out for his mother’s fiftieth birthday party. The dove-grey Bath stone façade of the forty-roomed manor house was bathed in klieg lights and an army of valets were parking a fleet of expensive vehicles – Bentleys, Ferraris, Porsches – in a fan shape to one side of the house. It was like a festival for motor enthusiasts.
‘Nice pad,’ drawled Chrissy in the seat beside him.
He glanced across at her and laughed. The way she said it, so casually, as if she saw places like this every week.
‘Most people seem to agree with you,’ he said. ‘It was on the cover of Architectural Digest three years ago and we only gave access to four rooms and the gardens.’
‘Fancy,’ she said, checking herself in the mirror, pulling the shoulders down on her chic Armani cocktail dress to reveal more flesh.
‘Do I look white?’ she asked, touching up her make-up. ‘I can’t believe my tan is fading.’
He glanced across and winced at the long, square fingernails that gripped her scarlet lipstick. Miles’ Professor Higgins project had been a success – forgetting the nails, she looked every inch the well-dressed Sloane – but still he was nervous about tonight. Would she embarrass him? They had been back from Phuket for four days now and had been staying at the Capital Hotel in Knightsbridge. Miles had been keen to show off his home town to Chrissy and told her he wanted to spoil his new wife, taking her into London’s finest shops in preparation for their first meeting with his parents. At Harvey Nichols she had wanted a sexy Dolce and Gabbana dress, but Miles had steered her towards the more conservative Armani concession. Before her hair appointment at Michaeljohn, he’d had a quiet word with the stylist, asking him to tone down Chrissy’s vivid red hair into a softer shade of chestnut. And tonight, as they had dressed in their sumptuous hotel suite, Chrissy had spent half an hour looking for the ankle bracelet which Miles had thrown in the bin the day they had arrived. Miles had married Chrissy because he loved her overt sexuality and her fiercely independent streak, but at the same time he didn’t want the attributes he found so attractive to rock the boat tonight.
‘Look, about meeting my parents,’ he began as they pulled up a little way from the house. ‘They are going to ask a lot of questions. So maybe be a bit vague about Disco-A-Go-Go.’
‘Why, are you ashamed of me?’
‘No, baby. But my father can be quite conservative.’
‘I thought you didn’t care what your father thought.’
Miles rolled his eyes. ‘At some point I’m going to have to start working at Ash Corp. and my father’s an awkward bastard when he feels slighted. I want my pick of the company departments – I don’t want him dumping me in Finance or somewhere, because he can.’
‘And you think I’m going to get you sent to Siberia?’
Miles smiled. ‘Maybe. He’s going to be pissed off enough that we got married without asking his permission. I don’t need to make it any worse.’
‘I promise I’ll be a good girl,’ said Chrissy in a mocking tone. ‘Now, have you got the coke?’
Miles laughed and racked a couple of fat lines out on a road atlas, rubbing the residue into their gums.
‘OK, husband,’ purred Chrissy, her eyes suddenly more bright. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Well, well. What a surprise,’ said Robert Ashford. ‘The prodigal son returns.’
Stiffly, Miles and his father shook hands at the door of Ashford Park. All around them was the rich smell of cinnamon and pine cones, and the happy sound of four hundred party guests enjoying themselves at someone else’s expense. The huge entrance hall was dominated by a twenty-foot Christmas tree festooned with Austrian crystal baubles and banners hanging from the ceiling declared ‘Seasons Greetings!’ and ‘Goodwill to all Men!’ And yet despite not having seen one another in almost twelve months, the atmosphere between father and son was sub-zero.
‘Not plea
sed to see me?’ said Miles.
‘On the contrary, Miles,’ said Robert, ‘I was beginning to think I would have to go to the expense and inconvenience of sending a search party. Your turning up out of the blue is something of a boon in that department.’
Miles’ instinct was to turn around and leave straight away, but with Chrissy there he couldn’t, not without losing face.
‘Yes, I know I said I was coming back in February,’ he said in a more even tone. ‘But, well, there was a change of plan.’
‘Did the full-moon party scene finally lose its appeal?’ said Robert. He turned to Chrissy, holding out a hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he smiled.
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