Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘She’ll be here,’ said Sasha. ‘You look very handsome today, you know,’ she said, adjusting his collar. He was being a pain in the backside, but Sasha needed him to stay on side. If he had wanted to, he could easily have derailed the whole scheme. ‘I hope you’re not going to distract these greedy little starlets too much from the dresses,’ she purred.

  Finally he smiled and pulled her towards him. God, men were so easy to manipulate.

  ‘When we’ve got rid of them all, why don’t we make the most of the suite?’ she whispered.

  Philip pulled a face. ‘Remember we’ve got dinner with Doug Petersen tonight. I’ve got us reservations at Spago.’

  Sasha shook her head. ‘Not tonight. Marina is taking me to some pre-Oscars party in the Hills. I need to be out there being seen to be glamorous, especially just before the Rodeo Drive opening; we need the face of the company in all the pap shots.’

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘But this is Doug Petersen, Sash,’ he said. ‘You know he’s Robert Ashford’s top guy in America. We’ve got to keep Ash Corp. sweet.’

  He was right, of course. Expansion on to America’s West Coast had only been made possible with strategic investment from Robert Ashford, who had rented the label one of the units Ash Corp. owned on Rodeo Drive in return for a small stake in the US arm of the business. Impressed by their business plan, Robert had also been swayed by his wife’s enthusiasm for Ben Rivera’s designs – ‘as good as Lagerfeld’ she had remarked after a visit to their Ebury Street store. Sasha also suspected that part of Robert’s interest in Rivera was due to the fact that Miles was also a shareholder. He might no longer hold financial sway over his son, but at least with access to the books, he could legitimately keep tabs on him.

  ‘Don’t worry about Ash Corp.,’ smiled Sasha. ‘You know I go a long way back with the family.’

  Philip picked up a strawberry and bit into it. ‘Aren’t these starlets going to want to meet the great designer himself?’

  ‘I am the face of the label, Philip,’ said Sasha with irritation. ‘Anyway, Ben didn’t come for a reason. He’s been getting bloody snarky lately, always wanting to know why he isn’t doing any interviews in Vogue or the fashion pages of The Times. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve had to stop myself from reminding him that no one wants to see a camp little midget as the frontman of the company.’

  Philip winced. ‘Oof, more than a little harsh there, baby. He’s just finding it hard to let go.’

  ‘No, he’s clinging on for dear life,’ said Sasha. ‘He knows we don’t need him any more. I swear it’s like pulling teeth these days; when I mentioned a diffusion collection, he threw another hissy fit.’

  ‘But we do need him, Sash,’ said Philip gently.

  ‘No, Phil, we don’t,’ she said angrily. It was the one thing that drove her mad about the business. Sasha Sinclair was seen as a well-dressed arse-kicking businesswoman, while Ben took all the credit for the designs. But the collections were all her vision, her look. With each season, she had more input in the design process, adapting the label’s classic shapes and seasonal staples with inspired changes, or choosing a template of colours that would flatter any woman. And now that the clothes were being made in ready-to-wear factories in Italy, Ben’s skills as a tailor and couturier had become superfluous. They were not just selling dresses, they were selling a lifestyle. Sasha’s lifestyle. She was about to say more when the door of the suite buzzed. In swept Marina Schwartz in a cloud of expensive scent.

  ‘Showtime, darlings!’ she purred, air-kissing them both. ‘You know Nicole, of course?’

  A petite girl with waist-length copper-coloured hair came into the suite carrying a tiny dog.

  This was a promising start, thought Sasha to herself. Nicole Barton was the star of the hottest new ABC drama and a fixture in the US celebrity style magazines. She had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress for her first big screen role as a downtrodden servant girl in a lavish adaptation of a Henry James novel.

  ‘Am I the first?’ she said, running over to the rail of dresses with a little squeal of pleasure.

  ‘Of course you are, Nicky,’ said Sasha, pouring on the fashion charm. ‘We wanted you to have first pick. We have so many wonderful gowns, but I thought this one would look amazing on you . . .’

  By three o’clock there had been a steady stream of celebrities and superwives – the partners of Hollywood producers and directors – passing through the suite. Nicole had been so delighted with her amber scooped-back column dress, she had phoned all her young Hollywood friends and told them to get over to the Peninsula immediately. They had quickly adopted an efficient system: Philip and Marina would entertain the incoming actresses, stylists and assorted hangers-on in the living room while Sasha took the next in line into the bedroom for a consultation.

  With a break in the traffic, Sasha flopped down on the bed and helped herself to one of the exquisite hors d’oeuvres standing on a crystal tray: perfect choux pastry wrapped around Ligurian truffles. They had remained completely untouched throughout the day: no one ate so close to the ceremony. Peeking around the door to make sure no starlets were still inside, Philip came in to join her.

  ‘This is getting out of control,’ he moaned, taking off his suit jacket and fanning himself with a room-service menu. ‘Marina is telling all of them that if they wear the gown on the red carpet they can keep it!’

  ‘I told her to say that,’ said Sasha calmly. ‘I’m absolutely sure Armani is saying the same thing.’

  ‘But what about the dresses that get taken and not worn?’ said Philip, exasperated. ‘How many of those do you realistically think we are going to see again?’

  Sasha sighed. She was getting tired of his penny-pinching. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters!’ cried Philip. ‘Forty dresses have gone out so far and their wholesale price is three thousand bucks apiece. Assuming we never see thirty of them again, that’s almost a hundred thousand dollars we’re going to have to write off.’

  ‘Which is a bargain if we even get five celebrities to wear a Rivera dress down the Oscars red carpet,’ said Sasha patiently. ‘That’s what we’re doing this for, remember?’

  Marina popped her head around the bedroom door. ‘Important client alert,’ she whispered. ‘Ginger Wilson.’

  Sasha and Philip looked at each other.

  Ginger wasn’t strictly speaking a celebrity herself, but as the wife of Steven Goldberg, one of Hollywood’s biggest producers, she was one of the most powerful women in LA. The fifty-something walked in wearing fitted jeans and a cashmere T-shirt with a crocodile Hermès Birkin hanging from the crook of her arm. Pulling off her sunglasses, she went straight over to the clothes rail.

  ‘Oh my God, I just love this,’ she said, removing a long sequinned sheath dress and holding it aloft so it shimmered in the light. ‘I’ve just got to try it on.’

  ‘A perfect choice,’ smiled Sasha, shooing Philip out of the room as Ginger grabbed a pair of silver shoes to go with it. Sasha had noticed that in Hollywood, the richer the woman, the more she wanted a freebie. Sasha didn’t mind, as long as she could get something in return.

  ‘This looks amazing,’ said Ginger, admiring herself in the mirror.

  ‘Well there’s more where that came from,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s the opening of the Rodeo Rivera store next month. Maybe we could talk later about you hosting a little launch there.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ gushed Ginger. ‘I just know all my girlfriends are gonna go green when they see me in this.’

  The doorbell rang again and Sasha was dumbstruck when Ben Rivera flounced into the room.

  ‘Ben?’ said Sasha and Philip in unison.

  ‘In the flesh,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t stay away.’

  ‘So you’re the design genius I’ve been hearing about,’ said Ginger, extending her hand. ‘One of my girlfriends came here this lunchtime and said your stuff was to die for. I had to come and ch
eck it out, and you know what? She was right.’

  ‘Umm, that colour is so good on your skin,’ said Ben, one camp finger to his lips. ‘Although I think I might be able to add something here . . .’ he said, pinching the material at the waist.

  ‘Could you?’ she gushed. ‘My husband’s mistress is going to be there on Sunday. I want something that’s going to knock them both dead.’

  ‘I will make you even more stunning than you already are.’ He smiled.

  ‘Actually, I’m having a little pre-Oscars drinks party tonight,’ said Ginger. ‘Perhaps you could come over and we can talk about it? My girlfriends will love meeting the man who’s going to make them look so pretty tomorrow night.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ben. ‘That is what I am here for!’

  Sasha coughed discreetly. ‘Ben?’ she said. ‘Can I just have a word with you for one moment?’

  She led him out on to the terrace, her cheeks burning with fury.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said as soon as the doors were closed. ‘I thought you were holding the fort in London.’

  ‘How could I stay there and miss all this?’ he said with a note of petulance. ‘This is my company too. I don’t want to be left in a dark room with a tape measure round my neck.’

  That’s where I’d like it to be, thought Sasha. Tied really tight.

  ‘We have roles, Ben,’ she said angrily. ‘ I am the ambassador. You are the designer.’

  ‘Exactly, which is why people want to meet me today. You heard Ginger.’ He smirked. ‘I am the man who makes women beautiful.’

  ‘No, you are the little queen who bitches about everything.’

  Ben gasped. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

  Sasha knew she should back off, save this for a better time, but this fight had been coming for months and she was incensed at Ben’s game-playing. He knew this would embarrass her and undermine her hard-won position in LA, yet he’d come anyway. Well, she wasn’t going to have anyone steal her thunder, not now.

  ‘I want you out of here,’ she said, her voice rising.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Sasha?’

  ‘The woman who has turned this company into the hottest new label in town,’ she spat. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Philip put his head around the door. ‘Ginger is leaving,’ he said with a warning glance. ‘You might want to have this conversation later, in private.’

  Sasha tried to compose herself. She knew it was unprofessional to leave such a big client, but the whole afternoon was beginning to wind her up. Philip’s disapproving looks every time someone opened a bottle of champagne, Marina’s constant backhanded compliments about how such a small company was doing so well, and the endless grabbing expectancy of the actresses when they knew how important exposure at the Oscars was to a label.

  Squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath, she walked back into the suite, where Ginger kissed Ben on the cheeks. ‘Make me look hot, hot, hot and I’ll get you into the Vanity Fair party at Morton’s tomorrow night,’ she said with a wink as she left. ‘We’re going to make you into the new Dior.’

  As the door clicked shut, Sasha glared at Ben, but he just smiled smugly. ‘The Vanity Fair party,’ he beamed. ‘I knew it was worth coming.’

  Sasha grabbed her clutch bag and stalked out of the suite. Philip followed her into the hallway.

  ‘Sasha, come on,’ he called. ‘Don’t blow it up out of proportion. It’s not the end of the world.’

  Sasha glared at him. ‘It better not be.’

  She walked quickly down to the elevator, but instead of pressing the ‘L’ for ‘Lobby’ button, she went up to the top floor where the roof garden restaurant had a lavish rest room. Leaning into the mirror, she put some blusher on her cheeks, thickened her lashes with mascara and drew a slick of gloss across her lips. Smiling to herself, she hitched up her skirt and removed the cream lace La Perla thong she was wearing, hiding it in her clutch. Walking purposefully back out, she turned away from the lift bank and took the stairs down two floors, the thrill of danger surging through her body as she strode along the soft carpet of the corridor. She took a deep breath, then knocked on the door of the corner suite. It swung open and he was standing there, casual in suit trousers and a blue shirt open at the neck.

  ‘Hello, Robert,’ she said as she stepped into the suite.

  Robert Ashford smiled at her. ‘How’s it going up there?’

  ‘Ben bloody Rivera has just turned up,’ she said. ‘He is getting to be very troublesome. Philip too; always complaining, never able to see the big picture. I’m sick of both of them. They just don’t share our vision.’

  ‘Well, we should think about getting rid of them.’

  ‘How?’

  Robert smiled.‘It shouldn’t be too difficult,’ he said, walking over. He wrapped his hands around her waist, unzipping her skirt and letting the thin fabric fall to the floor. Sasha followed him into the bedroom, thinking that sometimes, business did come before pleasure.

  40

  February 1998

  Nothing that Sasha Sinclair ever did was accidental. Every move was thought through, considered, the options examined and carefully weighed up. And in truth, that was how her affair with Robert Ashford had begun. She had wanted to expand into America and Robert could make that happen, so she had invited him to the premiere. It was a business arrangement, something they both could profit from. But then there had been the long meetings to discuss strategy over lunch, the innocent flirtation, the touching of fingers as they both reached for the wine. Their occasional lunch meetings became suppers; soon she didn’t want to go home when they’d finished discussing net gearing ratios or whatever the subject had been.

  The sex, when it had finally happened, almost eighteen months after they had first renewed contact, had been on a weekend trip to view a shop Robert had in mind for Rivera. It had seemed like the perfectly logical conclusion not just to their months of professional liaison but to a decade of interest. Looking back, there had been a flirtation, a connection, at Angel Cay. What had Robert said on that final night on the island? ‘You can do better than Miles.’ It turned out he was right.

  In the penthouse suite of the Ashford Canary Wharf hotel, Sasha sat on the bed in her white towelling robe, reading through a contract Robert had handed her. Connie Ashford thought her husband was in Texas for a meeting with the underperforming Ashford Houston hotel, while Sasha had left the Rivera office early telling Philip she had a Pilates lesson and massage. He’d had no reason to question her.

  ‘Are you sure LVMH won’t buy us?’ she said, looking up. After all, why shouldn’t someone like the Louis Vuitton group be interested in them? Rivera was one of the hottest fashion labels in the industry; with seven stores, presence in all the prestigious department stores and a forty-million-pound turnover, it had become one of the favoured labels of the rich and famous.

  Reclining at the end of the bed, Robert Ashford watched her, an amused smile on his lips.

  ‘Don’t run before you can walk,’ he said. ‘Rivera is barely out of the starting blocks. Right now you’re too small.’

  She swivelled off the bed in anger.‘Why too small? LVMH bought Marc Jacobs when he was tiny.’

  ‘Marc Jacobs had been established twelve years when LVMH acquired a stake in his label,’ replied Robert smoothly. Not for the first time, he surprised her with his detailed industry knowledge.

  ‘But I want to sell to someone prestigious,’ said Sasha petulantly.

  Robert laughed. ‘What you want to do is to get rid of Ben, Philip and Miles,’ he said. ‘What you want to do is to dilute your own shareholding to raise capital and liquidise some of your assets. What you want is a supportive strategic partner who will let you stay creative director and invest money into the brand so we can finally branch out into accessories, scent, even more stores.’

  ‘And who’s that strategic partner? You?’

  Robert shook his
head. ‘A private equity outfit.’

  She walked over to the window, pursing her lips in thought. In front of her, the regenerated Docklands twinkled in the darkness – the lights from offices and expensive flats like citrines sprinkled over a pad of black velvet. Although they were both stubborn and self-righteous, she respected Robert’s opinion completely. He knew so much about everything. Dynamism oozed from every pore of his skin. He was the only man that had ever made her feel both valued and ... what was the word? Protected, that was it. She felt that nothing could go wrong when she was with him. He came up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist, untying her robe.

  ‘You can conquer the world, you know that,’ he said, stroking her breasts. ‘I always thought that about you. You’re strong and clever.’ He kissed her neck. ‘And you’re not afraid to take risks.’