Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Perry, Tasmina

  She moaned as his lips tickled her ear. ‘Hey, I’ve got to read the contract,’ she said.

  ‘Later,’ he said, slipping off her gown.

  She looked at her naked reflection in the glass. She wondered if anyone could see them and the thought thrilled her. Sasha Sinclair and Robert Ashford atop Canary Wharf. Lovers, equals, like the king and queen of the world.

  Still standing behind her, he slipped his hand between her thighs and curled his fingers into her warm, damp pussy. ‘Come back to bed,’ he said and she went willingly, already aroused. If she had first thought that sex with an older man, a much older man, would be staid and routine, she had been mistaken. At fifty, Robert’s body was in impeccable shape, but it wasn’t his stamina or his experience that made it such a thrilling, erotic experience. Their love-making had an emotional connection and sensuality that she had never reached with Philip or anyone else.

  ‘I’ve got you something,’ he said as he lay back on the pillow afterwards. He reached over to his jacket and pulled out a slip of folded paper.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘A cheque.’

  ‘What for? Services rendered?’ she said with a note of irritation.

  ‘Open it.’

  The cheque was for three quarters of a million pounds. She looked at him, her eyes wide.

  ‘I believe that is what you need to exercise your option to purchase a certain shareholding in Ben Rivera.’

  A certain shareholding, meaning Miles’. Although Miles was his son and an investor in Ben Rivera, Robert always avoided mentioning his name. In a few weeks’ time, it would be four years since Miles had given her his initial investment in Rivera. Under their original agreement, she could buy back his stake – and Sasha wanted to do it desperately.

  ‘Is this a loan?’ she asked, waggling the cheque at him.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Robert. ‘The important thing is to simplify the company’s shareholding structure as much as possible pre-sale. If you can get rid of him, it will make Rivera more appealing to buyers.’

  She crawled over and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said simply.

  ‘My pleasure. I like you very much, Sasha Sinclair.’

  Shit, that’s progress, she smiled to herself. She had never pushed Robert about commitment, never fished for compliments – what was the point? She knew there was unlikely to be any traditional permanent future between them. He was bound to Connie with golden handcuffs. And men like Robert rarely appreciated threats or demands.

  ‘I like you too.’

  He stretched over and touched her cheek. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we go and spend a week at Angel Cay?’

  Sasha froze. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about that place since her affair with Robert had first begun. She didn’t want to think what his role had been in that whole mess.

  ‘No. I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she said, looking away.

  ‘Why not?’ he said, stroking her neck. ‘We can swim, eat, or my personal favourite, just stay in bed.’

  It did sound tempting, of course. After all, it was all so long ago, and what had they done wrong really? That boy Bradley had stolen a boat and got away, hadn’t he? But still, she didn’t want to go back there. What she had with Robert was starting to feel so precious, she didn’t want to let anything break the spell. What if he had covered it up? What if he had been involved?

  ‘Not Angel Cay. It’s Connie’s island,’ she said quietly. ‘We can go to any other private island in the world, but not Angel.’

  ‘Since when have you been one to take the moral high ground? Besides, Connie won’t ever know. I can say I’m in Sydney on business. ’

  She looked into his strong, intense gaze. There was nothing she’d like more than to spend a week on a sun-drenched private island with him right now. But she couldn’t go back there. She couldn’t.

  ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea, Robert. We’re trying to sell the company. That’s going to take up every second of my time. I can’t be flying off to Angel Cay. I can’t. Just leave it, OK?’

  He looked at her, but she simply shook her head. As far as she was concerned, the matter was closed: she would never go back to Angel Cay. Never.

  Six weeks later, Sasha was feeling just as uncomfortable, but for very different reasons. She walked into Philip’s living room to find the dining table set for two with a starched linen tablecloth, scented candles and a gleaming set of white bone china that Sasha had never seen before. Her heart sank. He’d obviously pushed the boat out and she could guess why. Philip had been bugging her to move in for six months, but so far she just had a small drawer of underwear, a few cosmetics and a toothbrush on the bathroom shelf.

  ‘You said you didn’t want to go out for supper,’ said Philip. ‘So I thought we could do something special at the flat.’

  Sasha smiled thinly. She was too tired for Philip’s unsubtle seduction techniques. The amount of sneaking around she’d been doing – the snatched meetings with Robert, the secret planning, the under-the-radar strategising – it had all been exhausting. Besides, she’d come here for a reason and it was obvious it didn’t fit in with Philip’s plans.

  ‘I said I didn’t want to go for dinner because we have to talk business,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Will you relax, Sash?’ he said, walking over to rub her shoulders.

  She wanted to pull away, but she knew she mustn’t. This wasn’t Philip’s fault; he was a nice guy. Sasha was fond of him and he had worked very hard for the company. But business was business. She went to sit down at the table to get away from him, propping her document folder next to her chair.

  ‘You look all wound up,’ said Philip, sitting opposite. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘In which case, do you want wine or champagne?’ he asked, turning to the ice bucket beside him.

  ‘Are we celebrating?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Philip, pulling a bottle of Krug out of the ice. Actually, he was looking particularly handsome tonight, she thought. Freshly shaved, hair well cut, a crisp white shirt that set off his olive skin and pale grey eyes. Why did he have to be so considerate, so good-looking? For so many women he would be the perfect man. She cursed silently, wishing this had been done at her place. Still, it could wait until after dinner, she told herself. What’s another half an hour?

  In the end, Sasha could barely eat a thing. Philip had obviously spent ages on the food, but she could do nothing more than push her sea bass around the plate.

  ‘More wine?’ he asked when he had cleared her untouched dessert away.

  ‘No, I’m driving,’ she said. ‘I want to get back to the apartment tonight.’

  He looked offended. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Well at least stay for coffee,’ he said, going into the kitchen and coming back with a tray bearing a silver coffee pot and a box of Ladurée macaroons.

  ‘Gosh, where did you get these from?’ The macaroons were her absolute favourites but the famous patisserie was in Paris. He just tapped the side of his nose mysteriously.

  ‘Open the box,’ he said, looking serious.

  She pulled open the pale green lid. Surrounded by pale pink and sherbet-lemon macaroons was a small black velvet box.

  Oh no, she thought, suddenly understanding what all this effort had been for.

  ‘Take it out,’ he urged.

  ‘Phil ...’ she said gently.

  He came round the table and knelt down next to her, his face filled with hope.

  ‘I love you, Sasha,’ he said softly. ‘I know you’ve been nervous about moving in with me, but commitment can be scary. The thing is, though, there’s nothing to be frightened of. We’re a team. We belong together.’

  ‘Phil, I—’

  ‘Sasha Sinclair,’ he said, grasping her hands, ‘will you marry me?’
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br />   She knew what she was supposed to do. She was supposed to shriek with delight and fall into his arms. She was supposed to say ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ She was supposed to feel like the happiest woman on earth. But Sasha rarely did what she was supposed to do. She bent down and picked up her leather document folder. Without saying a word, she unzipped it and pulled out a set of contracts.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘An offer has been made for the company,’ she said coolly. ‘A fifty-five-million-pound offer.’

  Philip looked incredulous. ‘Sasha, I am asking you to marry me and all you can talk about is the bloody business!’

  ‘Hear me out, Phil. This is important.’

  ‘And so is this!’ he snapped. He stood up quickly, his face a scowl. ‘Fine. You want to talk business? Then my first question is why is this the first I have heard about an offer for the company?’

  ‘Because the approach came to me.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said sarcastically. ‘As ambassador for the brand?’

  ‘Listen to me, Phil,’ she said. ‘Absolute Capital are one of the most exciting investment vehicles in London and they are interested in Rivera. This could be good for all of us.’

  ‘All of us?’ he said cynically.

  She paused for a moment. ‘Well, yes, they would want to bring in their own management team,’ she said carefully.

  ‘The COO would be Lucian Grey, a co-investor in the fund. He has considerable experience in the luxury sector. I’ve known him for years; he’s a good man.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Philip. ‘You’re saying he would replace me?’

  ‘Philip, you fell into this business. It was never what you really wanted.’

  ‘I gave up my career for you, Sasha,’ he said, banging his hand on the table. ‘I gave up everything to help you build your dream and now you’re selling me down the bloody river.’

  ‘Philip, you have a six per cent shareholding,’ she said tersely. ‘This sale will make you a rich man.’

  ‘It was never about the money,’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand that? It was always about you.’

  ‘Well I want this to happen,’ replied Sasha.

  Philip walked over to the window, looking out into the darkness, then turned back suddenly. ‘You need a majority shareholder vote for a sale,’ he said. ‘You only have forty-five per cent. You need me to make this happen, don’t you? Just like always. You’ve always needed me to push decisions through.’

  She pitied the note of desperation in his voice.

  ‘I’m speaking to Ben tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Ben’s never going to allow the company to be taken from under him,’ said Philip dismissively. ‘You still need me.’

  It was harsh, especially after what had just happened, but she had to say it.

  ‘No, Philip, I don’t. I will have more than fifty per cent anyway. ’

  She reached into the folder and pulled out a Coutts banker’s draft, putting it down on the table. It was made out to Miles Ashford for £800,000.

  ‘That’s everything I owe Miles, with interest,’ she said simply. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to exercise my option to buy back his shareholding. ’

  He looked at the cheque, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Where did you get the money from?’

  She looked away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Really?’ he said bitterly. ‘I suspect it matters a great deal.’

  Of course Philip would find out eventually. She knew that and she knew that he would hate her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Phil,’ she said, picking up the papers and putting them back into the folder. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this.’

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her and shook his head. Then he walked back to the table and snapped the black velvet box shut.

  ‘There’s more to life than just money, Sasha,’ he said closing his hand over the box. ‘One day you’ll learn that.’

  ‘Maybe if we can just talk about this . . .’ began Sasha.

  But Philip wasn’t listening. ‘I think you’d better go.’

  She picked up her coat and slowly walked past him. ‘Phil, I wish you’d—’

  ‘Just go,’ he said, walking into the bedroom and closing the door.

  41

  September 2001

  Alex’s life had undergone a transformation. For a start, he wasn’t Alex Doyle any more. He was Al Doyle now, multi-Grammy-award-winning British songwriting superstar. In the last two years alone he had sold twenty million records, filled stadiums across the globe and his videos were on MTV and VH-1 almost on a loop.

  He sat on the steps of his trailer looking out on to the shady Manhattan side street just off Times Square. They had been shooting the video for his latest single ‘Moving On’ through the night and they still weren’t done. A runner brought him a tea and a bacon sandwich with ketchup running all over the paper plate. Alex was happy enough sitting around on a warm New York fall morning. He loved the Big Apple, especially now, with his star in the ascendant. He was invited to every party, he could get a table at any restaurant and everyone was so ambitious, so caught up in their own world, they were too busy to pay any attention to him. LA was the direct opposite. It was an industry town, a hotbed of ‘look at me’ self-indulgence; everyone wanted to be noticed, from the stars down to the waiters. Even though Alex had a house in Laurel Canyon, he hated it there.

  A black Town Car stopped in front of the blue barricade blocking off the section of street they were shooting in. Alex recognised the small figure of David Falk stepping out of the car, accompanied by a blonde woman. He was always pleased to see Falk. It still felt like yesterday he’d had that first meeting with him at his LA headquarters. From the second he had walked into Falk’s corner office, Alex had known that this man was going to change his life – and he had. He had used Alex’s debut solo single ‘Angel Falls’ as the title track to one of the movie hits of the nineties, and instantly Al Doyle was a household name. Hit followed hit, and his transition from nobody to megastar had been so seamless, Alex wondered if the years of struggle with Year Zero had just been a bad dream.

  ‘Hey, Al. How’s it going?’ said Falk, walking over, his hand out.

  ‘Still standing.’ He grinned, holding up his tea. ‘Caffeine helps.’

  His eyes were drawn to the blonde woman standing just behind David. He recognised her immediately: Melissa Jackson, one of the hottest new actresses in Hollywood; in fact he had heard that Falk’s company was producing her next vehicle.

  ‘Have you met Melissa?’

  ‘No, no, hello . . .’ said Alex, wiping his hand on his jeans, then shaking hers. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Ketchup all over it.’

  She smiled. ‘Happens to me all the time.’

  ‘Say, you going to Julia’s party tonight?’ said Falk.

  Alex nodded. ‘If this shoot ever finishes.’

  ‘You got a date?’ Falk’s direct manner was legendary. He hadn’t got anywhere in his business without getting straight to the point.

  Alex laughed and looked at Melissa. ‘Why do I feel I’m being set up?’

  ‘Obviously neither of you kids needs to work too hard for company, but Melissa’s new movie is about a failed pop singer, and . . .’

  ‘And you thought, “Hey, which losers do I know?”’

  ‘Sorry, Alex,’ said Melissa. ‘I did try to tell him how crass he was being, but you know Dave . . .’

  Alex laughed.

  ‘Hey, talk about me as if I’m not here, why dontcha?’ said Falk.

  ‘It would be great to pick your brains about touring and playing small dives and so on,’ she continued with a shy smile. ‘And you don’t have to think of it as a date.’

  ‘Ah, don’t ruin it,’ smiled Alex. ‘This is the best offer I’ve had in months.’

  Actually, he was only half joking. He was on tour six months out of twelve and spent most of his time with the burly men who moved the stage around; even a bi
g star needed a little help in the romance department. Sometimes all he wanted was someone to talk to who understood his life now – he felt quite sure both Emma and Grace would have ribbed him mercilessly about his entourage today: an assistant, a make-up girl, a stylist, a record company PR and a driver – but he guessed Melissa would understand how mad and unreal it all felt. And it didn’t hurt that she was gorgeous.

  Martin, the director, waved at him. ‘Al, we’re ready to go again in a minute,’ he called.