‘Don’t be silly, I’m kidding. I’d love to come and try a few things on, but my mum’s convinced me to stay with her in Oxfordshire for the week.’
‘Then you must come to my thirtieth,’ said Sasha with enthusiasm. ‘It’s at my friend Iftaka’s house in Berkshire and I think your mum and dad are coming anyway.’
‘It’s lovely of you to offer, but . . .’
‘Alex Doyle will be there,’ said Sasha with a sly smile.
‘You mean Al Doyle,’ said Grace. She actually hadn’t seen Alex since his visit to Ibiza. It didn’t surprise her, given the way his career had taken off. Every now and then she would get a postcard sent to the farmhouse, postmarked Las Vegas, Sydney or Tokyo, with some sweet or cryptic message. Olivia was always very impressed.
‘I didn’t know you and Alex were friends,’ said Grace.
‘Darling, in my business I have to touch base with everyone. This party is an excuse to see everyone important in one fell swoop.’
‘Mummy, Mummy! Come and dance!’ said Olivia and Joseph in unison, bouncing up and down and pulling at her hand as the ceilidh band began to play.
‘I’d better go and strut my stuff,’ she said, excusing herself. ‘And then I’d better get these two to bed before they have any more sugar.’
Sasha nodded and touched her on the arm. ‘You know, we should have spoken earlier,’ she said softly.
‘Yes, I know,’ replied Grace.
‘And you will come to the party?’
Part of her desperately wanted to say yes. Twelve years of being haunted by the memory of what happened on Angel Cay was far too long; she wanted to move on. But she still wasn’t sure if she could handle all four of them being in the same place at one time.
‘Is Miles going to be there?’
Sasha shook her head. ‘I don’t see him. And I don’t think he’d want to come, to be honest.’
There was a look of understanding between them. A secret nod of support from woman to woman.
‘Sure, I’d love to come,’ said Grace. ‘Thirty, eh?’ she added as she was hauled towards the dance floor. ‘We’re almost grown-ups now.’
And it was time to start acting like one.
43
February 2002
Alex wasn’t entirely sure where he had heard the phrase, but in the world of celebrity, it was certainly true that one and one made eleven. Before his relationship with Melissa had finally leaked in a three-page National Enquirer story called ‘Beauty and the Beat’, the tabloid press had only a passing interest in him. Yes, he was a platinum-selling artist, but he was a serious musician, not a red-carpet regular. Interesting to music geeks and teenage girls, but not the sort of star who could shift millions of newspapers. Melissa was a bigger celebrity, of course, but she was not in the same league as Catherine, Julia or Jennifer. Together, however, Alex and Melissa created a strange alchemy that had sent the paparazzi crazy and turned their world upside down. Wherever they went, photographers were there. Leaving the house, at the airport, visiting a restaurant; they were mobbed going in and coming out and the paps would crowd around the windows trying to take pictures of them – shock! – eating noodles or – hold the front-page! – popping to the loo. Not a week went by without front-page splashes about their relationship – in love, splitting up, sometimes both in the same paper – or speculation about an imminent elopement or secret love-child.
Alex was still struggling to make the adjustment, both to his new relationship and to his new mega-stardom. Some days were good, some days horrible, but today had been one of the good ones – one of the best, in fact. Alex lay back on the four-poster bed in his favourite London hotel, Blakes, feeling happy and relaxed. For once, he and Melissa had managed to spend the entire day together, doing exactly what they wanted; no interviews, no phone calls, just them. Melissa was in London waiting to start filming at Pinewood Studios. Alex had just finished recording at Abbey Road. At his suggestion, they’d spent the day doing all the touristy things Alex never did when he lived there. Suitably disguised in sunglasses and baseball caps, they had strolled around London Zoo, gone boating in Regent’s Park, then taken a black cab out to Hampton Court, where they’d gone for a long walk down the Thames towpath all the way to Richmond. Alex didn’t know when he’d felt happier.
‘You know what’s great?’ he said, watching Melissa strip out of her jeans and sweater. In the low light, with the cream voile drapes fluttering behind her, she looked like an angel.
‘I don’t know, tell me,’ she smiled, crawling up the bed towards him. As she leant over to kiss him, he could smell her; a delicate blend of raspberries and vanilla he had always loved.
‘Feeling together,’ said Alex. ‘Feeling settled.’
Melissa laughed. ‘You say it like it’s this strange and crazy thing.’
In a way, it was. Even when he was with Emma, there was always something that made him feel displaced or anxious: his insecurities about Jez Harrison or the worry of failure. But with Melissa, he felt safe and confident. All the pressure seemed to lift when she was around.
‘Well, how do you feel about being Mrs Alex Doyle?’ he asked.
Her hand covered her mouth, her blue eyes wide. She looked shocked.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Al, you’re not proposing to me, are you?’
It was his turn to look surprised. Actually he had simply been asking if she was feeling as contented and fuzzy as he was; did she like being seen as ‘Mrs Alex Doyle’, his missus. But still . . . It wasn’t such a mad idea, was it? In idle moments, he’d been toying with the notion of growing old together, having a tribe of beautiful mini-Melissas and retiring to a ranch in Wyoming or somewhere. And God, she was beautiful, he thought, gazing into her perfect, beaming face, breathless with anticipation. What the fuck are you waiting for? he asked himself.
‘Yes, I am,’ he said.
‘In that case yes, yes, yes,’ she squealed, straddling him and covering his face with kisses. Laughing, he rolled over on top of her, but she was squirming so much that they slipped off the bed with a thump. There was a moment’s delay, then they both burst out laughing. Scrambling to his feet, Alex grabbed the bedside phone. ‘OK, this calls for a celebration,’ he said, dialling room service. ‘I’ll get them to send up their biggest bottle of champagne. One of those Necubanezzers or whatever they’re called.’
‘No, don’t,’ she said, taking the receiver from him. ‘Let’s go out to celebrate.’
‘Out where?’
‘I promised a friend of mine we’d go to her party.’
Alex pulled a face. ‘Can’t we just stay in bed and pour Dom Perignon all over each other?’
She put her hands on her hips and pouted. ‘The sexiest man in the world has just proposed to me. I want to tell the world!’ she said.
‘Well, if you put it that way . . .’ He smiled. ‘So where is it?’
‘It’s at this amazing house in Berkshire. Belongs to some Middle Eastern gazillionaire. Plus it’s my friend’s thirtieth birthday.’
‘OK,’ said Alex.‘But only if I can help you dress,’ he added, sliding his hand inside her lacy panties.
‘Please!’ Melissa giggled. ‘I’m an engaged woman, what would my fiancé say?’
‘I think he’d say I was a very lucky man,’ he growled, pushing her back on the bed.
It took over an hour to get to the party, but pulling through the gates of Chambrey Park estate, a huge, wildly romantic Jacobean manor house set in extensive grounds, Alex knew it was going to be a lavish affair: the perfect place to celebrate.
‘You’ve not even told me who your friend is,’ said Alex. He had spent the entire journey happily listening to Melissa debate whether the Santa Ynez ranch or the Post Ranch Inn would be the perfect place to have the ceremony.
‘Oh, she owns a fashion company, I wear a lot their stuff on the red carpet. Rivera, they’re just amazing.’
‘You don’t mean Sasha Sinclair?’ he said incred
ulously. Alex didn’t know much about women’s fashion, but it would be hard to live in LA and not be aware of Sasha’s incredible rise as a style icon.
‘Do you know her? I guess she’s British too, so you would, right?’
‘We went to school together actually,’ he said, feeling suddenly nervy. ‘On holiday too.’
‘You didn’t sleep with her, did you?’ Melissa said, narrowing her eyes.
‘Of course not,’ he said defensively. ‘She went out with my best friend. I haven’t seen her in over ten years.’
‘Well in that case,’ said Melissa, brightening, ‘you can have a little reunion, can’t you? It’ll be a double celebration.’
‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘Smashing.’
Flashbulbs popped as they went into the party. ‘Oi, Melissa, one of you on your own, eh love?’ shouted a photographer and Alex stepped to the side as she posed alone. It had happened before, of course – for some reason Alex’s music hadn’t taken off in the UK in the same way as it had in the States – but tonight it annoyed him more than usual. We’re supposed to be together, tonight of all nights, he thought. Finally, they went inside and Alex immediately approached a waiter holding a tray of drinks.
‘Champagne, please,’ he said.
‘Oh no, can you fix us two Virgin Bellinis?’ interrupted Melissa.
‘But we’re celebrating, aren’t we?’ frowned Alex.
‘Al, we don’t need to get wasted to celebrate, you know.’
He was just about to argue when a face across the room caught his attention. Grace was here! He looked up and waved.
‘Who’s that?’ said Melissa.
‘Who?’ he said distractedly.
‘The fat one in the blue dress.’
He turned on her. ‘Hey, that’s an old friend of mine.’
Melissa pouted. ‘Someone else you’ve slept with, then.’
‘No! I haven’t slept with her, she’s just an old friend. And a lovely person.’
Melissa’s face softened. ‘Sorry, honey,’ she said, slipping a hand around his waist. ‘It’s just I don’t want you getting away from me now I’ve snared you.’
Snared me? thought Alex. ‘I’m not going anywhere, you know that.’
‘Well, great, let’s go and tell your friend the news.’
‘What news?’
‘The “we’re getting married” news, stupid.’
He felt his cheeks flush. ‘Of course. Well, maybe later,’ he said, suddenly feeling tongue-tied and embarrassed. ‘Don’t you want to tell your friends first?’
But Melissa had already gone, trotting over to another super-groomed blonde woman. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘you’ll never guess, but I’ve got some fabulous news . . .’
And when Alex looked around for Grace, she had gone.
Sasha loved the venue for her party; she only wished it hadn’t come with strings attached. Chambrey Park was not quite the biggest private residence in the Home Counties but it was, quite possibly, the prettiest. The cut-glass chandeliers sparkled diamonds of light around the restored ballroom which was lined with beautiful modernist art: Warhol, Basquiat, Matisse. Its owner, Abu Dhabi billionaire Iftaka Khani, had been extremely generous in offering Sasha his house for her thirtieth birthday party. Generous, but not altogether altruistic. He had taken a great shine to the beautiful entrepreneur, lavishing her with gifts, dinners and invites to his many homes around the globe, and as Sasha was officially single, and he was one of the most eligible bachelors in London, he clearly thought it was only a matter of time before they would become an item. He certainly had made an effort. The catering had been done by the Fat Duck restaurant, just a stone’s throw away in Bray, and the music was courtesy of Fatboy Slim. That alone must have cost a fortune. Still not enough, thought Sasha with a shiver, thinking of Iftaka’s fifty-inch waist and hairy hands.
She walked through the party exchanging air-kisses and compliments, then stopped on the mezzanine balcony. Behind her through long windows she could just see the River Thames glinting in the moonlight, while in front of her the party was crackling with laughter and energy, the guest list a glamorous mix of old money, new money, fashion legends and Hoxton hipsters. She smiled as she remembered the times she’d had to sweet-talk bouncers to get into the sought-after London parties. But fashion had been kind to her, sweeping her up on the crest of a wave and giving her a place in society, not to mention a flourishing business. What was it that Vogue had said about the Rivera label recently? That its fans were buying into the fantasy of Sasha Sinclair’s lifestyle: chic, successful new millennium glamour. Well it was a fantasy she had created all by herself, she thought. This party was full of so-called ‘self-made people’ who’d actually been backed by family money or wealthy spouses. Yes, Sasha had needed investment too, but she had used every ounce of ingenuity, every contact, every business advantage; she’d worked ruthlessly to make it happen.
Ruthless. That was what Ben Rivera had called her when she’d finally pushed him out kicking and screaming, although she’d noticed that he didn’t refuse the five-million-pound pay-off. ‘Rivera will never succeed without me!’ he had declared. Well he was wrong. She’d swiftly hired a talented young French designer, and with Sasha firmly steering the design, she had taken the company to even greater heights – it had recently been valued at a hundred million dollars. No, it was an amazing place to be at thirty, but still Sasha felt a pang of sadness. There was one person missing from this party: her father. Twelve months ago Gerald Sinclair had had a stroke which left him paralysed down one side. Although some speech and mobility had returned slowly, he was still a shadow of himself and she hadn’t been surprised when her mother had turned up at the party without him. She smiled to herself. If Ben Rivera thinks I’m ruthless, he’s never met my mother.
Her mobile phone was buzzing. Irritated, she snapped it open and then smiled at the message. ‘First bedroom on the second floor,’ it read.
Robert was waiting for her, silhouetted against the window. She locked the door and went over to him, running her hands over his shoulders.
‘Where’s Connie?’ she whispered.
‘Talking to Iftaka Khani.’
‘Ironic,’ said Sasha.
He looked at her seriously. ‘There’s nothing going on there, is there? You and Iftaka. I mean, it’s good of him to do this . . .’
‘I’ve never made him promises.’
‘Good.’
His smile pleased her. Recently they’d celebrated the fifth anniversary of their relationship. It was longer than most marriages in their world. Yes, Sasha sporadically dated other men, but whenever Robert called, she would come running. He was her north point, the only other passion that co-existed with her business in her universe. She didn’t like being possessed, even if it was her choice, but she still wanted to feel desired.
‘I’m a single girl, Robert,’ she said. ‘I can do what I please.’
‘Don’t go playing hard to get,’ he said, turning her around and kissing the back of her neck. ‘Not when I’ve got something special planned for us both tomorrow.’
He slid his hand into her dress and cupped her breast, rubbing the nipple with his palm. She tipped her head back and moaned. She wanted him inside her now, and from the hardness of his cock, she could tell he wanted her too.
‘The door’s locked,’ he mumbled into her hair.
Suddenly she took a step away from him and turned around. ‘Well you’d better go and unlock it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the party.’
He looked at her, puzzled.‘Sasha, we’ve got a private minute here. Let’s make the most of it.’
God, she wanted him, but she knew it was time to play a different game. It was time to start calling the shots. The truth was, she’d hated seeing him arrive with Connie, hated the polite, remote way he’d spoken to her when they had been standing with mutual friends. She knew it was the price of their secret romance, but it was a price she was no longer going to pay.
‘Sasha. I can’t go back out there. I’ve got a hard-on the size of Africa.’
She looked him up and down witheringly. ‘Hmm. Looks like you’re going to have to stay here for a little while then,’ she replied flatly, handing him an interiors magazine from the bedside table as she headed for the door. ‘But don’t worry, we can pick up where we left off tomorrow.’
‘Remind me why I’m here?’ said Sarah Brayfield as she watched Sasha Sinclair glide down the stairs.
‘She’s not that bad,’ smiled Grace, glad that her former flatmate had come to the party with her. Sarah’s no-nonsense approach hadn’t changed over the years – Grace suspected it was essential in her job as a media litigation lawyer – and it was refreshing to go to a society party with someone who didn’t think everything was ‘fabulous’.
Kiss Heaven Goodbye Page 39