‘Yes, you were in a car crash,’ said Carole. ‘But the doctors say you’ll be fine. Just concussion, a couple of cracked ribs, a broken wrist and lots of bruising. You might have to be kept in overnight, but only for observation.’
‘Where’s Robert?’
Carole didn’t say anything for a moment.
‘I didn’t know that you and he . . .’
‘Where is he?’ Sasha repeated.
Carole’s eyes dipped to the floor and Sasha felt a flutter of dread.
‘Robert has some very serious injuries,’ she said.‘They don’t think he was wearing his seat belt.’
Fragments of the morning came back into focus. Getting into the car, putting her belt on. Robert getting out of the car at a petrol station. Did he put his seat belt on? She couldn’t remember. Why can’t I remember? she thought angrily. Then: I’ve got to go to him, be with him.
She pulled her weak, bruised body up. ‘Where is he?’
‘Sasha, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Carole, putting a hand on her arm. ‘His wife is here.’
She stopped and looked at her mother sharply.
‘I guess you messed up again, Sasha.’
‘What?’ She felt like she had been slapped. ‘I messed up?’ she repeated.
‘Well, it didn’t work out with Miles, did it?’ said Carole with a smug expression. ‘And now you’ve been caught out with his father. You never could close the deal, could you?’
‘Deals?’ she hissed. ‘Relationships are not deals, Mother.’
Carole laughed cynically. ‘Well, perhaps you take after me more than I thought.’
At this moment, the idea of inheriting anything from her mother was a revolting thought. ‘How on earth can you think we share anything?’ she spat.
‘Three years ago I was going to leave your father,’ said Carole, a wistful look in her eyes. ‘I met someone at the tennis club. Eddie owns Kingly Haulage and he has a beautiful house on the St George’s Hill estate. He kept asking me to leave your father, but I put it off. First it was his birthday, then it was Christmas. And then he had the stroke. And of course I can’t leave him now.’
Sasha snorted. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past you.’
She shuffled around the bed, heading towards the door.
‘I only hope he’s provided for you,’ said Carole.
Sasha stopped. ‘What do you mean “provided”?’
‘In his will, of course.’
Sasha shook her head in disbelief. ‘Just go, Mother.’
She walked down the corridor, feeling the aching in her chest and her legs. There was a livid green bruise on the back of her right hand and her wrist was in plaster. She desperately tried to remember what had happened, but all she could see was an image of a line of trees coming towards her. She turned a corner and at once she knew that Robert was in the room in front of her. A man in a grey suit was sitting in a chair outside reading a magazine. She had no idea who he was. An exec from Ash Corp. waiting for a meeting? Connie Ashford’s driver? Her heart beat faster – was she still in there? The man stood up and walked towards her, his hands held up to stop her.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Sinclair, you can’t go in there.’
Sasha tried to dodge around him, but she was in no shape to get very far. ‘I have to see him,’ she said desperately, craning her neck to see in the window, but the blinds were down. ‘Please, you don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I was with him in the car. I have to see him.’
The man looked sympathetic, but he still shook his head and turned her around. ‘His family don’t want anyone near him. Especially you.’
‘I’ll be back,’ she said defiantly, but allowed herself to be taken back to her bed. She lay down, feeling weak and shaky, squeezing her eyes shut to prevent the tears coming out. I won’t cry, she thought to herself. She couldn’t let them get to her, they couldn’t keep her away from him for ever.
When she opened her eyes, she gasped. Miles was standing at her door.
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ he said, his eyes cold.
Shame and fear rushed over her and she shivered. ‘I love him,’ she said quietly, only now daring to say the words she had never admitted to herself or Robert.
‘Like you loved me?’ he sneered. ‘You were only interested in the money. You’re just a cheap social-climbing whore.’
‘I care for him!’ she said, sticking her chin out. ‘And he looked after me!’
‘Oh, I’ll bet he did,’ said Miles, his tone mocking. ‘But don’t pretend you cared for him, you little slut. You have only ever cared about yourself.’ He moved towards her, his hands curled into fists.
Terrified, Sasha leant over and grabbed the emergency alert button, yanking it out of the wall. An alarm began to sound.
‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Nurse!’
Miles smiled, his face full of cruel fury. ‘Don’t think this is over,’ he said as he backed towards the door. ‘You can kiss that precious little business of yours goodbye.’
‘Get out!’ screamed Sasha. ‘Get out before I have you thrown out!’
Two male nurses came running in, but Miles had already gone.
‘Are you OK?’ asked one of them.
‘Fine,’ said Sasha, the tears finally rolling down her face. ‘I’m just fine.’
Grace arrived at the hospital late. She had been in the air, flying back to Ibiza, when her mother had called her, leaving a message about the accident. She picked it up in the arrivals hall and headed straight for the booking desks to get a flight back to Heathrow.
‘This is stupid, Mum!’ whined Joseph. ‘We just got off the plane!’
‘Grandad Ashford isn’t well, honey,’ said Grace firmly, hastily writing fresh luggage labels for them all. ‘We have to go back.’
Joe remained irritated rather than alarmed the whole flight back and Grace felt a stab of guilt at how remote from her parents the twins had become. She knew that it was a choice she had made for them and suddenly it felt very wrong.
It was eleven o’clock by the time Grace had dropped the children with friends and raced to the hospital. The corridors were eerily quiet as her heels clacked along them. Her father was lying motionless in his room, ghostly and wan in the weak light of the single lamp above his bed. It was only then that Grace could see how serious it was. All the way over she had been telling herself that he’d come away with cuts and bruises, maybe a fracture or two, but now . . . now she could see her father was critical.
His mouth was covered by a plastic mask attached to a machine by a long rubber tube. A series of drips hung from a rack beside the bed. His arms, lying both sides of his body on the blue acrylic blanket, looked pale and old. Connie Ashford was sitting on a plastic chair by the bed. She looked tiny in the semi-darkness, her face in half-shadow. She stood up and gave Grace a sad embrace.
‘He’s going to be OK,’ said Grace. ‘He’s going to be fine.’
But Connie’s silence suggested otherwise.
‘Do we know any more about what happened?’
Her mother told her what they had managed to piece together: Robert’s Aston Martin had swerved off the road and ploughed into a tree. The crash alerted a farmer who called the ambulance and fire brigade, who had to cut both the passengers from the wreckage. Robert’s injuries were extensive: a punctured lung and ruptured spleen plus spinal damage, the severity of which was unknown; various specialists were being flown in to treat him.
‘Who was the passenger?’ asked Grace, sitting down.
‘That woman . . .’ said Connie, her voice cracking as she spoke. ‘It was Sasha Sinclair.’
‘Sasha?’ Grace whispered incredulously.
Connie could barely manage a nod. ‘I can’t believe he took me to her party last night,’ she said, her brow creased in confusion. ‘I knew he was having an affair, of course. I always did. But I never thought for one moment it would be with her. She was Miles’ girlfriend, for God’s sake!’
; Grace was amazed. She had always known Sasha was an operator and had therefore been surprised when she had let Miles slip through her fingers, but maybe that was because she had her eye on the bigger prize. Could she have been seeing Robert for that long?
‘Is she here?’
‘Not any more. She was admitted for a few hours but she’s been discharged.’ Connie let out another sob.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Grace gently. ‘I mean are you sure that they were together? Dad had invested in her business, maybe they were going to a meeting . . . ?’
Connie shook her head sadly. ‘There was a diamond bracelet for her in his jacket pocket. A birthday present.’
Grace squeezed her mother’s hand sympathetically. ‘Well, none of that matters now. All that matters is that he gets better.’
Connie nodded slowly, looking at her husband with red-ringed eyes. ‘I need a walk,’ she said, standing. ‘I doubt the canteen is open but I’m sure there’s a vending machine somewhere.’
She closed the door behind her and Grace listened as her mother’s heels retreated down the corridor. She turned back to her father, so still and small. Robert had always been an imposing man, someone to look up to, someone to fear. She couldn’t actually remember ever doing normal father – daughter things with him like outings to the park or playing hide and seek. It was just accepted that Daddy had important work to do, that he was too busy to play and that birthdays and school prize days were difficult to schedule. In her early years at boarding school, Grace had kept a scrapbook of cuttings she had collected from the business and society pages of the newspapers: Daddy shaking hands with another man, Daddy going to a party, Daddy opening a new hotel. It was her version of a family photo album; Robert Ashford was never home long enough to have any photos with his children. In fact, now Grace thought about it, the only other time she could remember being alone with her father like this was when he had summoned her to his study to discuss her school report when it was anything other than a string of A’s.
‘I want the twins to know you, Dad,’ said Grace. ‘I don’t want them to be strangers to you, like I was.’
She brushed at her face and was surprised to find a tear running down her cheek.
‘It’s never too late to start making amends, that’s something I’ve only just learnt,’ she said. ‘If you can just stick around for a while longer, we can make a little time to be together, can’t we? Nothing’s more important than that.’
She reached out to touch his hand, lying there on top of the covers. It was so warm, so alive, but his face was so still and deathly.
‘Did you hide the body?’ she whispered, searching his face for a trace of movement, the slightest sign. ‘I’ve always wanted to believe what you said about the boy leaving the island. But I never did.’
Grace had always clung to the idea that Robert had moved the body, hidden it, covered the whole thing up. She had never bought the story of the missing boy and the stolen boat. That boat boy had been dead. Her father was a powerful man – why wouldn’t he make it all go away if he could? So for all these years she had directed her anger towards him, hiding her own shame at leaving the body by focusing on her father’s corruption and arrogance. But sitting here, next to his frail body, she finally realised why he had done it: because he had been protecting his son. Miles had killed that boy and Robert had helped him. And Grace couldn’t honestly say she wouldn’t have done the same thing had it been Joseph or Olivia.
‘Come back to us, Daddy,’ she said through the tears. ‘I understand now. I don’t want you to be the bogeyman any more.’
She heard movement behind her and turned. Connie Ashford was standing there with two cups of coffee. Grace swallowed; how long had she been there? What had she heard? She quickly rubbed her face, embarrassed at her tears.
‘Don’t, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t be ashamed of loving your father.’
She put the coffee down and sat next to Grace, holding her hand. ‘God knows, there are times when he didn’t deserve it. I’ll admit there are times when I hated him. Sasha is not the first by any means, even if she thinks she is.’
‘Mum, I . . .’
Connie put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re a grown woman, Grace, and I’m so proud of how you’ve made a life for yourself. I don’t know what we did to make you need to leave, but things are different now – you’re different. I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but I want you to come home.’
Grace had been thinking about it, weighing up the options, knowing it would be good for the kids, maybe even good for her. But still she hesitated.
‘I . . . I’m not sure, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’
Connie looked into her eyes. ‘If we waited until we were ready for everything, we would never leave the nest. Nothing’s perfect in this life, Grace,’ she said, looking at her husband’s prone figure. ‘But you have to take a chance and hope you’re doing the right thing.’
Grace nodded, knowing she was right.
‘Come back to us, Grace,’ said her mother, holding her hand tight. ‘We need you.’
45
Robert Ashford’s funeral was held in the church in Sweeton village, just a couple of miles from the family estate. Mourners were ferried in by helicopter or blacked-out limousines and the pews were filled with celebrities, captains of industry, even members of the Cabinet. A military-trained security company had to be employed to keep the press and rubberneckers from invading the area. At the request of the family, the service was kept short and solemn.
Connie quietly wept on Grace’s shoulder in the church, but dried her eyes and held her head aloft as they walked out into the quiet graveyard. She was dignifed and elegant as she accepted the hushed words of condolence at the wake in the red drawing room of Ashford Park. Grace was impressed by how well she held herself together, considering the bottom had fallen out of her world. Grief was hard enough to deal with on its own – Grace knew that well enough – but her mother had an extra burden to shoulder: the pain and humiliation of the way in which Robert had died.
‘Can I get you anything, Mum?’ she asked, as the last of the mourners left. Connie looked tired and drawn, her eyes ringed with dark circles no make-up could hide.
‘No thank you, darling,’ her mother said, patting her hand. ‘Everyone has been so kind. The trouble is everyone thinks they should talk to me, but no one knows what to say.’
Grace smiled. ‘Well you let me know. I’m just going to speak to Miles.’
Her brother and his wife were standing by the long French windows leading to the terrace, each with a glass of white wine. Grace immediately sensed an atmosphere, as if they’d just been arguing.
‘How’s it going, sis?’ said Miles, raising his glass.
‘I’ve had better days, Miles,’ said Grace.
Miles nodded and looked away. ‘Mum seems to be bearing up pretty well, considering.’
‘At least Sasha Sinclair had the decency to stay away,’ said Chrissy. She was wearing a demure Chanel shift dress with a Hermès scarf round her neck. No one would have suspected that this woman had ever been out of the Home Counties, let alone spent years as an exotic dancer. Money and success had rubbed away her history like footprints on the beach.
‘I don’t think even Sasha would want that sort of publicity,’ said Grace. Miles looked as if he was about to say something, then took a long drink of his wine instead.
‘I see Alex Doyle sent flowers,’ said Chrissy, trying to fill the awkward silence.
‘That was kind of him,’ said Grace.
‘Mum says you’re moving back to Britain?’ said Miles abruptly.
‘Yes, for the winter anyway. I’ll see how it goes after that. How long are you staying?’
Miles scowled. ‘I’m getting out of here as soon as humanly possible,’ he said. ‘Coming back here . . .’ He trailed off and stared out of the window.
‘The family lawyer is going to read the will after the wake, I he
ar,’ said Chrissy with a little too much enthusiasm.
‘Really?’ said Grace. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
She caught Miles flashing her a warning look.
‘Sod this,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘I’m going for a ride.’
‘Ooh, that sounds good,’ said Chrissy.
‘On my own,’ he said pointedly and stalked out of the room.
Miles rode the mare hard, her hooves sending clods of earth flying behind them. He followed the line of the river, jumping fences and fallen logs, then pushed her up the hill to the wood right on the edge of the estate, glorious in the bleak colour palette of winter. Having been based in New York for the last two years to oversee the American Globe clubs, he was glad to be back in England.
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