He smiled thinly. ‘Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Darling, what a wonderful idea”, perhaps, or “I can’t wait to tell everyone”. Not “Why?”’
Chrissy took a sip of her champagne. ‘Well, things haven’t exactly been brilliant between us recently, you have to admit that.’
‘Then what better way to get through this rough patch?’ said Miles. ‘We can have a fresh start; it will be just like the old days.’
Chrissy laughed wearily. ‘The old days are long gone, Miles, long gone.’
Miles shook his head and looked at her for a moment, then raised his glass in salute.
‘Have it your way,’ he said. ‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’
‘What do you mean?’
He picked up a remote control and clicked a button. The wide-screen television flickered into life, showing a single shot of two people making love. Chrissy’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger.
‘You and Bill seem to have had a particularly good time at the party,’ he said, turning down the volume as the orgasmic groans grew particularly loud. His wife looked shell-shocked.
‘I’m in love with him,’ said Chrissy finally.
‘How touching,’ sneered Miles, clicking off the picture. ‘Shame it can’t go on.’
‘Don’t blame Bill,’ she snapped.‘This is your fault. If you’d shown the slightest interest in me over the last few years, maybe I wouldn’t have had to go to another man. And Bill is a man, Miles.’
The colour drained from his face.‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t you think I know, Miles? You’re gay.’
He looked at her scornfully. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘How many dicks have you had in your mouth? Is that how you like it? Or do you prefer to give? Pretend that you’re still a man that way?’
He smiled callously. ‘I really don’t think you should be throwing stones in this particular glass house, Chrissy. You’ve built yourself a very comfortable life here, but it doesn’t take much to destroy someone’s reputation. The Hastings past, the junkie brother, the sordid little lesbian shows in Phuket. I could go on.’
She looked pale. ‘I’ve told you before, I was just a dancer . . .’
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve!’ he snapped. ‘Do you think any of those girls you worked with – who you performed with – would keep quiet for you? All it took was a few baht.’
‘It’s lies!’ she cried. ‘I never did anything like that.’
‘I know everything, Chrissy,’ he said fiercely. ‘You fuck people for money. That’s what you’ve been doing since the second I laid eyes on you.’
She stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I want a divorce.’
Miles laughed in her face. ‘Divorce is out of the question. I can’t have that sort of distraction when we’re at such a delicate stage of our expansion. It wouldn’t go down well here. Dubai is a very moral country.’
She snorted. ‘What would you know about morals?’
His expression softened and he raised his hand to touch her face. He’d known she wouldn’t take this lying down.
‘I do love you, Chrissy,’ he said. ‘We’re good together. Look what we’ve built.’
She glared at him. ‘You really expect me to go along with this? Play happy families with you?’
‘Think of it as playing a role, pretending to be something you’re not. You’ve always been good at that.’
‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you?’
Miles gave a small smile. ‘It has been said. Oh, and one other thing, Chrissy.’ He walked over to the desk and picked up a document.
‘What’s this?’
‘A post-nuptial agreement.’ He put the paper on the table next to her and twisted his Montblanc fountain pen open. ‘You see, my father was right about protecting the family interests, and, well, it was the exuberance of youth getting married without doing that.’
Chrissy picked the document up, scanning it, her eyes growing wider as she read.
‘Take my word, it’s a fair agreement,’ said Miles. ‘In the unlikely event of a divorce, you will receive a ten per cent share in Globe Holdings with a ten million ceiling. Don’t let anyone ever say I haven’t appreciated all your input into the business.’
‘You are kidding me?’ she gasped. ‘Ash Corp. is worth billions!’
‘Yes, it is, but I think ten million pounds is a fortune for a hooker from Hastings, don’t you?’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘Oh, I can,’ said Miles. ‘You see, if you don’t sign this now, I am calling the police.’
‘The police?’
‘You’ll be aware that infidelity is a criminal offence in Dubai. Punishable by twelve months’ imprisonment, I believe. It’s rarely upheld for foreigners unless a strong complaint is made to the authorities, but, as you know, I am very well regarded in the United Arab Emirates. And once the Dubai authorities see this DVD, I’m sure they’ll want this sort of behaviour held to account.’
Chrissy ran at him screaming, her fingers clawing at his face, but Miles caught her wrists and flung her into a chair.
‘I won’t do it!’ she hissed, her eyes blazing. ‘This is blackmail! I’ll fight it every inch of the way.’
‘You’ll be fighting it from a jail cell, and I hear the conditions in prisons over here are pretty grim. Mind you, I’m sure they’ll be interested in your lesbo show.’
‘Fuck you, Miles!’ she shouted.
‘No, fuck you,’ he spat, grabbing the contract and the pen and shoving them into her hands. ‘Did you really think you could screw me over, flaunt your affair with some underling in my face? No, you’ve fucked up, Chrissy, and there’s a price to be paid. Now sign.’
She looked up at him, her face a mask of hate. Then her shoulders slumped and her head hung down. She took the pen and signed the contract. Miles picked it up and slipped it into a leather document folder, then locked it in the safe. When he turned back, Chrissy was looking at him like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap. Which I suppose she is, he thought.
‘Please understand, this is just protection, Chrissy,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘It’s going to be far better if we work with each other rather than against one another.’
‘You can’t stop me seeing Bill,’ she said insolently.
He smiled cruelly. ‘I think you’ll find I can. I’m offering him the job as general manager of the Globe Sydney. That should be far enough to keep his filthy paws off you.’
‘He won’t take it.’
‘Oh he will. If he doesn’t, by the time I’ve finished muddying his reputation he won’t be able to get a job shovelling shit from the pavements in Soho.’
He stretched across to the small mahogany table and picked up the phone. ‘Room service?’ he said. ‘Mr Ashford here in the penthouse. I’d like you to prepare something special, perhaps that thing you do with quail? And retrieve a bottle of forty-seven Petrus from the cellar. My wife and I have something to celebrate.’
57
December 2008
When the Toddington Hall renovations were finally completed, after almost four years of work and five million pounds on structural and cosmetic alterations, Julian decided to throw a weekend house party to celebrate. To Grace’s disappointment, he invited art dealers, collectors and gallery owners, a very staid and serious crowd, and she was beginning to wish she’d laid on hors d’oeuvres on the terrace instead of a hog roast.
‘Never let it be said that your boyfriend doesn’t like the sound of his own voice,’ whispered Sarah Brayfield, loitering at the back of the west wing gallery, sipping a much-needed glass of red wine. Grace giggled behind her hand, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl bunking off a field trip. They were forty-five minutes into a guided tour and had yet to leave the gallery, where Julian was standing in front of his paintings and talking expansively about his early abstract period.
‘He’s just proud of what he�
�s done.’ Grace smiled.
‘Well I’m not sure about the paintings, but you can’t fault what he’s done with this place,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m just hoping you’re going to adopt me and I can move into the bedroom in that Rapunzel turret.’
Her friend was right. Toddington Hall was absolutely spectacular. The house itself was a labyrinth of rooms, secret turrets and huge bedrooms, while the grounds had miles of woods, lush meadows and lanes flanked by lavender and cow parsley where Grace would spend hours riding her bike in the sun.
‘Well that’s enough about my daubings,’ said Julian. ‘Now I’ve got something a little special to show you. Follow me, everyone. To the screening room.’
Grace smiled at the guests, showing them towards Julian’s specially constructed darkroom. He was keen to show off his new project, ‘Newspeak’, a wall of sixty-four television screens which would randomly flick between TV stations around the world. He had installed a giant satellite screen on the roof for the purpose.
‘I think I’ve seen enough for one day,’ whispered Sarah as they sloped off to hide in the kitchen, toasty from the Aga filling the room with heat. ‘Feels like we’re back in the Bristol house,’ she said, settling at the farmhouse table. ‘Remember how the boiler was always on the blink? Either tropical conditions or icicles on the cold tap.’
Grace nodded and filled up their glasses. ‘That seems a lifetime ago.’
‘For you maybe,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m still single, childless, careless . . . only difference is its five-hundred-quid Frette sheets keeping me warm at night.’
‘You were adamant last month you like being single.’
‘I said I’m not afraid of being single. Thing is, I don’t want just anyone. I want the right one. Speaking of which, did you read about Alex and Melissa’s divorce? Sounds messy.’
‘I spoke to him a few weeks ago,’ said Grace. ‘I invited him down tonight actually, but he couldn’t make it because his mum isn’t well.’
‘Still carrying a torch for little Alex?’ Sarah teased. ‘Can’t imagine what you’d see in a gorgeous millionaire rock star like that.’
‘Sarah, I’m a happily unmarried woman,’ said Grace, feeling herself blush.
‘I know that, but we can still talk about our “What if” men, can’t we?’
If Grace was honest, she had been dwelling on that very thought lately. She had begun to wonder how she had managed to end up rattling around another big, beautiful mansion with an absent partner and just a handful of staff for company. Julian was away four nights out of seven working on his ‘urban study’, an extension of his Newspeak project which involved installing a series of TV screens in and around east London. For that end, he was using a rented studio in Shoreditch rather than the five-thousand-square-foot space he’d just had built in the grounds of Toddington Hall. It felt like history was repeating itself.
‘So how’s life in the castle?’ asked Sarah.
‘Julian is giving up smoking, so he’s snapping like a little dog,’ said Grace, dodging the question. ‘I’m actually glad he’s up in London half the week.’
‘I think you’re bored,’ mused Sarah. ‘You know what you should do?’ she smiled mischievously.
‘What?’
‘A film – a documentary. You’ve got a fantastic visual eye.’
‘Come on. Julian’s the one playing around with videos. I’m a photographer, not a director.’
Sarah took another sip of wine. ‘I’m not talking about you being the next Spielberg, but I think you could do an incredible documentary. Michael Moore has won Oscars from getting on his soap box with a camcorder.’
Grace loved how Sarah believed in her, thought she was capable of anything. She had none of her friend’s confidence in her own abilities and for a moment she wondered if the years living with bullish, driven men like Gabriel and Julian had sapped her self-belief.
‘I can help with investment.’ Sarah worked in one of the country’s biggest media law practices, with contacts across the business.
‘You know I don’t need it.’
‘Film finance isn’t just about money. I know a couple of guys who could exec-produce it for you.’
For the first time in a long time, Grace felt a flurry of excitement.
‘The big four zero is out there, Grace. When it comes, we want to be forty, fulfilled and fabulous.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Grace.
Julian hated the idea. Grace wasn’t entirely surprised; he hadn’t been all that supportive of her photography, deriding it as ‘populist’ and ‘commercial’, two things he found completely unacceptable in any artistic venture. Grace also suspected that he disliked the idea of her stepping on his toes. He was the visual artist in their relationship and he didn’t want her stealing any of his thunder. Grace had spread a series of black and white prints of photographs she had taken in Parador on the big table in the conservatory, a sort of makeshift mood board for a possible documentary. Julian gave them a cursory glance.
‘Say something,’ said Grace with gathering frustration.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand why, of the million subjects in the world, your documentary has to be about Parador.’
‘Because there’s a great untold story there.’
‘And your desire to go back there has nothing to do with your ex-husband?’
‘Don’t be so childish, Julian,’ said Grace. ‘You know Gabe has a new wife.’
‘I just think it’s strange, that’s all I’m saying.’
He walked back into the house and she followed him. She was angry that he could be so dismissive of her interests and ambitions, yet he expected her to drop everything and muck in when he got excited about a project.
‘Don’t walk away from me, Julian,’ she said. ‘This is important to me.’
Julian stopped and crossed his arms. ‘Is this about you reasserting some ludicrous sense of independence?’
‘No! Why would you even think that? And what’s so wrong about having my own career anyway?’
He snorted. ‘Be honest, Grace,’ he said. ‘This whole thing is just about you showing me and your precious Gabriel how clever and creative you are.’
‘I can’t believe you’re behaving like this.’
‘Fine,’ he said, flapping a dismissive hand. ‘Do whatever you want. Fly off to Parador. But don’t expect me to go running around after your kids if they want to come home from school for the weekend. Or go dashing off to your mother’s if the poor dear has a fall.’
She stared after him, wondering if she had ever really known this man at all.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ cried Gabriel, pacing up and down the lawns at El Esperanza. ‘You left Parador, left our marriage, because you were terrified about safety, and now you want to go running around some of the most dangerous barrios in the world to make a movie?’
Grace was furious. This was the first time she had been back to Parador since she had left Ibiza years before, and she hadn’t exactly expected to be welcomed with open arms. But she had expected a little more support, considering that the reason for her visit, if it came off, would help Gabriel’s precious cause.
‘Gabe, don’t you start. Julian didn’t speak to me for three days when I told him I wanted to do this.’
‘Well for once I agree with Julian,’ said Gabriel. ‘I told you on the phone I can’t be responsible for what happens to you, and if you choose to blantantly disregard what I say . . . It’s dangerous out there, Grace.’
At forty-five, Gabriel was still a handsome man. The flecks of grey in his hair gave him the elegance and dignity of a forties matinee idol. But the fire she had seen in his eyes when they had first come back to Parador had dimmed. His words were laced with bitterness and anxiety. After three attempts at winning the presidency, he had resigned himself to life as a senator in the Parador assembly, and that all-consuming drive for change and justice had gone. He seemed smaller somehow, his shoulders less straight.
He still travelled in a bulletproof car, but the truth was the CARP party was toothless, far too weak to be a threat to anyone. Even so, Grace had hoped Gabriel of all people would understand her desire to bring the problems of his country to a wider audience.
‘You wanted to make a difference, Gabe. It’s the reason you ran for office, it’s the reason our marriage failed.’
‘Don’t blame the party for—’ he began, but she cut him off.
‘Our marriage failed because Parador was the most important thing to you. I just want to go out into the barrios and show the world what’s happening.’
Kiss Heaven Goodbye Page 49