She booked the best table at Scott’s restaurant and was wearing her most flattering figure-hugging cashmere dress as she slowly walked to the table, swinging her hips.
‘Randall,’ she smiled, leaning across to give him a kiss and a brief flash of cleavage. ‘So sorry to miss you at the board meeting the other day. You know how it is with these royal weddings.’
‘No I don’t,’ he laughed. ‘But I hope you’re going to tell me.’
Randall was a fifty-something East Coast WASP who had made a fortune in hedge funds over the last decade. Sasha was sure this was why he was investing in Rivera – lunches with one of the most desirable women in fashion, plus the social ammunition of Sasha’s juicy insider gossip which he could then use at his next dinner party.
‘Funny you should ask about that.’ She smiled. ‘I actually have an exciting business proposal for you involving a princess.’
‘A princess? She single?’
Sasha laughed. She knew she had him. Steven wasn’t going to like her going over his head, but he had forced her hand. It was dog eat dog out there.
‘Well, you know Abu Dhabi is the most exciting Gulf state right now,’ she began, touching Randall’s hand conspiratorially. ‘Oil-rich, progressive. Well, an interesting commercial opportunity has just presented itself ...’
65
April 2010
Miles sat on the deck of the super-yacht Simba, listening to the gentle breeze ruffling the sails and the chink of the ice in his vodka. He had his own tub of course – the 125-foot Conifer he’d inherited from his mother – but the Simba, belonging to the Indian steel magnate Anil Chawla, was magnificent. Two hundred and forty feet of sleek engineering genius, it could glide along with wind power like an America’s Cup winner, or cruise effortlessly across the Pacific in a gale using the Rolls-Royce engines. Plus it had its own swimming pool. Luxury yachts were the boardrooms of the twenty-first century, where global deals were hatched in secret, and it was infinitely preferable to talk business here, moored off the coast of Corfu, than it was in some bland air-conditioned office block in London or Manhattan. Miles was not prone to envy, but he certainly admired this boat – and the man who owned it.
‘I’m sorry about your mother, Miles,’ said Anil. He was sixty years old and looked twenty years younger, his latte-coloured skin remarkably free of lines, his wiry body yoga-toned. He was worth a conservative estimate of twenty billion dollars, but the whisper was that there was far more hidden away.
‘Thank you,’ said Miles, looking away and sipping his drink. His grief was still raw. He had never been particularly close to Connie, in fact had only seen her two or three times a year in the past decade, but her loss had hit him harder than he had imagined. He had felt quite choked speaking at the funeral in front of four hundred people; his grief being worse because he simply hadn’t expected it. Despite her slight frame, Connie had always been the Ashford family’s powerhouse, and he just couldn’t believe she was dead. The precise events surrounding her death were still unclear, but apparently it was as simple and tragic as that she’d had a few too many drinks celebrating her grandchildren’s birthday and had got disorientated wandering around Julian’s monstrous mansion. One fall in the dark and that was it – she was gone.
They talked for a while about the people they knew in common. It felt good to be treated as an equal by someone of Anil’s stature.
‘I hear that the Chelsea Museum is about to come on the market,’ said Anil.
Miles had heard that rumour too. Every heavy-hitting developer was going to be after the site. It was without question the most exclusive pocket of London.
‘Are you going to bid?’
Miles shook his head. ‘Unlikely. I think I have enough property in London at the moment.’ The truth was that he wasn’t sure he could afford to take on the project. The last two years had been tough; they’d only just managed to scrabble out of the Las Vegas debacle by the skin of their teeth and he’d lost millions in the project in Dubai when the Middle Eastern bubble burst. The money was still coming in, but Ash Corp.’s reputation had been dented and Miles badly needed to spread out into new markets. And for that he needed allies.
‘Yes, I have seen your developments there – and in New York,’ said Anil. ‘In fact I bought my son one of your Hyde Park penthouses. ’
Miles was of course aware of that. In 2007, at the height of the market, Anil had bought it for forty-five million as a wedding gift for his son.
‘Well if London is overplayed for you, perhaps you will be more interested in this,’ said Anil. ‘I have just purchased a parcel of land in Mumbai. I have money to invest but not developing expertise. I think we could work well in partnership.’
Miles did not betray his feelings, but he was immediately excited. Ash Corp. had suffered in the downturn, but it was not a global depression. There were pockets – vast pockets – of prosperity. Wealth was shifting from the West to the East, the emerging nations riding a wave of conspicuous consumption, and India was a future superpower. Miles knew that his strategy of courting the super-rich, building them apartments beyond their own lurid dreams, would work perfectly there. But first he needed to establish a foothold.
‘What sort of figures are we talking about?’ he asked casually.
Anil shrugged and named a figure. A huge figure. A figure that represented a big risk for Ash Corp. If it succeeded, of course, Miles could buy his own version of the Simba. Something even bigger, sleeker. But if it failed – and foreign developments were fraught with endless hidden pitfalls, as he had found to his cost in Dubai – then the company would be dangerously exposed. Miles pursed his lips thoughtfully, his face a diplomatic mask. His poker face. Should he bet or fold? Push all his chips in the middle or stick with the safe option?
He smiled to himself. Safe wasn’t in Miles’ vocabulary. He had been adamant he would keep investing through the recession. Like a shark, if you stopped swimming, stopped moving forward, you just died. But the banks had tightened up their lending facilities even for clients as wealthy and prestigious as Ash Corp. They were unlikely to extend more credit to him unless he liquidated some assets first. He would need to free at least fifty million dollars in liquid cash just to get started. How could he get hold of that money so quickly without going to the banks?
A butler dressed in an all-white uniform handed him a glass of ice-cold lassi. It felt thick and creamy on his tongue. Corfu glistened in the distance and the answer became instantly clear to him. The island.
Not a year went by without someone making a serious offer for Angel Cay. American oil men, the wealthiest Hollywood celebrities, de luxe hotel groups. Lately it had appealed to Russian oligarchs and the new Chinese super-rich. But Robert Ashford, and then Connie, had always refused to sell. It was their sanctuary. Miles had no such love for the island, and after his parents’ death, it was his to do with as he liked. In fact, he would be glad to be free of it.
He put out his hand to Anil.‘I think you’ve got yourself a partner.’ He smiled.
66
June 2010
Although it was a ninety-minute journey from London to Miles Ashford’s Oxfordshire estate, everyone who had an invitation to his summer party came. It was a tradition his father had started – gather the top players in every field together, ply them with the finest wines and make them feel as if they were at one of the best parties of their lives. Miles had to hand it to the old man, it was a clever move. The party cost almost half a million pounds but it paid dividends in goodwill, great contacts and information.
As Miles looked down on to the lawns from the terrace, he knew he had scored another hit. It was the perfect sort of hot Sunday afternoon, the kind of hazy English summer day which made Ashford Park look particularly spectacular, and his party planners had done a splendid job converting the gardens into a vision of an Edwardian English park. There were pedaloes on the lake, a brass band playing a medley of Beatles hits in a striped bandstand, while the peacocks st
rutting around the lawns were no match for the guests – Mayfair hedge-fund kings, Hollywood stars, national treasures, sporting legends, Euro-royalty and dot-com billionaires. This wasn’t just a party. Miles’ summer party was now one of the key social events of the year.
He smiled as his friend Arnaud Dauphin the financier approached with two other guests.
‘Excellent party, Miles, as always,’ said Arnaud. ‘Do you know Randall Kane and Steven Ellis?’
Miles smiled broadly, shaking the men’s hands. He was aware of both men’s involvement with Rivera.
‘I’ve heard of both of you by reputation of course. Randall, I believe we met when I was out in New York?’
‘I do believe I dropped by the Globe Club more than once.’
‘You and the best of Manhattan.’ Miles smiled. ‘So how is the lovely Sasha?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Randall. ‘You two go back a long way if I remember correctly?’
‘We do. And of course I was the backer in the early days of Rivera. Is she still earning her keep?’
Miles did not miss Steven Ellis’ tight, fake smile: it told him more about the state of the company than anything a market analyst could cook up.
‘Sasha is Sasha.’ Steven shrugged, his smile never slipping.
After a few minutes of polite chit-chat, Randall and Steven disappeared across the lawns to check out the vintage car collection that had been parked beyond the bandstand. Miles and Arnaud exchanged raised eyebrows.
‘So what’s happening there?’ asked Miles. ‘Steven looked like he was sucking on a lemon at the mention of Sasha.’
‘No love lost between him and Ms Sinclair.’ Arnaud smiled.
Arnaud and his Argentinian wife Letizia were legendary social entertainers and were always to be found at the epicentre of London’s elevated social scene. Consequently, he could usually be relied upon to know the latest gossip.
‘Letizia was at lunch with Steven’s wife at Harry’s Bar on Friday,’ he said. ‘Apparently Steven and Sasha are barely speaking to one another these days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Steven is furious that despite all the hard work he puts into the company, Sasha takes all the reward. You heard she’s got an MBE for services to fashion?’
Miles shrugged. ‘To be fair, she did build the company up from nothing before the private equity boys got involved.’
‘Maybe,’ said Arnaud. ‘But she has never really been hands-on with the business side. That was always left to Steven and Lucian, the previous CEO. The company has only become an international force since they had a chief installed who knew what they were doing.’
Miles chuckled. ‘I don’t see what the problem is. After all, Sasha has always been a brilliant self-publicist. And now she’s just a glorified figurehead for Rivera, it gives her the opportunity to do what she does best: flouncing around the world in sexy little dresses talking about herself.’
‘Well, either way, Steven is pissed off. He’s tired of the entire business community thinking that Sasha is Donald Trump in stilettos, when really all she’s doing these days is confusing marketing with partying. She should be careful anyway. It can’t be good for business when the CEO and the president of Rivera can’t stand being the same room.’
Miles nodded, his neutral expression never betraying how he was absorbing every detail and formulating a plan. He had been watching Rivera more closely for a while now. Just before Christmas he’d had one of his team prepare a report on the company which told him that the label hadn’t been too affected by the recession thanks to clever diversification and a flourishing accessories and scent line. However, the fact that Steven and Sasha were at each other’s throats was good news; in fact, it was excellent news. Looking back, Miles had been naïve to get rid of his holding. At the time he had been happy with a hefty return on his original investment, but now, quite suddenly, he wanted Rivera back. After the death of Robert Ashford, he had promised his mother that he would not interfere with the company out of spite or revenge, but now she was gone, and anyway, circumstances had changed. He would never forgive Sasha for what she had done; plus this was business. Miles could do with a company like Rivera; a luxury goods firm would sit nicely next to the Globe and the Laing brands. It wouldn’t do his own image any harm either – he could be seen as a style leader, and that could open up all sorts of opportunites for Ash Corp.: cars, travel, jewellery, media, any area where design and trend-setting were key.
He stared out into the party as he began to think. Certainly the timing was bad. If he made a bid for the company now, it wouldn’t come cheap. He had an injection of cash coming in this summer – the Fairmont hotel group had made an excellent offer to buy Angel Cay – but that was all earmarked for the residential Mumbai project with Anil. And then there was Sasha to consider. Although she was only a minority shareholder and couldn’t officially block a sale, she could still make things very, very difficult. No, what he needed was an interim buyer, someone who wanted to get in and out quickly with a tidy return – but not too tidy. A name popped instantly into his head. Simon Assad. He was the French guy he remembered from Oxford, the one who had made his first million with a string of internet cafés in the big university towns and had gone on to be one of the sharpest financiers in town. Assad had a fund that was comprised partly from his own wealth but with the financial muscle of other major investors. And he loved short-term investments that would turn over a quick profit.
Miles took a long drink of his wine as he felt a surge of excitement: he was sure that Simon was the man for the job, but how to play it? He couldn’t tip Assad off directly that Rivera was ripe for an approach. No, he would have to share this information with a trusted source, who could then advise Assad to make the move himself. And then Miles would be perfectly poised to take the company over.
Seeing that Peter Mandelson had just arrived, he walked down the steps to greet him with a renewed spring in his step. Thanks, Daddy, he thought to himself. This party really is quite a splendid idea.
67
At thirty-seven, Simon Assad was a man in a hurry. He had graduated from Oxford at twenty, finished his MBA at Stanford three years later and quickly made his name with Denton Barnes, one of London’s top investment brokers. Now he was out on his own, he worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week and for the past five years had taken no holiday longer than a three-day break. The plan was to retire at forty, and as that milestone was hovering in the distance, he had just three years to make another hundred million dollars. Rivera would help him some way towards that goal.
On paper Rivera had been one of the most exciting investment opportunities in some time. A strong, glamorous brand, it had enormous potential to expand quickly and successfully into the Chinese and Indian markets which would make for a fast and profitable return – exactly what Assad was after. The tip-off had come to him from Nat Churchill, a friend from Oxford who was now one of the most respected bankers in the City. An initial bid had already been made to Randall Kane, which had allowed Assad to start due diligence: the process of assessing a business’ true worth before a sale.
Sipping a glass of mint tea, Simon looked at the documents in front of him. They were transcripts of interviews he had commissioned with the staff, getting their opinions on the company’s strengths and weaknesses. Staff members were often reluctant to take part, seeing this sort of thing as disloyal or even dangerous – after all, who knew if the sale would go ahead and they might be left having slagged off the MD? But in this case, the company staff had been particularly open, either singling out Steven Ellis or Sasha Sinclair for praise. Everyone in the company was agreed that Steven was an excellent CEO but Sasha’s contribution, while more nebulous, was just as, if not more, crucial. She was a powerhouse networker and marketeer. More importantly she was the face of the brand, the person thousands of women wanted to be. For Simon it was a dilemma, as it was just as clear that Rivera couldn’t continue with them both. If he was going to buy the com
pany he had to choose which one to keep as part of an ongoing management team. Which was why he had arranged supper at Mark’s Club with Nat Churchill, having asked his old friend to invite along Miles Ashford. Miles had been an early backer of Rivera, plus Nat had told him that he’d dated Sasha at school. Hopefully Miles would be able to give him some insight.
Ashford was late of course, breezing into the club with a silver-tipped umbrella and talking to half a dozen diners before he even got to the table.
‘Simon. You remember Miles Ashford from Oxford?’ said Nat as Miles finally sat down opposite him.
‘Of course,’ said Simon. Everyone knew Miles Ashford at Oxford. Assad had never actually met him – but he had seen him in the pubs along the river or smoking outside the Bodleian in his gold-piped military coat, like Napoleon on his lunch break. Usually Assad hated the gilded elite with their flash cars and braying girlfriends, but in a strange way he had admired Miles. The short-lived Youngblood Society was the stuff of Oxford legend, and Miles had gone on to make a huge success of the Globe brand without any support from his wealthy father, something which certainly demanded respect. Simon had expected him to spend supper boasting about his successes and name-dropping his celebrity connections, but in actual fact he was quiet and polite, laughing along at Nat’s overblown account of his recent expedition to Antarctica.
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