Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘Just going for a slash, then I’m off,’ said Nat, glancing at his watch.

  Both men watched him go.

  ‘Do you have to go too?’ asked Miles.

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not really, why?’

  ‘I’ve got some excellent Scotch back at mine. Vintage single malt from a tiny distillery on Jute. We didn’t really get to chat tonight and I assume that’s what you wanted?’

  Simon smiled. He should have known Miles Ashford would have seen through his ‘old mates together’ ruse.

  ‘Sure, that sounds good.’

  Six months earlier, Miles had finally separated from Chrissy. Although he had no intention of divorcing her quite yet, she had stayed in their Notting Hill home whilst he had moved to a huge penthouse overlooking Hyde Park.

  Back home he opened a drinks cabinet hidden behind a series of mirrored panels and poured two generous measures of the Scotch.

  ‘May I smoke?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Let’s go on to the terrace,’ said Miles.

  They went out into the mild night air. The terrace was illuminated by soft light and a black granite water feature provided a soft gurgling soundtrack.

  Assad leant against the balcony, and as he watched Miles take a seat on a mahogany recliner he felt an erotic stir. He wasn’t sure whether it was because his family were staunchly conservative French Catholics or because the macho culture of the City forced people to stay in the closet, but he had only recently admitted his true sexual orientation to himself. But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from the job in hand.

  ‘So I hear you’ve offered for Rivera,’ said Miles, swirling the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass.

  ‘Did Nat tell you?’

  ‘No, just a rumour,’ he replied. ‘But I’m assuming it’s true, otherwise why else are you here? Not just for my excellent Scotch.’

  They exchanged a flirtatious glance. Assad had heard the whispers about Ashford’s sexuality, that he liked men and women. It wouldn’t surprise him. Men like Ashford wanted everything.

  ‘What do you make of Sasha Sinclair?’ he asked.

  Miles put his hands behind his head and looked thoughtful. ‘I think she’s ambitious and a talented marketeer,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t agree with the style magazines who say she’s the most brilliant fashion and business brain of her generation.’ His laugh did not convey unkindness, rather affection, and Simon was intrigued. He’d done his homework of course; Miles had known Sinclair for two decades and had directly invested in her company. The chances were he knew her better than anyone.

  ‘I suppose what I’m asking is whether you think Rivera can thrive without her?’ said Simon.

  Miles downed his Scotch. ‘Look, I’ll be frank. In the early days Sasha’s vision and drive was crucial. But now? Things move on, Simon. Gucci didn’t exactly go to the wall when Tom Ford left the business. Besides which, Sasha was never even the designer, just the stylist. Yes, she’s an ambitious woman with good taste and a fat contacts book. But since Rivera has become big business, she’s only really been, well, just a very pretty figurehead.’

  Simon nodded. He’d almost been convinced by the arguments of the Rivera staff and respected observers of the fashion industry that Sasha Sinclair was the key component of the label. But from a purely commercial viewpoint, that made no sense at all. Steven Ellis was a strong leader backed up by a talented design team. What role did Sasha Sinclair play beyond being a photogenic and well-connected brand ambassador? Then there was her million-dollar clothing allowance and her seven-figure remuneration package: outrageous for the amount of time she appeared to be in the office. No. What Miles Ashford was saying made perfect sense: Sasha Sinclair was well past her sell-by date.

  He glanced at Miles, his legs slightly apart on the lounger, two buttons open on his shirt, and allowed himself a moment to imagine in what other capacity he might well be useful, but then pushed the thought away.

  ‘Well, thanks for the Scotch, Miles, it was excellent,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk again if this bid comes off.’

  Miles held his gaze. ‘I’d like that.’

  Simon walked towards the door. Temptation wasn’t what he needed right now. In the world of Simon Assad, everything was strictly business.

  In the back of her car on the way to Claridge’s, Sasha flicked through her diary, both pleased and concerned that every single weekend was booked up until September. Hen nights, house-warmings, polo matches, fortieths in Ibiza and weddings in the Loire – if any more invitations came through, she was going to need a bigger mantelpiece. The weeks in between were no less hectic: parties, openings, premieres; it was getting hard to squeeze the business meetings in between. But when Simon Assad had called her the day before to invite her for dinner, she made a space in her diary immediately.

  As a director and shareholder in Rivera, she had been aware that Assad had made an initial bid to Randall. She wasn’t necessarily against another sale, of course. After all, diluting her shareholding would net her several more millions and finally propel her on to the Sunday Times Rich List, but she was also well aware that Simon would not want both Steven and her attached to the new management. She’d already had quiet words with key members of staff, enticing them with bonusess and promotion assurances if they would tell Assad that Sasha was an irreplaceable visionary. Hell would freeze over before she allowed Steven Ellis to push her out of her own company, she thought as she left her driver idling by the kerb and walked into Claridge’s.

  Despite her resolution not to sleep with him – Sasha had met few men for dinner who did not want to finish the evening in bed – she had made a special effort for their meeting, even getting her blond hair cut into a severe bob which made her feel more in control and powerful. Assad was already waiting for her in the elegant dining room at a quiet table by the window.

  He got up from his seat and kissed her on the cheek, but she was disappointed when he didn’t even show a flicker of appreciation for how she was looking. In fact his manner was brusque, efficient, purposeful. If she’d been expecting lingering aperitifs, flirtatious small talk and footsie, she was very much mistaken – she knew immediately that this was strictly business. And serious business.

  ‘Sorry for getting you here at such short notice,’ said Simon. ‘But this shouldn’t take long. You’ll be aware I have made a preliminary offer for Rivera.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you also probably know that this company cannot continue with you and Steven steering the ship. The atmosphere is toxic, Sasha, and it’s starting to affect staff morale. More importantly, the industry is getting wind of it, which is going to affect business.’

  ‘I agree that something’s got to give, Simon,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light and non-confrontational. ‘If you ask around, I’m sure they’ll tell you that Steven’s “steering” has lacked the vision a creative company like Rivera requires.’ Sasha knew that someone with a purely commercial mind like Assad might favour Steven’s contribution to the business and she had to stay focused on what she wanted out of the Assad deal. She wanted Steven out, yes, but she also wanted a financial windfall from selling part of her shareholding and a greatly improved remuneration package.The only way to do that was to make Simon see that while bean-counter CEOs were ten a penny, an international player, a creative visionary, like her was indispensable to the business. Then again, she didn’t want to seem callous.

  ‘I don’t think you should be too hard on Steven. As you’ll see from the figures, we’re on course for a fifteen per cent sales uplift this year, so while Steven Ellis isn’t my favourite person in the world, his presence is not actually harming the company. Perhaps if we could find some other role . . .’

  ‘No,’ said Simon firmly. ‘One of you has to exit the company and sell your stake. It’s the only way forward.’

  ‘Well then your choice is made.’ Sas
ha smiled. ‘I am the founder of Rivera. It needs me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the case any more,’ said Assad.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Rivera needs to expand globally and I want someone to lead this label who has the international experience to do that. Steven has worked in Hong Kong, Paris, New York.’

  Sasha tried to speak, but found the words failed her. She had never considered that Simon would push her out. She was Sasha Sinclair, for God’s sake, a style icon!

  ‘So you’ve made your decision?’ she stuttered. ‘You want Steven and not me? Steven is just a number-cruncher.’

  ‘We both know that’s not true.’

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t understand the principal allure of Rivera,’ she said. ‘People are buying into my lifestyle, Simon. The fantasy I have created.’

  ‘Sasha, please. Do people buy Chanel because they want to look like Karl Lagerfeld?’

  ‘No, but Stella McCartney gave her label rock and roll chic. Tamara Mellon gave Jimmy Choo its glamour . . .’

  ‘Sasha, I’ve made my decision.’

  A waiter hovered, holding menus, but Sasha knew she wouldn’t be needing one. She could feel her hands trembling. It was inconceivable to think that Simon would choose an accountant over Rivera’s founder, the beating heart of the company.

  ‘This is insane. I won’t stand for it,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need your approval to make this deal happen, Sasha,’ said Simon.

  He was so casual, so off-hand, as if this was just another day at the office. But this was her life, a company she had created with her own hands, a company she had imagined into being. It was part of her.

  ‘Fuck you, Simon,’ she said in a low, hard voice. Then she stood up and walked out on to Brook Street, her head held high.

  Getting into the car, she sat silently for a few moments trying to collect her thoughts. Had that really happened? Had she really just been fired from her own company? Was she really unemployed?

  ‘Where to, Miss Sinclair?’ asked Matthew, her driver.

  She held up a finger to indicate ‘one minute’.

  Think, Sasha. Think.

  She took out her mobile and dialled Randall Kane.

  ‘Randall, where are you?’

  ‘London,’ replied her chairman cautiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to see to you urgently.’

  ‘I can switch a few things around tomorrow so we could do breakfast. ’

  ‘Too late,’ she said, feeling her heart beating hard. ‘I need to see you now.’

  ‘Sasha, I can’t tonight. I have dinner guests.’

  ‘Ten minutes of your time, that’s all I need.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘At least tell me what it is.’

  She was not going to give him the chance to make excuses.

  ‘I can’t discuss it now,’ she replied with a sense of urgency.

  He sighed heavily. ‘If you must. You know the address. And it’s ten minutes, Sasha.’

  Long minutes later her car drew up next to one of west London’s most prestigious addresses. Randall owned a huge white stucco house at the Notting Hill end of Kensington Park Gardens. What an incredible place to live, she thought, looking up at the double-fronted building. As she climbed from the car, she wondered how much it would cost her to buy a place like this. Too much, she decided. London might be in a recession, but super-prime properties like these were still selling for sixty, seventy million, fuelled by foreign money and the huge bonuses still awarded to the biggest City players. Light jazz drifted on to the street, and from the shadows of dozens of people at the windows, Randall was having more than a quiet dinner party. As a uniformed maid let her in, Sasha craned her neck to see inside the reception room which was crammed with at least fifty people. Any other time she would have been piqued not to have received an invitation, but for once, she had no desire to socialise.

  Randall appeared at the door holding a tumbler of cognac. ‘Sasha, why don’t we go outside,’ he said, leading her on to a terrace at the back of the house. There would have been a time when she would have found this intoxicating; alone with a handsome, successful man in one of the finest homes in London, but now all she felt was anxious and out of control. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Assad wants me out,’ she said simply.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘He told me yesterday.’

  ‘Has this always been the plan? To push me out?’

  ‘No, Sasha. There was never a plan. But there are management issues, even you must admit that. We’re lucky that Assad is even interested in buying the company with a president and CEO wanting to kill each other.’

  ‘I am not stepping to one side, Randall,’ she said, her voice fierce.

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ she said with a laugh. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because you’ve been working full throttle since you were twenty-one years old,’ said Randall. ‘Because you’ve made yourself a very rich woman; because you have the respect of the entire industry and should be confident enough to take a break, look at other options, have a baby . . .’

  ‘A baby?’

  Randall pressed on.‘How old are you, Sasha? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine? You are one of the most beautiful women in London, yet you are alone.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Randall.’

  ‘I’m talking as a friend, Sasha. Why not cash in now, why not make a fortune? Then you’ll have time for a relationship, family.’ His grey brows knitted together with fatherly concern.

  ‘What I want is this company,’ she growled, feeling her eyes prick with emotion.

  She blinked angrily. Now was not the time for a show of weakness. The worst thing was that there was a whiff of truth in what he said. Recently she’d seen a picture of Grace Ashford and her children at the Cannes film festival; the smiling photograph of a successful woman with her two teenage children and glamorous artist partner had filled her with a crushing sense of loneliness that had lasted for days. But she couldn’t let sentiment like that overcome her. She was Sasha Sinclair, one of the contry’s top business-women. She lived for the cut and thrust of business.

  ‘I’ll fight it, Randall,’ she said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.

  ‘Don’t make trouble, Sasha,’ he said. ‘I know how much you love the business and I know how hard it must be to let go, but do the right thing and step aside.’

  She left without another word and walked down Kensington Park Gardens towards the High Street. To her left, smoky lilac dusk was setting across the park. Fleetingly she considered speaking to Randall again, but she couldn’t bear the humiliation; she knew they had made up their minds. To them it was just another deal, just another line of numbers on a spreadsheet. They had no idea what she had sacrificed to get to where she was; they had no idea what she had put into that company. And now they were yanking it out from underneath her. Slowly she walked back to the car.

  ‘Just take me home,’ she said.

  Matthew was just about to move away when an Aston Martin coming from the other direction pulled up at the kerb. Two men jumped out, crossed the street and began climbing the steps towards Randall’s front door. At first, in the dark, she wasn’t sure it was him, but then she recognised the pale camel jacket he had been wearing at Claridge’s: Simon Assad. But it was his shorter, slimmer companion that made her catch her breath. It was Miles Ashford.

  Miles slapped Simon on the shoulder as the door opened and they stepped inside. Matey, familiar, celebrating their good fortune. And finally the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. What had changed Simon’s mind so suddenly? Why had he chosen to replace her instead of an interchangeable number-cruncher like Steven? The answer was right there in front of her: Miles Ashford. Coming along to destroy all her hard work on a whim, just as he had done twenty years ago. For a moment back there on the terrace, Sasha had
felt defeated; she had even begun to think that perhaps Randall was right, it was time she took her foot off the gas, settled down and started a family. But not now. Now she was going to fight. And if that was what it took, she was going to fight dirty.