‘I thought something was wrong. You look worn out.’
If anyone else had said it, Sasha would have felt insulted, but from Philip it had the quiet intimacy of someone who knew her well. She reflected that he probably knew her better than anyone else. That’s a tragedy on its own, she thought.
She looked out beyond the gardens, towards the darkness of the Thames and the twinkling South Bank and the soaring, majestic London Eye on the other side of the river. It was a romantic, inspiring vista.
‘Listen, I’ll understand if you say no,’ said Sasha, ‘but could we go out and talk about it?’
He chuckled. ‘You want my advice?’
She touched his arm again. ‘I can’t let my company go without a fight, Phil. Besides, I always valued your advice. I just didn’t show you how much I appreciated it.’
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Wallowing.’ She grinned.
‘I have a house in Tetbury. Nothing fancy. But it’s quiet. There’re horses, fields, long walks. It’s the perfect place to convene a council of war.’
‘So you’ll help me?’
‘Sasha, I’ve never stopped wanting to help you.’
She wanted to hug him, feel his reassuring warmth against her, but instead she just said, ‘Thanks.’
He chinked his champagne glass against hers. ‘I’ll pick you up at five o’clock. And be ready for once, OK?’
‘Oh I’ll be ready,’ smiled Sasha.
72
Miles couldn’t concentrate. In the Pool Room at New York’s Four Seasons restaurant, he should have been in his element, charming the group of Japanese bankers opposite him, cutting deals, laying the groundwork for his next attack on another territory ripe for exploitation. But with yesterday’s trip to Nassau still weighing heavily on his mind, he could barely order coffee successfully, let alone impress new financial backers. He’d been like this all day – so distracted and wound up he’d had to leave the Ash Corp. offices and go to the driving range to work off some of his anger and frustration. How had he allowed this to happen? Why had he sold the island? If he had kept it in the family, no one would have gone anywhere near that bloody beach.
His phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he let it ring out: the Japanese were always sticklers for politeness. Its angry insistence made him feel under siege. Finally, the Japanese group began to leave, citing early flights back to Tokyo. Smiling and bowing, he waved them off, then let out a long breath and headed straight to the bar by the Grill Room and ordered a large gin and tonic, then took a seat in a quiet corner to make a call.
‘Michael, you called?’ he said.
‘Yes, it’s probably nothing, but Detective Carlton has been in touch.’
Miles closed his eyes and let his gin slip down his throat.
‘Apparently they’ve spoken to an ex-Angel Cay employee,’ continued Michael. ‘A chef who worked there in the late eighties, early nineties. He remembered one of the casual staff disappearing – 1990, 1991, he thought.’
Miles was determined not to let his anxiety show. ‘Hmm, yes. I vaguely remember that too. It was 1990, because I’d just finished at Danehurst. It was some boat boy and he hardly disappeared. He was drinking on the job and bunked off nicking one of our boats before he got fired. Damn inconvenient it was too. My father had a very important corporate event going on and didn’t need the hassle of disappearing staff.’
Miles was surprised at his own calm manner as he spoke. He certainly would have found this more difficult to say if he had been with his lawyer face to face. That probing look Michael had, like he could see straight through whatever you were saying.
‘Well, either way, you’re going to have to go back to Nassau,’ said Michael.
‘But I was only bloody there yesterday!’ cried Miles.
‘We have to give them something, Miles. They want to know if you have any contact details for this boat boy at least.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ snapped Miles. ‘I was eighteen years old.’
‘Carlton wants to know if there are any records of staff on the island or at the company offices.’
Miles felt his anger flare into red spots of heat on his cheeks. ‘Michael, don’t bother me with this shit. Sort it out. Pay someone off.’
‘Look, Miles, I am trying to get them off our backs,’ said Michael with irritation. ‘Forgive me if I don’t have as many police contacts in Nassau as I do in London or New York.’
The tone of Michael’s voice made Miles shiver. Michael Marshall was a top-notch fixer, always happy to roll up his sleeves and get dirty; he never baulked at anything Miles asked, dealing with it with implacable calm and efficiency. In all the years they had worked together, he had never been tart or sarcastic. The fact that he sounded harassed and anxious made Miles think that the situation was more severe than Michael was letting on. But this was no time for rolling into a ball and giving up.
‘Michael, I don’t expect you to know every spook on the planet. But I do expect you to get on top of the situation. If you don’t have the contacts, get them. Everyone, especially policemen, has their price. Try fucking harder.’
He slammed twenty dollars on the bar and stormed downstairs, out of the restaurant on the warm midtown night. His driver was waiting for him and took him uptown to his Fifth Avenue home, the lights of Manhattan slipping past in a blur of colour. Back at the apartment, he took a hot shower and a Xanax. He needed something to help him sleep. He needed something to make him forget.
73
It was almost eight o’clock by the time Philip’s Range Rover pulled up outside a detached grey stone farmhouse with a low-slung gable roof, in an idyllic spot behind Westonbirt Arboretum. The journey from London hadn’t been nearly as awkward or uncomfortable as Sasha had been expecting, not once she’d employed the tactic of just letting Philip talk about his daughter. There didn’t seem to be any limit to Philip’s pride and affection for Lily. It was bittersweet for Sasha to listen to him; she was happy to see his face light up, but sad that she had no one she could speak of with such warmth or love.
Dusk was still an hour off but light had already fallen from the sky, smudging it with a peachy glow like a wash from a watercolour brush. This is a summit meeting, not a bloody mini-break, she told herself as she took her overnight bag from the boot and made her way into the house.
‘The blue room at the front of the house is the nicest guest room,’ said Philip. ‘Put your bag upstairs and I’ll start dinner.’
Sasha had been in many country house guest rooms before – confections of four-poster beds, de Gournay wallpaper, Jo Malone candles and well-chosen antiques. But an interior decorator hadn’t been near this place, she thought, looking at the uneven floor, chintzy curtains and rickety white wooden furniture.
Unzipping her holdall and removing the slim skirts, three pairs of high heels, Hermès riding boots, jodhpurs and assortment of silk and cashmere items, she felt immediately ill-equipped for the weekend ahead. This was a chunky jumper and Hunter wellies sort of place, not a dress-for-dinner one. She also felt ill-equipped for spending so much time with Philip. Emotionally, she was raw anyway, but it was somehow worse seeing Philip so well and so . . . sorted. She’d always assumed that he’d have spent his days pining away for her, but he’d moved on, healed whatever wounds he had.
A cast-iron claw-foot bath sat in front of the huge bay window that looked over fields and hills, just smudges of olive and charcoal in the twilight. She turned the stiff brass taps on, and the bath quickly filled.
There was a knock at the door. ‘You decent?’
Smiling at the propriety of it all, she saw Philip’s arm appear around the door holding a glass of wine which she took gratefully.
‘Thanks, Phil,’ she said.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he mumbled as she heard him thudding back down the rickety stairs. Taking off her clothes, she stepped into the bath and slid down until her shoulders dip
ped under the soapy water. All was silent, except for the evening song of a cluster of blackbirds outside and the gentle popping of bubbles against her skin, and she relaxed, feeling the tension ebb away. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea coming here after all.
Finally she came downstairs in the most casual clothes she’d brought: a pair of cashmere jogging pants and a sheer knit that just took the edge off the cool summer evening air. Philip was standing at the Aga with his shirt sleeves rolled up, grinding pepper into a bubbling pot.
‘Just in time,’ he said as he served up two plates of calorific-looking stew. They went through to the large living room, where a fire had been lit and stacks of papers set up on the table.
‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to the paperwork.
‘Business school case studies of fashion company buy-outs, everything I could find on Simon Assad, profiles of other investment houses, company accounts . . . loads of other more boring stuff.’
She smiled, unable to hide how impressed she was. ‘You’ve certainly done your homework.’
‘Anything for a friend.’ He smiled, then looked away. ‘Anyway, what I don’t understand is why Assad can’t see the value you bring to the company.’
‘I think he did, but he’s been persuaded otherwise.’
‘By who? Randall Kane?’
Sasha shook her head. ‘On Thursday I saw Miles and Simon go in to Randall’s party together. I think Miles Ashford has poisoned Assad against me.’
‘Miles?’ said Philip, almost choking on a mouthful of stew.
‘It’s female intuition, Phil. I know it.’
‘But why would he do that? It’s just petulant.’
‘Miles always has been angry, peevish and destructive. Plus I think he’s struggling a bit – did you hear how his Dubai project went under? – and he’s pissed off because he cashed in his Rivera investment before he made any real money.’
She paused, taking a sip of wine.
‘And he’ll still be bitter about my relationship with his father.’
‘That was a long time ago, Sasha,’ he said.
She could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but it was the elephant in the room and she needed to broach it, however painful it was.
‘You do know I was with Robert in the car accident that killed him?’ she said quietly.
‘I heard a rumour,’ said Philip, not meeting her eye.
She reached across to touch his hand. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Phil, I really didn’t, but . . . I suppose I was swept off my feet, or something along those lines anyway. I certainly wish I hadn’t been such a bitch to you.’
‘As I said, it was all a long time ago.’
‘Not for Miles,’ said Sasha more fiercely. ‘Miles hates me and I hate him right back.’
‘Hate is a pretty destructive emotion, Sash,’ said Philip. ‘Nothing good ever comes of it. Have you confronted him about it?’
‘As you might expect, Miles and I no longer talk.’
Phil sat in silence for a while, drinking his wine slowly, the cogs turning in his head.
‘Look, there is a way out of this,’ he said finally. ‘You’ve tried appealing to Randall and to Simon but it hasn’t worked and they seem happy to make this deal happen without your consent. You could threaten them, tell them how much negative publicity you could generate for Rivera, but you don’t want to be seen as bitter and unprofessional. So let’s find another buyer. A buyer who will make a more attractive offer than Assad.’
Sasha looked dubious. ‘We haven’t got much time. Simon’s exclusivity on the deal lasts until Monday but he’s going to be ready to formalise it any day.’
Philip shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter. He’s only made his first offer. It will take months, believe me.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Sasha. ‘Randall gave me the impression it was a done deal. I don’t want to take any chances on this, Phil.’
She sat back in her chair, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. She felt better off-loading her problems to Phil, just talking to him made things simpler, but it was all too much for her at the moment; her nerves were too raw.
‘Can we do this tomorrow?’ she asked, surprising herself.
‘Sure.’
‘It’s just there’s been so much going on, I think I need to veg out this evening.’
Phil laughed. ‘You, veg out?’
‘I mean it. Let’s watch a film or something.’
‘I’m not entirely sure you’ll be impressed with my DVD collection, ’ he said, opening the TV cabinet where they were all neatly stacked up. Taking her wine, Sasha walked across to flick through them.
‘The Hundred Greatest Rugby Tries,’ she read, pulling a face. ‘The Sylvester Stallone collection . . .Die Hard . . . Crank 2 . . . Well, it’s nice to see that you’re in touch with your feminine side, Bettany.’
She walked across to a leather sofa and sat down, curling her legs under her. ‘OK, forget the DVD,’ she said. ‘Let’s just finish the bottle of wine and you can tell me about Australia. Why did you leave, or is that a stupid question?’
‘Actually, I haven’t really left,’ said Philip, sitting at the other end of the sofa. ‘Lily and her mum are still out there, so I couldn’t move back to London permanently. This job is just a twelve-month secondment, so I’ll be going back to Sydney next April.’
Sasha tried to hide her disappointment. Philip had never been the one who excited her; he had always been her partner, co-conspirator, friend. He’d believed in her when everyone else thought she was an airhead fashionista unable to run anything except a bubble bath. And a decade ago she’d been so certain he wasn’t right for her. Too dull. Too steady. But now? What was wrong with someone who treated you with respect, who knew you inside out, good bits and bad, and loved you still? She felt a stinging sense of regret.
‘I’m so sorry about the way things ended between us,’ she said softly.
Philip shrugged. ‘I loved you and you hurt me. But when I eventually heard the whispers about your relationship with Robert I knew there was no point being with you when you just wanted to be with someone else. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry how it ended with Robert. The accident, I mean.’
‘Thank you, but you didn’t have to say that. Other men would have secretly gloated.’
‘Gloated? How could you gloat that someone got killed?’
‘What I mean is that not everyone has as much dignity and decency as you.’
Tension crackled between them and, unable to stand it any longer, she reached out to touch him, but Philip pulled away.
‘That’s not why I invited you here this weekend.’
‘I know,’ she said, her eyes beginning to glisten.
‘Oh Sasha ...’ he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers gently. It felt so good, so right. She gave a nervous little laugh.
‘I feel like a teenager snogging on my parents’ sofa,’ she said.
Philip smiled. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘why don’t we take this upstairs to bed?’
74
He couldn’t sleep. How could he? Nobody could rest with such a weight hanging over their head. Miles Ashford turned over and looked at the red digital numbers of his bedside clock: 3.45 a.m. He had taken a Xanax at midnight; it hadn’t even made him drowsy. Had it been only six hours since his attorney Michael Marshall had called, telling him that a detective superintendent from the Royal Bahamas Police Force wanted to question him?
Miles sat up and reached for his cigarettes, hoping it would do something to relieve the anxiety – an emotion he was unused to. A man as successful as Miles Ashford had not got where he was today without being able to handle extreme pressure; he just didn’t get rattled. Not when his $500 million residential project had to be shelved in Dubai last year. Not when the banks were breathing down his neck after the collapse of Lehman Brothers. Not even when he had run into a Kosovan gangster when he had tried to buy a series of brothels in London’s Soho.
All those things were just setbacks, concerns or irritations. This . . . well, this was different.
He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his navy silk robe, pulling it tightly around his body before walking through to his study. It was Miles’ favourite room in his Fifth Avenue duplex, with a huge bay window that looked out on to Central Park. After dark, it resembled a black hole in the heart of the city. Whoever coined the expression ‘the dead of night’ was thinking of 3.45 a.m. in NYC. Even in the city that never sleeps, this sliver of time after the party people had gone to bed and the early risers – the market traders, the workaholic Wall Street tycoons – had not yet started their day was a moment that was eerie and still.
Kiss Heaven Goodbye Page 59