Gabriel had dropped to his knees and was leaning over an oil lamp. ‘The location manager told me about it.’
‘Is this going to be in the movie?’
He struck a match and a dim glow came from the lamp. ‘They couldn’t use this place as a location because there’s no access for the trailers and trucks. But at least we get to see it.’
He spread a blanket on the pale silky sand and they sat down, bathed in soft light. Grace kicked her flip-flops off and stretched her long legs out on to the sand. The intimacy of the situation – their closeness, the complicit silence only punctuated by the gentle roar of the sea – made Grace want to blurt out her innermost thoughts, desires and closely guarded secrets. For the first time since she had left England, she felt light and giddy and happy. She felt free, as if she was letting go of her old self, coming up for air in a whole new life where she could be whatever and whoever she wanted.
‘What are you smiling about?’
‘This.’
‘Good.’
He reached over and kissed her, gentle touches at first, growing deeper, his fingers burrowing through her hair. Instinctively she sat up and pulled off her top in one movement as he unbuttoned his own shirt. She pulled the fabric from his arms and stroked the circle of dark chest hair, the hard ripple of muscle, as he unclipped her bra. His hands moved across her body, the curve of her rib cage, the tip of her nipple, which made her gasp.
‘You don’t know how sexy you are,’ he murmured.
For once in her life, she felt it. Not because the shape of her body had changed over the last year, or because she was lit by the flattering glow of the oil lamp. But because of how her skin felt at his melting touch. It had been too long since she had been intimate with anyone, and then it had been student fumbles. Nothing like this. Finally she understood what all the fuss was about.
He unzipped his shorts and slid out of them. His lips brushed her throat, slow butterfly kisses, working down her body as his fingers peeled off her panties. Spreading her legs, he blew lightly on her swollen clitoris, then stroked it with his cock as she groaned in almost unbearable pleasure. Finally he dipped into her, and as they rocked together, feeling his thickness, her stomach knotted in pent-up desire, her back arching as she reached the brink, and then oh yes, oh yes, that sweet release, the flood of liquid fire that rippled towards every nerve ending in her body. And then a blissful calm.
Afterwards, they lay on the blanket, damp bodies spooned together, naked in the soft saffron lamplight.
‘I’ve never done that before.’
‘Sex?’
‘Sex on a beach.’
‘Me neither.’
She laughed again and pushed him over on his back.
‘What’s funny now?’
‘Oh, just that I thought a sophisticated literary figure like yourself would be doing this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Well, I hope I can keep disappointing you this way.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ she asked, feeling bold.
‘Seeing you, hopefully.’
‘For a repeat performance.’ She giggled.
‘Come back to my hotel with me,’ he said, circling his fingertip around her nipple. ‘Why wait until tomorrow?’
15
Miles lifted his head from the pillow. What was that? His fuzzy brain, slowed by two bottles of claret at the Bear Inn, struggled to focus. He cursed at being woken up from his slumber. These poky little rooms in Oriel College were too old, too creaky, and with their stone floors and wood-panelled walls, you could hear everything all the way down to St Mary’s Quad. Miles grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his head. He did, of course, have one of the better rooms in college, but still it was more than any civilised person could be expected to bear; and what was it, anyway?
Growling in annoyance, he pulled the pillow away and lifted his head, cocking an ear. It sounded like singing ... no, chanting. It was almost haunting, melancholy, like a Gregorian chant, as it echoed down the halls. And then a shout went up: ‘We’re coming, you wanker!’ Finally Miles’ sluggish brain made the connection and his heart gave a leap: it was the Carrington Club!
The Carrington was the most elite society at Oxford, nominally a dining club, in reality an excuse for the very top boys from the best families in the university to get together and forge vital links with people who would be the next generation of political leaders and captains of industry. The ‘Carrie’ was over two hundred years old, and membership was strictly limited: always male, usually second- or third-year undergraduates and almost exclusively confined to those who could afford it – even the uniform, of Oxford-blue tails and amber waistcoat, bought only from Ede and Ravenscroft, cost skywards of a thousand pounds. And of course, you did not ask to be a member of the Carrington Club. You were selected by secret ballot and your invitation to join was delivered by way of a visitation from the club’s membership in the dead of night. Traditionally, they would kick in your door, trash your room and force you to undergo a variety of humiliating initiation rituals. A smile crept on to Miles’ face. He’d expected his invitation, of course, but not this soon. It was rare for a member to be initiated in his first year, unless they were considered an exceptional candidate. Father won’t be able to ignore this, he thought as the noise swelled to a crescendo, bracing himself for the boot on his door.
It never came. The chanting, shouting procession passed on down the corridor, then stopped. There was a sudden terrible silence as Miles strained his ears, frowning. What the hell was going on?
Then there was a crash from next door and a roar of a dozen voices at once, and rising above them all, the shouts of one excited voice calling them all bastards. Miles recognised it immediately: Ewan Donaldson, a boy from the year above him at Eton. He was popular, sporty and clever; more importantly, his father was some influential European ambassador. They had come to initiate Donaldson, not Miles. ‘Bastards is right,’ hissed Miles, pulling the pillow back over his head. Bastards!
Even after the noise had faded, Miles had found it impossible to sleep, tossing and turning, running it over in his head. Donaldson was such a stiff; the only reason anyone talked to him was because he was good at rugger and because they wanted to get to know his father. The Carrington could be so bloody predictable. Finally he admitted defeat when the dawn light began pushing under his curtains, and he got up and dressed, sitting in his window seat, chain-smoking. He tried not to get too worked up but it was a struggle. He was genuinely enjoying Oxford. After the Angel Cay holiday, he’d been desperate to go to university, having spent the rest of the summer staying with various friends to avoid seeing too much of his sister and parents. Oxford had been his sanctuary, his refuge; although at times like this it was traditional and stifling.
At eight thirty there was a knock at the door and Miles glared towards the entrance. He had no desire to speak to anyone this morning, and anyway, who would be bothering him at this hour? Everyone knew that Miles tended to pass on morning lectures as a rule. He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed.
‘Enter.’
Jonathon Taylor bounced in. He was an old Etonian friend also reading History at Oriel. He was big-boned, awkward and a little clumsy – Miles had always thought of him as a big floppy Labrador. But like the dog, Jon had hidden teeth, and he always had his ear to the ground regarding gossip.
‘Where were you at breakfast?’ he said, taking one of Miles’ cigarettes without asking and perching on his desk. ‘Did you hear about Donaldson and the Carrington?’
‘Of course I fucking heard about it,’ snapped Miles. ‘I could hardly miss it, could I? Bloody racket woke me up and kept me up all night. Don’t they realise prelims are around the corner? I’ve got a good mind to complain to the Dean.’
Jonathon laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, they absolutely trashed his room and sprayed fire extinguisher foam all over his Patek Philippe.’
‘Boo fucking hoo.’
Jonathon slapp
ed his leg in delight. ‘You’re jealous!’
‘Jealous?’ said Miles, snatching his cigarettes back.
‘Come on, Ashford. You want to join the Carrie and Donaldson got the nod.’
Miles glared at him. ‘What crap. The Carrington’s for blue-blooded pricks. Their pranks are idiotic and juvenile. I mean, what’s the point in smashing up Dono’s stuff? If they’d done that to me, I’d have had the coppers on them so fast it would make their heads swim.’
Jonathon was laughing now. ‘So you’re telling me you’d have turned them down? Not that they’re ever going to ask you, of course.’
Miles narrowed his eyes at his friend. How dare he? At least two members of the Carrington had discreetly indicated they were putting his name forward. But then, Jonathon Taylor was rarely wrong when it came to these things.
‘What have you heard?’ said Miles.
Jonathon grinned, knowing he’d hit a nerve. ‘Come on, Miles, don’t act so surprised,’ he said. ‘You’ve pissed off so many people over the years, not just here, but at Eton, you can hardly expect there to be a unanimous vote for you.’
Miles was putting a brave face on it, but it was a body blow. He had always assumed that he would be welcomed into all the establishment institutions with open arms – he was Miles Ashford, after all! – but then maybe that was the problem. He may have been a popular figure at Eton and king of the hill at Danehurst, but Jonathon was right: anyone who dared to stick their head above the parapet risked making enemies. And one of those wankers had blackballed him from the Carrington.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much. It’s probably not about you anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jonathon shrugged and sauntered towards the door. ‘Oh, you know how it is with the Carrie. It’s not who you are, it’s who your family is.’
‘Fucking snobs,’ spat Miles after Jonathon had left the room.
Of course he had both suffered and benefited from his father’s status as one of the country’s most prominent businessmen over the years. People knew who he was, they knew he was rich, but at Eton, it counted for nothing. At Eton, the seat of kings, it wasn’t money that was important, it was heritage. Of course money was important to the aristocracy, but a title always trumped a bank balance and the offspring of self-made men were seen as second-class citizens. Miles had risen above it, scrabbling his way to the top by sheer force of personality. Until it had all gone to his head and he had overstepped the mark, stupidly leaving his hash, tobacco and jumbo Rizlas out in an ashtray by his bed for anyone to see. Even he could see that his ego had got the better of him that time, and he had sworn it wouldn’t happen again.
Grabbing his cigarettes, he stalked out of the building and into the college grounds. They were unusually empty for such a sunny day. Normally there would be groups of students sitting around on the grass, smoking and chatting, but it was approaching exam time; most people were probably in their rooms studying. Where I should be, thought Miles. If he was honest, his studies at Oxford weren’t exactly going to plan. He’d already had a frank discussion with his tutor about his scant attendance and the late arrival of a number of essays, not to mention their somewhat sketchy content.
He marched angrily towards the river. Someone shouted his name, but he ignored them, not wanting to speak to anyone at that moment. He increased his pace and walked on through the water meadows until he came to a white-painted wooden bridge that looked like it would have been more at home in Amsterdam. Stopping in the middle, he leant on the railings and looked down at the placid green waters.
Once he had calmed down a little, Miles tried to trace the source of his anger. In theory, he agreed with everything he had said to Jonathon about the Carrington: it was an old-fashioned manifestation of the British class system, which, while still thriving out here in little pockets of Oxford, was swiftly dying. But still. The truth was, Miles Ashford wanted to be a Carrington man. He wanted the status and position his father would never enjoy; he wanted to be part of an elite only a few were ever asked to join. But it was more than that. Miles wanted to be seen as an individual, someone with his own achievements and persona, not just as the son of ‘x’, the friend of ‘y’. He wanted to be looked up to because he was Miles Ashford. Pure and simple.
And then he had a sudden moment of clarity. They were threatened by him. Miles Ashford represented the new guard, a fusion of his father’s new money and his mother’s old-fashioned British class. He was too good for the Carrington, too good, in fact, for this whole dried-up cap-doffing university. He turned and ran back the way he came, sprinting all the way to his room.
When Jonathon knocked on his door four hours later, he was surprised to find Miles hard at work.
‘Rue and Tig and the rest are all going to the White Hart. We wondered if you wanted to ...’ he began, but trailed off, disconcerted by the strange spectacle of Miles Ashford bent over a book, scribbling intently away. ‘Are you OK, Miles?’ he asked.
Finally Miles looked up. ‘Yes, why do you ask?’
Jonathon gestured vaguely at Miles’ desk. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you hitting the books before. Finally panicking about exams?’
Miles frowned, then shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said, smiling slowly. ‘Something much better. I’m starting my own club.’
16
August 1991
‘Are we there yet?’ Gavin popped his head around the driver’s seat hopefully.
‘No,’ snapped Jez, turning his head from the steering wheel. ‘And if Alex stopped looking at those tits, we might have more of an idea where we were.’
‘Actually, I was just reading about that coup going on in Russia,’ said Alex, hastily folding up his copy of the Sun and picking up the tatty road atlas.
‘Russians?’ said Gavin. ‘They’d better not let the nukes loose. Not before we’ve had a proper sound check, anyway. That last gig was a disaster.’
‘Bollocks to Russia,’ said Jez, wrestling with the gear stick. ‘I’ll just be happy if we make it to Bath in one bloody piece.’
Ah, the glamour of rock and roll, thought Alex to himself.
The last six months had gone by in a blur of exhaust fumes and ringing ears. Jez and Pete had graduated, and Gav had dropped out of his art course. From the night they had first met at The Boardwalk, every spare moment had been spent in the cellar practising until they were ready for their debut gig at the Queen of Hearts pub in Fallowfield. They had gone down a storm with the partisan indie crowd and Alex had felt twelve feet tall. The moment the lads had left college, they each put five hundred quid into the pot so they could buy a transit van. It was twelve years old, almost white and had ‘J. & H. Hall Window Cleaners’ written down the side in big blue letters. Fortunately it had been a warmish summer and they had been able to sleep in the van between tiny gigs where they would play to six or seven mildly uninterested drinkers then move on to the next place, hoping that this one would cover the cost of the petrol and the service-station pasties. It sounded horrible, but it had been the best few months of their lives. The band, Year Zero, were getting better, tighter with every performance and they all felt they were moving towards something big – whatever that was.
Alex switched on the radio and Bryan Adams’ ‘Everything I Do, I Do It For You’ blared out.
‘Is this still number one?’ groaned Jez, navigating the traffic. ‘Shit, what road are we looking for again?’
‘George Street, but the promoter said if we stay on the A4, it will bring us around to the venue.’
‘Well where is it then?’
‘I don’t know!’ said Alex, exasperated.
‘Come on now, children,’ said Pete from the back.
‘Piss off!’ said Alex and Jez in unison.
It was the same every time they came to a new city. The cameraderie of the road immediately disappeared, to be replaced by annoyance and anxiety; the romance blown away by the reality of rickety stages or playing to empty rooms. No one to
ld you that breaking into the music business was like Dante’s Circles of Hell, where you had to suffer for an undetermined period at the first level before scrabbling your way to the next.
Tonight’s gig was exciting, because Bath Moles Club was a leap up from the working men’s clubs and venues where you were lucky to get fifty quid and a round of drinks to play. When you played Bath Moles, you were on your way up.
Alex hoped so. He had given up his job at Kwik Save and was signing on, and by joining the band he had put all his eggs in one basket; he had to make it work, there was no Plan B. He felt guilty he couldn’t give his mum her thirty pounds a week any more, but strangely, she seemed thrilled that he was giving his music a real go.
‘Is this it?’ asked Pete with disappointment as they finally parked and climbed out of the van. It was evident from their faces that the rest of the band were feeling the same way. The club entrance was a tiny door set into a wall just off the main road: no sign, no posters; it looked like a storage room.
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