Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  Finally he looked at her, and Grace didn’t know when she had ever seen anyone look so sad.

  ‘It’s my brother. He’s dead.’

  ‘Honey,’ she whispered, moving towards him, but he just backed up against the door and threw it open. ‘Gabriel!’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t go, not in this state.’

  ‘I just need to be alone,’ he called over his shoulder. Running out on to the drive behind him, she caught a shower of dust as he gunned the jeep away.

  The hours ticked slowly by. Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Her doctor’s appointment was missed. She would go there tomorrow. She stayed in the kitchen preparing supper, cleaning, reading, anything to take her mind off where he was. Every ten minutes she put her nose to the window, staring out on to the street, hoping that the silver jeep would come rolling up the drive again. But as the sun set, the streets grew dark and there was still no sign of him. Tiredness engulfed her again, so she crawled on to the sofa and pulled a blanket on top of her.

  When she opened her eyes, Gabriel was sitting on the floor next to her, gently stroking her hair, his face wet with tears, his breath stale from alcohol. She pulled him up on to the sofa and they held each other for a while.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly. Despite the hours she’d had to rehearse what she should say, everything else seemed to escape her.

  ‘He was shot dead coming out of a restaurant,’ said Gabriel, his voice barely a whisper. ‘He’d just been meeting friends . . .’

  For a few seconds there was silence.

  ‘I’m going back to Parador,’ he said finally.

  She felt a thickness in her throat, but she nodded. ‘Of course.’ ‘Not just for the funeral. I’m going back to stay. My family want me to take over the political party.’

  His voice was a monotone; his eyes were just fixed on the wall in front of him.

  She sat up to face him. ‘Is that what you want?’ she said, being careful with her tone.

  ‘I don’t want my brother to have died pointlessly. If I can go back and make a difference, then it’s the right decision.’

  ‘Then you must go,’ she said as evenly as she could. What more could she say? Don’t leave me? Stay here to look after me? She couldn’t – wouldn’t – make him think she was springing a trap. She had already resigned herself that she had to face up to this pregnancy alone and she would do so with dignity, especially given the circumstances. But Gabriel took both her hands in his and stared into her eyes.

  ‘I want you to come with me, Grace,’ he said urgently. ‘I want us to have this baby.’

  For a second she could hardly breathe, and then thick tears of relief and sadness coursed down her cheeks.

  He pulled her back into him and began stroking her hair.

  ‘I love you, Gabe,’ she whispered.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he said into the top of her head.

  She had no idea if he meant it, but right then, in his arms, it felt like the only place in the world she wanted to be.

  18

  December 1991

  Annalise Tuttle was the client from hell. Not quite rich enough to afford couture, she was still snobby and spoilt enough to want to look both spectacular and unique in front of her friends on London’s flashy society circuit. Sasha groaned as she stood outside the Tuttles’ white stucco house in South Kensington, not just in dread at the thought of the evening ahead, but under the weight of the five huge cloth bags that contained a selection of evening dresses for Annalise to try on.

  Still, at least she was seeing clients on her own, thought Sasha as she rang the doorbell. She had been working as the assistant to stylist Venetia James, the woman she had met at the D&D party, for almost a year, and in that time she had done little but make coffee, iron clothes and pack suitcases, progressing to doing a little styling of her own. She had always been good at putting outfits together, but she had been delighted to discover she had a real talent for gauging what would look good on a woman. Venetia, however, wasn’t so pleased, belittling her selections in front of the clients while secretly using them to her advantage. Sasha had been sorely tempted to try her hand at modelling again, but she stuck with styling because she could see that it was a growing area in every branch of the industry. The biggest names from Vogue magazine were being wooed away to lucrative creative jobs at the fashion houses, while others were making their marks styling runway shows for the collections in Paris, Milan and New York. But Sasha had her eye on something else, a niche few other stylists had grasped the potential of. She could see the huge potential in giving individuals their own unique style. Whether you were a celebrity, a politician or a socialite, image was increasingly everything and as most of them couldn’t be trusted to come up with that fashion identity themselves, the business of personal styling looked set to explode. Sasha intended to be in the middle of it. Which is why I need to make this work today, she thought as she pressed the bell again.

  ‘Where’s Venetia?’ snapped Annalise, as she opened the door and saw Sasha wrestling with the bags.

  ‘Family emergency,’ she lied. The truth was, Venetia was losing her grip on the business, spending more and more time partying with minor celebrities and her coke dealer. She had spent the night with the bassist from a rock band and had rung Sasha at eight that morning, begging her to take this job on her own.

  ‘And who are you?’ Annalise sniffed.

  ‘Sasha Sinclair,’ she said as brightly as she could, struggling to extend a hand from under the bags. ‘I’m Venetia’s partner.’

  Only a little white lie, thought Sasha as Annalise reluctantly opened the door.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve been briefed,’ said Annalise briskly, sweeping back into the house and up a long flight of stairs. She led Sasha into the master bedroom, which smelt of roses and had views over Onslow Square. ‘The event is my husband’s company’s Christmas party and naturally I have to look spectacular,’ she began, reclining on a vast cream armchair.‘I’m sure Venetia has told you my husband is the chairman.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sasha smiled. ‘We’ll make you look wonderful. Not that you need any help in that department.’

  In the beginning, she had pumped clients’ egos through gritted teeth, but now the compliments rolled off the tongue like a hot knife sliding through butter. She quickly began opening the cloth bags and laying the dresses carefully on the bed. By the time she got to the third bag, she was already fighting a sinking feeling in her stomach; she could tell that the selection was poor at best. They were all beautiful dresses but completely wrong for the client; the primrose-yellow and cornflower-blue gowns were wrong for Annalise’s blond hair and ruddy complexion, while the charcoal theme Venetia had chosen for the rest would age anyone over forty-five. Sasha clenched her teeth together. Bloody Venetia! she thought. It was obvious she had just taken the first things off the rack in front of her with no thought for what would work best for the client – and it was Sasha who would have to take the flak.

  ‘Hand me the black strapless,’ said Annalise impatiently, standing behind Sasha and holding out her hand.

  In full view of the open window she stripped off and slid the long, inky dress over herself before turning to the mirror.

  ‘This is huge!’ she said furiously, pulling at the sagging bust-line. ‘I told Venetia I’ve been on the grapefruit and egg diet for the last week and this is just hanging off me.’

  ‘Perhaps we could pin,’ said Sasha uncertainly.

  ‘And risk being stabbed all the way through dinner?’ She pulled off the dress and flung it on to the bed in disgust. ‘I need something else,’ she demanded. ‘In a size six.’

  Sasha scrabbled through the dresses, looking at the labels in rising desperation. She could barely believe it; everything was a size ten.

  Annalise looked as if she was about to have a meltdown.

  ‘Seriously, all these gowns are beautiful, but you’re right, Venetia hadn’t briefed me properly. She told me about your amazing figure and
colouring, of course. You really have the most fantastic body of any celebrity I’ve ever worked with.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Annalise with the hint of a smile.

  ‘No, you need something that will show you off as the most luminous woman in the room.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said to Venetia,’ said Annalise. ‘If she’s not prepared to listen to me, then . . .’

  ‘Between you and me, she’s been under a lot of stress recently,’ said Sasha in a low voice. ‘But don’t worry, I know how important this party is and I’ve got exactly the right piece in mind. Give me until tomorrow afternoon and you’ll have the dress of the decade.

  Annalise looked at her cynically. ‘Well, I’m at John Frieda at midday to have my hair done. Be back here at four and don’t even think about bringing me Jasper or Catherine Walker,’ she added, taking a sip of iced lemon water. ‘Everyone is going to be wearing them. I have to look unique, or believe me, I’m going to tell all my friends how you fouled up on my most important night of the year.’

  The next day Sasha was in a fix. ‘Shitterty, shit, shit,’ she muttered to herself, glancing at her watch in desperation. It was almost two in the afternoon and she had zero options. Yes, over the past year she had built up good relationships with most of the fashion houses and major stores in London, and yes, if she was styling a Vogue shoot, she probably wouldn’t have a problem pulling in some beautiful pieces. But this wasn’t a photo shoot and she’d struggle to convince anyone of the benefits of rushing a dress around to Annalise Tuttle. Even if she lied and said it was for an editorial story, most fashion houses did not yet have London press offices and there was simply no time to get something sent over from Milan or Paris.

  There was always Harvey Nichols. She had borrowed clothes from the department store on a sale-or-return basis in the past, but of course their stock would be this season’s. Annalise was not going to be happy.

  How did it come to this? Sasha wondered. In some ways, life was considerably better than it had been a year ago. She was now living in her own studio flat in South Kensington, albeit at the Earls Court end. She had enough money to shop at French Connection and Portobello Market, where she found vintage Ossie Clark dresses and was complimented on her style at least every day. Thanks to her natural fashion sense, she had repeatedly been offered jobs at various magazines, and it was certainly tempting. But she hadn’t been able to forget what Robert Ashford had once told her over a family dinner at their Holland Park house: ‘Smart people don’t work for other people, Sasha,’ he had said. ‘Smart people don’t line other people’s pockets. Smart people work for themselves and build their own fortunes.’ There were lots of things about that family Sasha had tried to forget, but some things were worth hanging on to.

  She knew she had to do a great job transforming Annalise from corporate wife to soignée style-setter. Annalise was no great beauty, but she was connected. Her husband was the influential European head of an international media group and she had lots of wealthy friends, women with plenty of money but no sense of style, women Sasha could charge five hundred – no, a thousand pounds a day to look better than their friends. If she could crack this, she could become known for her style, for her power to transform. She could become a brand herself. But first, I’ve got to find her something to wear.

  She ran through a mental list of where she could turn next. Grace Ashford’s friend Freya worked at Lynn Franks PR and could possibly loan her a dress from one of their fashion clients, but Sasha knew she’d be on one of their ‘long lunches’. Then she had a brainwave. She recalled a small piece in Elle about a bespoke eveningwear designer working out of south London. She took her mobile phone out of her bag. She wished these things were smaller but she liked her latest gadget. She dialled her friend Louise, a section editor on the magazine.

  ‘Who’s that guy with the atelier in Battersea?’ she asked. ‘Ben someone. You don’t happen to have an address for him, do you?’

  Scribbling it in her Filofax, she summoned a taxi.

  Ben Rivera worked out of a tiny mews house in a Battersea back street. He was about thirty, of slight build and no more than five feet five tall. His bright blue eyes stared at Sasha quizzically as she swept purposefully into the studio.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked with amusement.

  ‘You’re not Spanish,’ she said with surprise, as she took in her surroundings. There were rolls of fabric stacked up against every wall, sketches pinned to a huge cork board and mannequins swathed in elaborate folded chiffon and silk. He shook his head.

  ‘My dad’s Puerto Rican. Why, what were you expecting?’

  ‘Your name, it sounds Spanish . . . Anyway . . .’ She waved her hands in the air as she realised she was wasting time. ‘I understand you make couture gowns. I need a dress.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, immediately sizing her up and down. ‘I’m sure I can do something . . .’

  ‘Not for me,’ she said with irritation. ‘A client.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a stylist?’ he said with a little more interest. ‘Which magazine?’

  ‘Freelance.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  Sasha could see there was no point in pretending.

  ‘Look, I’ve been asked to find a dress for a private client. Annalise Tuttle. Her husband is Richard Tuttle, CEO of News Inc., and she needs a dress for a party tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Ben folded his arms and viewed her with good-natured cynicism. ‘You do know I do bespoke dresses? It takes a minimum of three weeks and four fittings with the client to make one gown.’

  ‘And that’s probably why they are so beautiful,’ Sasha said, sensing she needed to turn on the charm.

  ‘What about this?’ she asked, reaching out towards a mannequin swathed in green silk.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ he said, swatting her hand away with a tape measure.

  ‘Don’t you have anything ready to wear?’

  The designer shrugged. ‘What size is she?’

  ‘Thin. A size six. Or do you have a store I can grab some shop stock from?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Shop stock!’ he tutted. ‘Darling, I repeat, I’m a bespoke operation.This is my atelier and people come to me. I don’t have a shop.’

  Sasha’s face dropped. This time she actually thought she might cry for real.

  ‘I’m stuffed,’ she said, suddenly feeling dizzy. Annalise would be back from the hair salon any moment, expecting her to turn up with her dress.

  ‘Would it be possible to get a glass of water?’ she said, not wanting to go back into the cold quite yet.

  Ben pointed towards a tiny kitchen at the back of the studio. As she walked through, she inspected the mannequins and sketches on the walls. Elle had been right to feature Ben Rivera, she thought. His designs were sumptuous and innovative, but also flattering to the female form. Approaching the kitchen, she spotted a large French armoire from which billowed pale lilac chiffon, like a cloud at sunset. She stepped closer. The gown was exquisite; such fine needle-work and tailoring, it could have been the very finest Parisian couture.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked with a rush of excitement.

  ‘It was a costume for the Royal Ballet,’ said Ben flatly.

  ‘Has it been used?’

  ‘Eventually, no,’ he said with disappointment.

  ‘Ballet dancers are skinny, right?’ said Sasha, thinking out loud.

  He snorted. ‘That is not a party dress, my dear. It took two hundred hours to make that dress. Five thousand beads sourced from Rajasthan were stitched on by hand.’

  ‘Please?’ she said.

  ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘Please.’

  He laughed. ‘You march in here, you ask for the earth, you don’t even tell me your name.’

  ‘It’s Sasha and I’m not asking for the earth. Just this dress.’

  ‘How do I know you are not going to run off with it?’

  She smiled. ‘You don’t.’ She met hi
s gaze. ‘How many gowns do you sell a month, Ben?’

  He looked defensive. ‘It’s not about quantity . . .’

  ‘Of course, and you can see the quality in every stitch.’ She nodded sincerely. ‘But the tragedy is I bet you don’t do more than twenty dresses a year, do you? A few rich women know your number but that doesn’t make you Gianni Versace. Look, this is one of the biggest parties of the year and my client is a very connected woman. Very connected. You have an amazing talent, Ben, but you need to market yourself. You can be the best designer in the world, but if no one knows your name, you’re going to stay in this room in Battersea for a long time.’

  Watching his face, she knew she’d hit home. Unless he was independently wealthy and was doing this for a hobby, there was no way he could afford to turn down selling the dress, and if she could sweeten the deal by offering him the lifeline of ready-made advertising to his key audience, all the better.