Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘I couldn’t let it go for less than eight thousand pounds.’

  ‘Five thousand,’ she said quickly. ‘Think of the publicity.’

  ‘How will you get me the money?’

  ‘I will take you to her. Bring your pins and your sewing kit. I promise you, Ben, this will change your life.’

  ‘You’re late,’ said Annalise, opening the door with a stern expression. Her face was fully painted with evening make-up and her hair had been swept up into a dramatic chignon, but she was still wearing a white towelling robe. ‘And who is this?’

  Sasha walked straight in, taking Annalise’s arm and leading her out of Ben’s earshot.

  ‘This is Ben Rivera. He’s the new Lagerfeld,’ she whispered. She didn’t want him getting ideas above his station, not before she had the chance to use him to the fullest.

  Upstairs, Ben confidently swept the dress out of its linen bag and Annalise’s tense facial expression relaxed instantly. The gown floated through the air as if it was made of feathers.

  ‘Is it couture?’ whispered Annalise.

  Sasha and Ben nodded. Strictly speaking it wasn’t couture. Strictly speaking only the handful of designers who showed their collection twice a year in Paris and were members of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture were considered ‘couture’. But the Chambre weren’t coming to the party.

  ‘Normally you don’t buy dresses like this, Annalise, you order them,’ said Sasha confidentially. ‘But today Ben Rivera himself has come to fit you with his latest creation because I told him about your incredible taste.’

  Eagerly Annalise stripped off and allowed herself to be fitted in the gown, Ben weaving his magic with the corset using delicate stitches until it fitted like a second skin. Sasha went into Annalise’s dressing room and selected a pair of silver Manolo Blahniks and drop diamond earrings. She looked magnificent. When she moved, the long slits in the fabric, meant for the movement of a dancer, showed off her toned legs in an elegant, sensual way.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ cooed Sasha.

  ‘What do I owe you?’ asked Annalise, the expression on her face as she looked at herself in the mirror something like love.

  ‘Eight thousand for the gown,’ said Sasha, giving Ben just the slightest smile. Without hesitation, Annalise opened a drawer in her dresser and pulled out a chequebook, writing one to Ben, then another for Sasha, which she folded and slipped into her hand whispering, ‘You’re fabulous.’ She pulled a white mink shrug over her shoulders as they all headed down the stairs. ‘Wait till my girlfriends hear all about you,’ she said. ‘They’re going to be green with envy.’

  Opportunity hung in the air and Sasha reached out for it with both hands.

  ‘How about lunch to discuss a new wardrobe?’ she asked.

  ‘Great idea,’ said Annalise. ‘How about San Lorenzo at one tomorrow?’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ said Sasha.

  Straight afterwards, Sasha would hand in her notice to Venetia. She didn’t need a has-been weighing her down. No, Sasha Sinclair was on her own now, and she was taking Annalise Tuttle and all her high-spending friends with her.

  19

  The club was called the Youngblood Society and its intentions were clear from the start. Hipper, more meritocratic than the Carrington and Bullingdon, less fey than the Piers Gaveston, more debauched than the Assassins, Miles wanted to create a modern club for a modern Oxford. He did not consider himself a snob, simply superior, and he wanted his club to be full of men like him, brilliant men who would one day be Masters of the Universe and who wanted to play hard along the way.

  Wandering around the Youngblood’s inaugural Christmas party, he smiled to himself. No wonder some of the Carrington boys were sniffing around, angling for membership. The party was being held at Graveseye House, a four-storey former rectory just outside Oxford. Ideally, Miles would have preferred a grander venue. Then again, as a second home belonging to the parents of Alan Johnson, an eccentric Scot angling for membership, it had cost nothing to hire, which had freed Miles up to spend more money on the actual party. When he’d been researching the history of the gentlemen’s club in preparation for creating the Youngbloods, Miles had stumbled across an account of the Great World, a legendary club in 1930s Shanghai, a place that fascinated him for its blend of opulence and debauchery. On the Great World’s first floor you could find fortune-tellers and gambling, but by the top floor you would discover opium and sing-song girls, the Chinese courtesans. That was exactly the ambience Miles had been aiming for, and as he glanced around, he could see that the theatrical set-builders he’d employed to transform the house for the night had got it exactly right. Scarlet silk drapes disguised the Johnsons’ flocked wallpaper, gold and velvet oriental furniture had been brought in and the entire space was lit by candles spilling ghoulish shadows around the rooms. It had taken much longer to co-ordinate than he had imagined, but by God, it was worth it.

  ‘Miles!’ shouted a dozen voices as he strolled through the ground floor, accepting handshakes and slaps on the back. There were only twenty-five Youngblood members, each dressed in the society uniform of French navy coats with gold frogging and brass buttons, but they were surrounded by models dressed as angels, oriental waitresses and a handful of magicians, contortionists and other performers.

  Miles took his place at the head of the dining table.

  ‘I think everyone’s expecting a few words, Ashford,’ said member Tom Samson.

  Miles nodded and stood, straightening his white military tailcoat as he prepared to speak. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began to hoots and cheers, quickly dying away as he gave them a stern look. ‘Gentlemen, you represent the best students at the best university in the world,’ he continued, his voice commanding and clear.‘Unlike many elite clubs at Oxford, you’ve been chosen not because of where you come from, but because of where you’re going.’

  They all cheered, thumping their hands on the table, rattling the fine china. Miles liked the sound of his own voice but he knew his fledgling hedonists hadn’t come here for a lecture.

  ‘Fellow ’bloods, I won’t keep you, because there’s fun to be had, memories to be created and a bond to be forged. But let this historic phrase ring in your ears: the Youngblood Society is officially in session!’

  The members roared their approval as Samson handed Miles a sword and, gesturing for the crowd to stand back, he swung it in a glittering arc towards a jeroboam of champagne standing on the table in front of him. To the amazement and delight of the Youngbloods, it sliced the top of the bottle clean off, the bubbling liquid shooting into the air like a geyser.

  Amazing what a little spectacle can do to people, thought Miles as he began to circulate through the throng. On the second floor, two strippers writhed around a brass pole in the centre of a platform specially erected for the evening. Smiling, Miles thought of Alan Johnson’s parents – currently in Thailand for Mr Johnson’s diplomatic career – and wondered what they would make of this. Their son, who had his head over a long line of cocaine, was clearly not giving it much thought. And what would his own father think of all this? he wondered. Certainly, he knew, Robert would give him hell about his lacklustre academic performance at Oxford, which had been a consequence of all the time the Youngbloods was taking up. Lately his tutors had been on his back for missed essays and poor attendance, but Miles couldn’t rouse himself enough to care. Why did it matter whether he got a first- or third-class degree – Ash Corp.’s human resources were hardly going to penalise him for poor exam results, were they?

  ‘Let me fuck the albino,’ whispered a second-year PPE student, Ian Thomas.

  ‘I believe her name is Abigail,’ said Miles with amusement. ‘And she is yours for the right price.’

  ‘Anything, I’ve got to have her,’ Thomas said hungrily.

  Miles smiled as he watched him beckon to the girl, who willingly followed him up the stairs. He was pleased with all the women the agency had sent over to act as waitresses and �
�companions’, each of them beautiful, accommodating and not afraid to multitask. ‘High-class escort girls’, that was how the agency had described them, but the insinuation was that they were all prepared to do anything for money. That suited Miles perfectly. He had transformed the bedrooms in the eaves of the house into seductive candlelit boudoirs and he would be charging the club members a hefty premium on top of whatever the girls asked. And judging from the constant stream of couples – sometimes threesomes – up the stairs, it looked as if business was going to be brisk.

  A tall redhead came and sat beside him. She was older than the others, maybe even thirty. Crossing her legs, long and slim under elegant cream slacks, she leant over to him and stroked the underside of his jaw.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ she breathed.

  Miles regarded her coolly. ‘Perhaps later.’

  She gave a slight shrug but didn’t move away.

  ‘I take it from the white uniform that you’re the organiser,’ she said.

  ‘Founder of the society,’ corrected Miles.

  ‘Impressive.’ She smiled, running a finger up and down the stem of her champagne flute. ‘This is better than some parties I’ve been to in London and Paris, and believe me, darling, they were organised by some of the best hosts in the business. Movie stars, madams, even an ambassador’s wife with a taste, shall we say, for the exotic. You’re keeping up with the best of them.’

  Miles was enjoying the flattery until she lowered her voice.

  ‘But are you quite sure it’s safe?’ she whispered.

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘There are some quite high-profile young men here this evening,’ she said, nodding towards Juan Carlos Constanta, the son of Mexico’s richest industrialist.

  ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  ‘I find it pays to be informed. An event like this isn’t just about the girls and the decor. It’s about security.’

  ‘Security from whom?’

  She waved a hand. ‘Oh, the press, the police. A tabloid journalist could end careers here before they’ve even started.’

  Miles frowned, privately acknowledging that she had a point. He had gone through life feeling bulletproof; with the exception of his spliff at Eton, he was one of those people who just didn’t get caught out. So tonight he hadn’t given security much thought.

  ‘It’s all under control,’ he said smoothly.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she purred, putting the palm of her hand across his crotch.

  He lifted her hand from his trousers and placed it back on her own thigh. She was annoying, not arousing him.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, this amateur has to go and check out the party,’ he said tartly.

  He stalked downstairs to the basement, which had been turned into a low-lit opium den.

  ‘Problems, Milo?’ asked his friend Jonathon, catching Miles’ expression.

  ‘Nothing that won’t cure,’ he said, reaching for the hubbly-bubbly pipe Jonathon was holding and taking a puff. The smoke filled his lungs and sure enough his earlier irritation began to seem rather distant and unimportant.

  ‘Hey, you heard of the internet?’ asked Jonathon in a rather dreamy half-stoned voice.

  Miles shook his head slowly as a mellow haze washed over him. ‘Should I have done?’

  ‘It’s the future, my friend. It’s knowledge, power. A guy called Assad, French guy at Magdalen, is looking to start up an internet café in Oxford. He needs investors. You interested?’

  ‘Is he good?’ asked Miles.

  ‘Apparently brilliant.’

  ‘Cool. Get me a meeting with him.’

  Miles looked through heavy-lidded eyes at the bodies lying around on sofas and plump cushions, some half-naked. He had spent so long looking forward to this event but now he just wanted to lie here and for everyone else to just sod off home.

  ‘Miles! Miles!’

  He didn’t stir, hoping it was a dream. It wasn’t until he got a sharp prod in the ribs that he looked up.

  Jonathon bent over him and hauled him up by the lapels.

  ‘Get up, now!’ he said urgently, dragging him up the basement stairs. For a second Miles thought the shouts and screams he could hear were the sounds of carnal pleasure, but one look at the face of the angels and waitresses running towards the front door was enough to sober him up like a slap in the face: they were terrified.

  He ran up the stairs to the mezzanine floor, where Tom Samson was standing like a policeman directing traffic, yelling for everyone to get out.

  ‘What the hell’s going on, Sam?’ yelled Miles, willing his brain to engage.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ asked Samson incredulously. ‘The fucking top bedroom is on fire! One of the candles got knocked over!’

  Fire? Fuck! The fugginess in his head cleared instantly and Miles turned to Jonathon.

  ‘Get water. In buckets. Now.’

  ‘Where do I get a bucket from?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? Champagne buckets, anything. Get some others to help.’ Spotting a bathroom, Miles ran in and soaked the biggest towels he could find. Sprinting back out, he threw one at Samson. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded.

  Climbing to the second-floor landing, they could see thick acrid smoke pouring down the stairwell and Miles knew instantly that the time had passed for smothering flames with wet blankets. Already he could feel the heat and they were both choking.

  ‘Is anyone else up there?’ coughed Samson.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ hissed Miles. Sweat was beading from his temples and not just from the heat of the fire. He had no idea who was up there, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out. It was too late to save the party. Too late, probably, to save Alan’s house. The least he could do now was save himself.

  ‘Call 999,’ he shouted to Samson. ‘Make sure everyone’s out.’ Samson put the towel over his mouth and began climbing the stairs.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Someone might be up there. One of the hookers.’

  ‘Fuck the hookers,’ spat Miles. ‘Let’s split.’

  But Samson was almost halfway up the stairs. Miles tried to follow him but a shower of flames fell from the roof.

  ‘Samson, get out of there now.’

  Samson half ran, half tumbled down the stairs, his jacket glowing with cinders which Miles beat out with his own coat.

  ‘Everyone’s out,’ he coughed as both boys fled from the building.

  The sound of sirens grew louder until their harsh noise seemed to engulf the house. Dozens of partygoers milled around the grounds, some half dressed, some shell-shocked, all looking faintly ridiculous surrounded by the yellow-jacketed firemen running out their hoses with such purpose. Adding to the confusion, a long line of taxis had miraculously started to appear – someone had their head screwed on at least – and Miles saw people fighting to get into them, especially as the blue and red lights of a police car were heading towards them along the drive.

  Quickly Miles pulled his mobile phone from the pocket of his soot-smeared tailcoat and stabbed at the keys. His stomach clenched with anger and shame at what he was about to do, but as he saw it, he had no choice. He didn’t want to be in any more debt to his father, but he didn’t want to go to jail either.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he listened to the phone ring at the other end.

  He was relieved to hear his father’s voice.

  ‘Miles, what is it?’ Robert said with irritation.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Dad,’ said Miles. There was no point in sugaring the pill. ‘I need you to get someone down to Oxford.’

  They talked for a few minutes, then Miles calmly put his phone back in his pocket and sat on a wall, watching as a policeman walked over.

  ‘Miles Ashford?’ he said. ‘I believe you are the organiser of this party?’

  Miles glanced at the police officer’s uniform. A sergeant playing by the book, he thought contemptuously.

  ‘You
don’t look too clever, son,’ said the policeman. ‘I should get yourself checked out by the ambulance team. But in the meantime, I’d just like to ask you a few questions ...’

  The college’s disciplinary committee were predictable. Judgemental, conservative and holier-than-thou. Miles stood in front of them barely registering what they were saying. ‘The importance of pastoral care at the college . . . The necessity to steer other students from drugs . . . The reputation of the university...’