Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  21

  October 1992

  ‘How long have you known this friend exactly?’ said Isabella Hernandez, her tone dripping with disapproval. Grace turned away from the window to face her formidable mother-in-law. She had been staring out past the Hernandez estate El Esperanza, across miles of velvety rainforest, hoping to catch a glimpse of the car bringing Caro to visit her, but as usual, Gabriel’s mother wanted to talk. Or rather, to grill her. Isabella was not yet sixty but looked much older, her face creased with a lifetime of worry for her menfolk, her raven hair streaked at both temples with silver. If Grace had been ten years younger, Isabella Hernandez would have terrified her, but now as an adult, a wife and mother, she accepted her, enduring the daily interrogations and frosty looks, yearning for the day when she could set up a family home of her own. Not that she didn’t appreciate living in one of the largest and grandest houses in Parador, but when you had to share that space with an indomitable, interfering mother-in-law, even in the wide hallways and drawing rooms sometimes it felt hard to breathe.

  ‘Oh, we’ve only been friends a couple of years,’ said Grace. ‘Caro was there the day I met Gabriel actually. In fact if she hadn’t sent me out to buy supper, I don’t think I’d be here now.’

  Isabella raised an eyebrow that, in one tiny gesture, communicated her general disdain. ‘And will this “friend” be gone before the rally in Palumbo?’

  Grace knew exactly where this conversation was heading. ‘I don’t know. Even if she has left, I’m not sure I’ll be going.’

  ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘Well, Gabe has turned out to be a natural politician, hasn’t he? I’m not sure he needs me hanging around, trying to drum up extra support.’

  ‘Oh, but you must,’ said Isabella urgently.‘It’s important to understand that you’re not just married to the opposition leader, Grace, you’re a part of the election. And you are the lady of the house here now.’

  Grace was in no mood to be bullied into anything. Motherhood did that to you. Sleepless nights and demanding children toughened you up.

  For weeks she’d been pushed by Isabella and Gabe to get more involved in ‘the cause’, and transform herself into some Latino Jackie Kennedy. But politics, or at least the South American version of it, swinging between the chilling isolation of a bulletproof limousine and the complete emotional overload of a rally – the weeping, the screaming, the thousands of hands reaching out to her in adulation – left her cold. The real truth of it was that she felt a fraud. To accept the adulation felt self-indulgent and, more importantly, hypocritical and wrong. She wasn’t a saviour. She was a twenty-three-year-old woman struggling to find her own place in life and she certainly didn’t have the answers to Parador’s many problems.

  Nor could she really blame her mother-in-law for her frosty reception: it was not as if Grace was anybody’s idea of a perfect daughter-in-law. Appearing out of the blue the night before Carlos’ funeral to announce that they were getting married was never going to be a great start, especially when it became clear that she was a foreigner, albeit a wealthy one. She was still pregnant and, even worse, a Protestant. Of course, Gabriel had gently suggested that Grace could convert to Catholicism, but she had refused point blank, not from any strong spiritual conviction, more that she could picture herself locked in a confessional booth being forced to tell a priest that she had left a young man dying on a beach. In fact, in this recurring nightmare she would have to confess that she suspected her brother of having killed the boy and that she had done nothing about it except flee to the other side of the world.

  Outside there was the crunch of car tyres on the drive.

  ‘I think your friend is here,’ said Isabella flatly before sweeping out of the room.

  Grace clattered down the marble stairs and out into the courtyard as the dusty car drew up. It was hot and humid and the white linen fabric of her skirt stuck to her calves, but as Caro stepped into the sweltering Parador heat, Grace ran forward to hug her.

  ‘Oh honey, you don’t know how good it is to see you!’ she cried, grinning all over her face.

  ‘Hey, you too. You look amazing. Like a proper lady of the manor. And tell me that’s just a shiny green rock on your finger and not a big chunk of emerald.’

  ‘It’s an emerald.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. And to think I gave Gabriel to you.’

  Grace laughed happily. In fourteen months Caro hadn’t changed a jot. She was still thin and her clothes still looked as if they could do with a good wash, but most of all she still had that irreverent twinkle in her eye, something Grace had missed more than she had realised.

  ‘Well come and see the manor.’ She smiled, moving to take her friend’s rucksack.

  ‘No, no, Señora Hernandez, allow me,’ said José, Gabriel’s driver, stepping forward.

  ‘Ooh, servants now.’ Caro giggled.

  ‘It’s a long way from Macrossan Street, put it that way,’ said Grace.

  She gave Caro a guided tour of the house, smiling as her friend gasped at the long formal dining room, the mosaic-adorned indoor pool, their huge bedroom, the voile-draped windows giving an amazing view of the hazy valley below.

  ‘Stone the bloody crows,’ breathed Caro as Grace led her out on to the terrace. The infinite green shades of the rainforest looked spectacular from there, especially in the softening light of the late afternoon with the soothing breeze and the soft caw of toucans coming from the treetops. Although it was only ten miles outside the capital city of Palumbo, it felt as if they were in the middle of the throbbing Amazon jungle.

  Over excellent mojitos mixed by Isabella’s butler, the girls gossiped about old times and new. Caro’s life appeared to have changed little – in Goa she had found men, parties and an exotic, bohemian way of life that suited her down to the ground. Excitedly she quizzed Grace about her intimate yet elegant wedding, a candlelit ceremony and reception at El Esperanza. Grace told her how glorious she had felt in her long flowing gown; ripe and luscious like a Botticelli painting, thin folds of chiffon swooping from an empire-line gown disguising her belly from the most conservative and Catholic of guests. It was only in the telling of it that Grace realised just how crazy, exotic and alien her life had become since she had left Port Douglas.

  ‘You’re used to it though, aren’t you?’ said Caro. ‘The high life?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Caro looked away. ‘I found a copy of Hello! magazine in this hostel in Goa. I flicked through it and there was this story about you getting married to Gabe. Grace, your dad is the twenty-third richest man in the United Kingdom.’

  ‘He’ll be disappointed to have slipped out of the top twenty,’ said Grace, trying to smile. She shrugged. ‘I know I should have told you, but I was . . . well, I was embarrassed. Plus I was trying to get away from all that money and luxury.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like you tried very hard.’ Caro grinned, looking up at the decorated ceiling of the sitting room. ‘I always wondered why you never talked about your family. I mean, what do they make of it all?’

  Unwelcome memories flooded back. When Grace had phoned with news of her pregnancy and impending marriage, her father had demanded she come home to ‘sort yourself out’. When she had refused, he had flown out to Parador with her mother and a hung-over Miles in tow for the wedding. Somewhere between his irate phone call and arriving at El Esperanza, he had obviously decided it would be good PR to put in an appearance at his daughter’s big day, especially as it would make the papers. Thankfully, a takeover bid in London had meant that he could only stay twenty-four hours in Parador and when Miles had made noises to return with him, Grace had actively encouraged the whole party to go and leave her to enjoy what was left of the celebratory weekend.

  ‘So where are the twins?’ said Caro eagerly.

  Grace glowed with pleasure at the mention of her children. Finding herself married to a world-famous writer was strange enough, especially when you considered he
might soon be president of a country she’d barely heard of before. But having children had been even more of a revelation. She’d never really thought about having kids; it was something that would happen much later in life when she’d travelled and had a career and was totally settled. But it hadn’t happened like that and she couldn’t say she had regretted it for a minute. Oh yes, of course there were times when she was so exhausted she had spent all day in her nightie, and despite the presence of servants and El Esperanza’s luxuries – swimming pool, tennis court, hammam – none of it helped with the isolation of raising the twins, especially with Gabriel barely there. But Olivia and Joseph had brought a joy of such depth to her life that sometimes she wondered if she deserved to feel so happy.

  She led Caro into the nursery where the twins were sleeping in separate cots.

  ‘These are my babies,’ she said, leaning in and scooping up Olivia who yawned, blinking at the room.

  ‘She’s so adorable!’ cried Caro, taking the infant and sitting her on her knee, making goo-goo noises at her.‘Oh Grace, I can’t believe you’re a mummy.’

  ‘It’s mad, isn’t it? You know I found my first grey hair this morning? I’m twenty-three! No one warns you quite how knackering motherhood is.’

  ‘Maybe you should make your nannies work a bit harder.’ Caro smiled.

  ‘We don’t have one.’

  Caro looked at her in disbelief. ‘You are kidding me?’ she said. ‘You have a man to put an umbrella on your cocktail, but you don’t have anyone to help with the twins?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Gabe is paranoid about the staff. As you’ve seen, the house is pretty secure but there’s still a danger someone might infiltrate the place. One of Parador’s top judges was killed at the weekend by his pool cleaner.’

  ‘Fuck what Gabriel thinks,’ said Caro with passion. ‘He’s not the one getting up at five in the morning, is he? If you want a nanny, you get a nanny.’

  Caro bounced Olivia up and down on her lap where she gurgled happily. Grace watched her friend. Despite Caro’s hard-edged looks – the nose ring, the spiky hair now a rich maple-leaf orange – she was a natural with kids.

  ‘So what are your plans?’ asked Grace. She almost hadn’t wanted to ask, fearing that Caro would say it was a flying visit.

  ‘D’you mind if I stay a couple of weeks? The flight ticket wiped me out.’

  ‘A couple of weeks?’ said Grace with delight. ‘That’s brilliant! No, I mean, stay as long as you want. The house is big enough. Although you may change your mind when you meet Gabriel’s mother.’

  ‘After I get my feet on the ground, I guess I’ll head off to Palumbo, see what I can cook up there,’ said Caro.

  ‘Parador is a dangerous place, Caro. You don’t want to be roaming around Palumbo alone.’

  Caro stretched out her toes. ‘Could have fooled me. From what I’ve seen it’s like bloody paradise – whoops!’ she said, covering Olivia’s ears.

  ‘I’m serious, Caro,’ said Grace. ‘The drug cartels have made it nasty and innocent people get caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘You know me, Gracie,’ replied Caro. ‘I like to walk on the wild side.’

  ‘This is serious, Caro. I’ll only really feel safe if you’re here at El Esperanza.’

  ‘Got any jobs then? Need any rancid prawn buffets rustling up?’ Grace looked at her friend for a moment and thought how happy she had been in Port Douglas, how carefree. She loved her husband and her children and she was smitten by the beauty of El Esperanza. At night, it was nothing short of magical, like a fictitious magic box dreamt up by Gabriel for one of his books. But it was also a lonely place.

  ‘Why not work here with me, with the kids?’ she said suddenly. She immediately felt stupid, arrogant even, suggesting that Caro might want to work for her. She was her friend, not the hired help.

  ‘What, as a nanny?’

  ‘I guess,’ shrugged Grace, a little embarrassed now. ‘But I would understand if it was too awkward for you.’

  ‘Are you serious? That would be amazing!’ Caro said, jumping up and hugging Grace. ‘But are you sure Gabriel won’t mind?’

  ‘Gabe is never here,’ Grace said with a note of defiance. Gabe couldn’t object to having Caro as their nanny – she was one of her most trusted friends. ‘He won’t mind,’ she said. ‘And anyway, this is my house now. What I say goes.’

  She hugged her friend again and thought that for the first time since she’d been in Parador, she finally felt at home.

  22

  November 1992

  Sasha put her foot down and gunned her silver Mazda over the hill, the big houses on either side blurring, the street lights leaving trails behind her. ‘Calm down,’ she whispered to herself, hitting the brake as she saw the sign for the Hinchley Wood golf club. ‘You only have to stay a couple of hours.’ She twisted the wheel and practically skidded into the car park; she knew that two hours was going to pass very slowly indeed.

  Already people were leaving the party: fifty-something couples in M&S suits and Debenhams taffeta climbing back into their middle-management cars, gleaming Rovers and Ford Mondeos. Strains of disco floated on the night air, and through the plate-glass windows she could see into the Orchid Suite, festooned with paper chains, balloons and metallic banners exclaiming Happy Silver Wedding Anniversary!. She could almost smell the warm wine and the sausage rolls without even entering the clubhouse. Sasha hadn’t been to a party like this since – well, since her parents’ tenth wedding anniversary – and fifteen years later the scene hadn’t changed; the people were just a bit more stooped, the dresses a bit more fussy, the cars outside upgraded a notch to the executive model with the walnut dash.

  Picking up her present from the passenger seat, she took a deep breath and walked in, immediately spotting old faces: parents of girls she knew from prep school, neighbours from Esher, her father’s colleagues, an assortment from her mother’s tennis and bridge club circuit. God, what a nightmare, she thought. But then she caught sight of one face through the crowd. Instantly she felt guilty at her uncharitable thoughts.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she said with affection, kissing his papery cheek and wondering at what point over the last five years her father had become old. His hair was fully grey and thinning all over and the once-handsome features had sagged, as if they were giving up.

  ‘Hello, Pumpkin!’ said her father, clearly surprised and delighted to see her. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. I didn’t think you were coming, you’ve been so busy lately.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Sasha, resisting the urge to add a darling at the end of her statement, a word that popped out like a reflex now. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  Her dad waved a hand.‘Off somewhere enjoying the social adoration. ’

  Sasha thrust the present into his hands. ‘For both of you. From Paris. For twenty-five years of marriage.’

  He shook the beautifully wrapped box vigorously next to his ear and Sasha flinched.

  ‘No, no. Don’t do that. It’s from Lalique.’

  ‘Is that one of your fancy fashion labels?’ he asked.

  ‘Beautiful glassware actually. Mum will be aware of it.’

  ‘If it’s expensive and from Paris I have no doubt she will.’ He chuckled. ‘By the way, you look absolutely wonderful this evening. Both my girls have done me proud,’ he said, gazing across the room at his wife.

  Sasha knew she looked good: her dress was a Ben Rivera one-off and she was grateful that her father had noticed she had made an effort. Sasha might be contemptuous of the Surrey commuter belt she had come from, but she had still dressed to impress the parochial crowd she had left behind. The rumour mill in this neck of the woods was more efficient and more vicious than Milan during fashion week. All her old school friends and their parents would have heard about Sasha’s relationship with Miles Ashford – he was almost famous, after all – and they would have delighted in the news that it had ended. Hopefully her bespoke dress
and her shiny sports car would show those tattle-tale bitches that she didn’t need a man to get on. And it was true: Sasha Sinclair was now one of London’s most in-demand stylists, not that any of this lot would know what a stylist was. Working on magazines, commercial shoots and private clients, she was making over fifty thousand pounds a year and was still only twenty-one. And to think she could be living here, working in a building society or something. The thought made her shiver.

  ‘You cold, love?’ asked her dad.

  ‘No, not at all.’ She smiled. The jazz band burst into their rendition of ‘Come Fly With Me’ and across the room Carole Sinclair, clearly a little tipsy, started motioning urgently at her husband to join her on the dance floor.