She was ushered through the hotel by her bodyguard and up to a large conference room. The huge suite on the mezzanine floor was full of journalists all looking towards a dais where Gabriel was standing in a navy suit deftly answering questions with wit and authority, although even from the back of the room, she could see the tension on his face. He was under fire and he desperately needed the support of the press. A month earlier, CARP had unveiled a plan to hand over a parcel of land to the paramilitaries terrorising the rural south in return for a ceasefire. It was brave and forward-thinking, but it was also political dynamite.
‘What makes you think the rebels will be satisfied with this deal?’ asked one journalist. ‘If you reward terrorism, surely that will just encourage them to burn more crops, rape more women and butcher more innocents so you will give them more land?’
Gabriel shook his head. ‘This is a one-off deal, a final settlement. I am not just expecting a ceasefire, I am expecting a timetable of decommissioning arms.’
‘And if they don’t do what you ask?’
Gabriel smiled slightly. ‘Then we will talk to them again. Only this time, we won’t take no for an answer.’
A ripple of laughter ran around the room. Grace caught her husband’s eye and he winked at her. He was still able to send little shivers up her spine. She tapped Manuela on the shoulder.
‘I’m just going to wish my husband good luck.’
She walked around the back of the dais, climbing up on the platform behind Gabriel. One of the journalists she knew – Juan Moreno from the Parador Internacional – spotted her and waved his notebook at her.
‘Mrs Hernandez!’ he called. ‘Can you give us your take on your husband’s new policy?’
Gabriel put up his hand as if to veto the question, but Grace stepped forward.
‘This is Parador, Mr Moreno,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘On this platform, whatever my husband thinks is exactly right. However, when I get him home, whatever I say goes.’
The room cracked up with laughter and Gabriel dipped his head to the microphones. ‘And I think that’s a perfect place to leave it, thank you, gentlemen.’
More black-suited security men led Grace and Gabriel towards a back entrance. As they waited for their cars to come around, Gabriel turned to her and grinned.
‘Brilliant as ever, Mrs Hernandez,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her on the neck.
‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ Grace grinned.
Gabriel pulled a face. ‘You missed the tricky parts. Not all of them agree with what we stand for.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, Gabe,’ she said.‘All journalists in Parador have a closet liberal streak; they all secretly want change, otherwise why would they stick around here? Not for the twenty-thousand-dollar salary.’
Gabriel laughed. ‘I didn’t know when I married you that I’d gain a wise counsel as well as a wife.’
‘You just remember that when you come to buy my next birthday present.’
Just then, Gabriel’s car drew up, ready to take him to his next hand-shaking engagement. He was about to climb inside when Grace grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
‘You deserve this, honey,’ she whispered. ‘If I forget to say it later, I’m proud of you.’
She watched his car roar off, sending up the inevitable cloud of dust.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Hernandez?’
She turned to face a young woman perhaps a year or two older than herself. She was wearing a press photo pass.
‘My name is Maria Santos,’ she said.‘I am a reporter with Parador Scrivener.’
Grace smiled politely. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I wondered if I just ask you a couple of questions before you leave?’
Grace glanced nervously over at one of the security men, but then reminded herself that she could make her own rules now.
‘Of course,’ she said.
The woman produced a dictaphone, the red light already on.‘Can I ask what you think of the allegation that your husband has been taking political contributions from the Andres family?’
Instantly Grace felt the colour drain from her face. She was used to difficult questions coming from left field on the campaign trail, but this was different. The Andres brothers headed one of Parador’s most powerful drug cartels; the suggestion that her husband was taking money from the most hated bandits in the country was preposterous, it was against everything he stood for.
‘I think it is absolute nonsense,’ she replied as steadily as she could.
‘We have some very reliable sources who say it is not nonsense, Mrs Hernandez.’
‘I am sure you are aware that my husband is running his campaign on a “no corruption” ticket, Ms Santos,’ said Grace steadily.‘I would suggest you are very sure of your sources before you start making such wild accusations about a respected and popular man.’
‘Oh, we are sure, Mrs Hernandez.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Grace, noting with relief that her car was just turning into the hotel’s forecourt.
‘Your husband isn’t the first to take a pay-off and he won’t be the last,’ said the reporter, looking at her evenly. ‘Politics is full of people who start out wanting to make a difference,’ she continued. ‘But they quickly discover you can’t make a difference without power, and to obtain power, you need the support of influential people. Your husband has clearly decided that the price of that power is worth paying. How do you feel about that?’
The car pulled up and Grace jumped in, glad to be inside the armoured cocoon, behind tinted glass.
How do I feel about that? she asked herself. I feel sick, that’s how I feel.
‘Where to, Mrs Hernandez?’ asked the driver.
‘Take me home,’ she said.
30
No one could deny that the Globe Club was an exceptional place. The design was worthy of any coffee-table book about stylish interiors. They had the most beautiful staff – all resting actresses and models, hand-picked by Chrissy – and the first-floor haute cuisine restaurant was outstanding, overseen by Pierre Girard, a Michelinstarred chef Miles had poached from Paris. The rooftop spa had surpassed all his expectations: it was the last word in sybaritic luxury, with therapists flown in from Bali and Phuket and the best gym equipment that money could buy. No, there was only one problem with the Globe Club. It was empty.
Sipping an extra-strong espresso and trying to stave off another hangover, Miles was in a particularly filthy mood as he did his morning inspection of the club. He just couldn’t comprehend what had gone wrong. Chrissy had tried to tell him that they needed more time to build up their profile and that by this time next year the Globe would be the hottest place in town. But time was one thing Miles did not have. He had ploughed every penny he had into the club, even cashing in the chunk of Ash Corp. stock he had received on his twenty-first birthday, but the wages bills, rates and running costs would put him out of business within the year if they didn’t start generating some profit soon. As a sideline, he and Chrissy had been operating a discreet service of high-class escort girls to keep their heads above financial waters, but Miles didn’t want to be a male Heidi Fleiss. He wanted to be Ian Schrager, running a successful design-led hotel group. Worst of all, he knew that people – his father in particular – were watching the Globe very closely. Failure was simply not an option.
Outside the spa reception, Chrissy was supervising their florist as she placed an elaborate arrangement of lilies on a mirrored table.
‘Fancy lunch in about ten minutes?’ smiled Chrissy as she saw Miles walk over.
He ignored her and turned to the florist. ‘You’re fired,’ he said flatly.
‘Pardon?’ said the florist, looking flustered. ‘Are you not happy with the flowers?’
He pulled at a soft petal and glowered. ‘I’m not having my club looking like a bloody funeral parlour. Go on, clear off,’ he said, stalking out of the spa and down the walnut staircase to the restaurant. He took his
favourite table by the window which had been set with starched white napkins and water and wine glasses.
‘An omelette and some water,’ he said without looking up at the pretty waitress. He stared out on to the street, feeling angry and frustrated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chrissy enter the dining room.
She stood at the table for a few seconds, then, realising that Miles was not even going to look up at her, took a seat opposite him anyway.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
Chrissy put her hand on top of his. ‘It’s going to be all right, babe.’
‘Of course it’s going to be all right,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve got the best fucking flower arrangements in London.’
‘We did. Until you just fired her. By the way, that was totally out of order, no matter how worried you are about the finances.’
‘I’m not worried,’ he said tartly, aware that Chrissy would see through the lie; she probably knew him better than anybody in the world. ‘We’ve got to make this work,’ he said softly.
‘I know. And we will, but not by running around throwing tantrums.’
She was right; she usually was. He had to admit he had been blown away by Chrissy during the setting up of the club. Hard work combined with great ideas and a dogged determination made her a perfect business partner. She was a natural with the guests and with the staff she was firm but fair – at her core was an iciness, a hardness that meant no one dared take advantage.
‘Do you think the membership fee is too high?’ he asked her. Before he had met her, Miles Ashford had never asked anyone’s advice, but he knew could rely on Chrissy to give him a frank response. She shook her head.
‘The problem isn’t the fee. It’s not even the number of people we’ve got coming to the club – it’s the kind of people. We need the cream, Miles, the biggest names in London. Every A-list star that comes to town has got to want to come here.’
‘Thanks for the recap on my original idea,’ he said sulkily.
‘But that was only half the idea, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘The big idea was in the mix.’
Again she was correct. ‘The mix’ was one of the things they had identified as being crucial to making an outstanding club. You could have the most stylish interior and the world’s greatest chef, but if you didn’t have the right blend of people, you were never going to stand out. Studio 54 had it: artists rubbed shoulders with musicians, princes with whores. Truman Capote’s Black and White Tie Ball had it: the greatest fusion of actors, writers and socialites ever seen. But the Globe most certainly did not have it.
Somewhere between the spa therapists and the attention to the wine cellar, ‘the mix’ had been forgotten.
‘We need to sprinkle this place with stardust, Miles,’ said Chrissy, passion sparkling in her eyes. ‘At the moment it’s just Piers Jackson and his advertising cronies hanging out with your posh mates from Danehurst and a few rich kids from west London. That might make a decent New Year’s Eve party, but it’s never going to make people queue around the block. We want celebs worth their salt knocking at our door whenever they are in London.’
She paused.
‘Why don’t you call Alex Doyle?’
Miles couldn’t even pass a weak smile at that suggestion. He’d thought of that already, of course, but hell would freeze over before he begged Alex Doyle to bring his music crowd down.
‘That loser isn’t a big enough star,’ said Miles. ‘I seriously doubt he’s got Bono and Madonna’s numbers.’
Chrissy grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on, let’s think. Who’s in town right now?’
Miles looked out the window. ‘Euan O’Neil is in rehearsals for a play at that theatre around the corner,’ he said. ‘He’s been in a couple of times for lunch.’ The handsome Irish actor had been one of the top names in Hollywood for a decade and was making headlines by daring to tread the boards in an edgy West End version of Hamlet.
‘Perhaps we can host a party here for the cast and crew?’ said Chrissy.
Miles shook his head. ‘One night’s hardly going to kick-start a revival of our fortunes.’
‘Well, we have to start somewhere,’ she said, waving the waitress over and ordering two large glasses of wine. ‘What do we know about him?’
Miles sighed. ‘He married that girl from that sitcom, what’s it called?’
‘After You.’
‘That’s the one – Jeanie Peters, standard blue-eyed blonde bimbo.’
‘Yeah, but I read in the Enquirer he was screwing loads of dark-haired, dark-skinned cocktail waitresses until Jeanie threatened him with divorce.’
Miles looked at her. ‘But how does that help us?’
‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking,’ she said as she clinked her glass against his.
In the corner of the bar, Euan O’Neil sipped his fourth Jack Daniel’s and Coke and wondered if he should call his wife. He glanced at his watch. It was gone midnight London time, which made it – what? – mid-afternoon in LA. She’d be on Rodeo Drive or getting a colonic or some shit, but he still better call. America might see Jeanie Peters as their favourite girl next door, but America had never been on the receiving end of one of her screaming tantrums. She hadn’t been happy about Euan coming to London in the first place – with good reason, he guessed – so he knew he ought to try and keep her sweet. Goddamn bitch had him by the balls. He pulled out his cell phone and dialled the number, but when it went straight to the answering machine he sighed with relief.
Euan had known eighteen months earlier that their marriage was over, but the truth was that he and Jeanie both realised that they were a more valuable Hollywood commodity together than apart. For now, anyway. That, in fact, was the main reason Euan had decided to take the risk of coming here to do the play. At thirty-seven years old he was still a big Hollywood star. But when his last two films turned out to be turkeys, he had decided it was time to regroup and refocus. He’d fired his agent and manager and agreed to a serious theatre role – six weeks in London, then a two-month run on Broadway. People thought he was insane, but it had been a savvy move: it was the biggest event in theatreland for decades, and if the press buzz was anything to go by, his acting credentials had been firmly re-established. Now he’d be offered Oscar-worthy roles, he’d be offered more money, and more importantly, thought Euan, as he let the amber liquid slip down his throat, he might finally be able to get rid of Jeanie.
He went out on to the roof terrace for a quick cigarette in the cold night air; the booze was making him sluggish. It’s a pretty cool place, he thought looking back into the club. Quiet. Discreet. He was glad to get a gold Globe Club member’s card delivered to him by courier this afternoon, especially as all the barmaids were so hot.
‘Could I have a light?’
He turned to face a stunningly beautiful woman with long raven hair and a black dress so tight it was like shrink-wrap around her body. He felt his cock stir. He hadn’t had sex in a month and it was getting to him – his wife might be a regular on People magazine’s ‘Most Beautiful’ list, but Halley’s Comet came around more often than she put out.
He held the flame of his Dunhill lighter up to the cigarette dangling from her glossy red lips.
‘You know, if I was auditioning for a film noir femme fatale, I’d cast you in a minute.’
She smiled. ‘Good job I’m not an actress then,’ she replied.
‘So what do you do?’
‘Spend my husband’s money,’ she laughed, blowing a smoke ring.
‘At least you’re honest.’
‘Oh, it’s not as if I don’t deserve it,’ she said, narrowing her chocolate eyes. ‘I go to parties, talk to people; I’m his eyes and ears around London. Last year I identified five investment opportunities for his company that have already doubled in profit. I’m recommending he looks into investing in this place, actually.’
‘I was just thinking LA could do with somewhere like this.’
‘
Oh really?’ said the woman. ‘Do you live out there?’
He nodded.
‘What do you do there?’
He smirked. It was actually rather refreshing; it had been years since he’d spoken to anyone who didn’t know who he was.
‘I work in the movies,’ he said modestly.
She looked at him more closely. ‘Have you seen the screening room?’
He shook his head.
‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ she said, taking his arm.
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