Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  Hazy morning light was pouring through the windows. Six months in the flat and they had never got round to putting curtains up; they hadn’t been there enough for it to matter. Sunlight sparkled off her deep red hair and he could see her eyes were glistening. In a strange way she had never looked more beautiful.

  ‘Emma, please, I know this isn’t what you want.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It isn’t what I want. But it’s what I need.’

  ‘Marry me,’ he said, sinking to his knees and grabbing her hands.

  She pulled away from him. ‘Ah, the big romantic gesture that makes it all go away.’ She laughed sarcastically. ‘It’s too late, Alex, much too late.’

  ‘It’s not just a gesture!’ cried Alex. ‘I’m asking you to be my wife! Please, all I want is to be with you. Just tell me what’s wrong, and I can change.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re not going to change, Alex,’ she said regretfully. ‘Not until you work out what’s wrong.’

  He looked at her sadly, wishing he could talk to her about the one thing in his life that was screwing him up. He had never told her about the island. He had wondered many times if it was why it sometimes felt lonely in the relationship. Secrets isolated people. Secrets made you dishonest. And how good could a relationship be if it was dishonest?

  He clenched his fists together, dismissing the thought. This relationship was a good one. Emma was a good one.

  She stood up and picked up her denim jacket and her handbag. ‘I’ll get someone to pick the boxes up later in the week.’

  He felt in free-fall. ‘Emma, please! You can’t go!’ he shouted, his voice choking.

  But she was already at the front door. And then she was gone.

  36

  May 1995

  Sasha was broke. So broke, in fact, she wasn’t sure she could afford the taxi fare. She looked out of the window as London slipped by and wondered how she had managed to spend three quarters of a million pounds so quickly. First of all, buying a majority stake from Ben had cost her more than she’d thought once he’d got a lawyer involved, then there was the scandalous cost of a leasehold on a small retail premises on Belgravia’s Ebury Street, not to mention the crippling costs of turning the bespoke operation into a ready-to-wear label: fabric, pattern cutters, shop staff, plus regular visits to the Milanese factory manufacturing the designs. Some days it just felt like they were shovelling cash into a big furnace and watching it burn.

  And now she was the boss, Sasha had to deal with everything from electricity bills to managing Ben’s ego. It had taken every ounce of her charm and patience to persuade Ben that while his gowns were the last word in luxury, they were not going to build a fashion empire with red-carpet dresses – they needed clothes women could wear every day. So, after weeks of cajoling, he had finally agreed to expand his designs from eveningwear into daywear – and what designs they were. Cashmere sweaters beaded with seed pearls, light wool pencil skirts, jackets with nipped-in waists and crystal buttons, shirts with tulle appliqué detail. It was a confection of timeless, low-key luxury; it was perfect.

  But the clothes, of course, were only the beginning. Next they had to persuade the fashion press that Rivera – Sasha had insisted the ‘Ben’ be removed to avoid it being too aligned to its founder – was a label worth talking about. Which was exactly why Sasha and Philip were in a taxi pulling up in front of BAFTA’s headquarters on Piccadilly.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Philip, as he saw the party decorations. ‘I thought we were here to see a film?’

  ‘No, this is work,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s always work, remember?’

  Philip rolled his eyes. It was a standing joke between the two of them that Sasha had become a serious workaholic. She was working fifteen hours a day shuttling between the studio, the shop and after-hours parties to network and spread the word. She was CEO, creative director and head of public relations all in one.

  ‘This is a cast and crew preview for By Midnight,’ she explained, linking her arm through his. ‘The premiere is in two weeks and the word is it’s going to be the biggest British movie of the year. I’ve had to pull every string just to get us in here.’

  ‘But what’s this got to do with the label?’ he frowned.

  ‘Kate Williams is the star of the movie and I want her in a Rivera dress for the premiere.’

  Philip gave her a cynical look. Even he knew it was a long shot, but long shots were all they had left. They had spent the last month brainstorming marketing plans, but everything they came up with, even the wildest ideas, cost money. Philip had been pushing to run a print campaign for the Autumn/Winter collection in Vogue but Sasha knew it was hopeless. Financially, magazine advertising was way out of their reach: a photographer to shoot the thing, models, locations, film, processing, on top of the cost of actually placing the ad. They were talking a hundred grand before they even blinked.

  ‘Come on, we can do this,’ said Sasha, smiling up at him as they entered the BAFTA offices. She certainly looked the part of ass-kicking fashionista: in skin-tight black cigarette pants with a cashmere Rivera twinset, she looked like a sexy cross between a Mitford sister and Marianne Faithfull.

  Philip reached over and squeezed her hand, but she let go of it immediately. ‘Business, remember,’ she said and walked inside.

  Shit, Kate Williams isn’t here, she thought with sinking disappointment as she scanned the bar area.

  Lately she couldn’t help but think she was swimming against the tide. The company needed a break and they needed it quickly. Without a much higher profile, Rivera was doomed. She looked around the crowd, hoping for the late arrival of the leading lady. As she did so, Jason Abbot, one of the supporting actors in the movie, gave her a lazy, mischievous smile. It was a look Sasha was used to: interest, desire. She smiled back and wondered if she should cross the room and follow it up. A famous boyfriend would certainly be beneficial when it came to the business. But then she glanced over at Philip laughing with the film’s director and she felt a flush of guilt. She wasn’t in love with Phil Bettany – she had no time for any such complications – but she was certainly fond of him. More importantly, she needed him. Not only did he have a six per cent shareholding – a condition Miles had stipulated for his investment – he had also given up his job at Schroder’s to become Rivera’s chief operating officer and was proving invaluable on the commercial side of the business, negotiating with the factories, structuring credit facilities with the fabric suppliers: keeping the ship steady. She glanced at the actor again: he was still looking. No, she thought firmly, I mustn’t. I really mustn’t.

  ‘Hey, great sweater.’

  A blonde woman with feline eyes stepped over to Sasha and touched the beading on her top.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s my own label, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the blonde appreciatively. ‘Where do you stock?’

  ‘Rivera, the store is in Ebury Street,’ said Sasha, handing her a business card.

  ‘Well I’ll definitely pop by,’ said the blonde, passing Sasha her own card. Lucinda Clarke. Director Image PR, it read.

  ‘You do publicity?’ said Sasha.

  ‘Talent publicity, yes.’

  ‘Who’s your client tonight?’

  Lucinda smiled. ‘Kate, although she’s not here of course; she’s filming in Croatia of all places.’

  Sasha immediately saw an opening. ‘I’m actually looking for a publicist for Rivera,’ she said as casually as she could, ‘although I don’t suppose you do corporate work?’

  ‘Honey, it’s my company.’ Lucinda laughed, touching Sasha’s arm. ‘We’ll take the work I say we take.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Sasha, leading the woman towards the screening room. ‘In which case, I have a proposal for you.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve taken on another publicist,’ said Philip, storming his way into the small office above the Ebury Street store. Two weeks on from the By Midnight preview, the company’s fina
ncial woes had not improved. ‘Do I need to remind you we’re already paying for a very expensive publicist and that we have six months of their contract to run?’

  ‘Different sort of publicist,’ said Sasha, sitting down at her desk and spinning her Rolodex. ‘Not only is Lucinda going to get her clients into our clothes, she’s going to represent me.’

  ‘What on earth do you need a publicist for?’

  Sasha just smiled inscrutably. She actually couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. While having every star in Hollywood wearing Rivera creations would be invaluable publicity, no one was a better ambassador for the brand than Sasha Sinclair herself.

  ‘You’re sure this PR bird can get Kate into the dress for tomorrow’s premiere?’ said Philip sceptically.

  Sasha unzipped the clothes bag hanging on a rail and pulled out the dress Ben had created specifically for the star. It was a beautiful red silk sheath that wrinkled and shone in the light.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘It was one of the conditions of Image PR getting our business, so stop worrying.’ She blew him a kiss, then picked up the phone and dialled Lucinda Clarke.

  ‘Darling, it’s Sasha at Rivera,’ she said briskly. ‘I was just wondering whether to bike Kate’s dress over to your office or to her hotel?’

  There was a long, ominous pause down the receiver.

  ‘About that . . .’ said Lucinda slowly. ‘Kate’s LA manager wanted to know who the designer of her premiere dress was going to be. When I said Rivera, he had a typical LA hissy fit.’

  Sasha felt her pulse quicken.‘I don’t understand what the problem is,’ she said.

  ‘This is LA, Sasha. He wants his client in a named designer. Armani or Gaultier, something like that. Yes, I know it’s narrow-minded and snobbish, but in Hollywood, management calls the shots.’

  You double-crossing bitch, thought Sasha, but this was no time to let emotion get in the way.

  ‘Lucinda,’ she said coolly, ‘I thought we had an agreement.’

  ‘Darling, I’ve tried,’ protested the publicist.

  Sasha took a tiny sip of her iced water. She was livid, but she knew she had to tread carefully. This was still her best chance of saving the label and Lucinda was one enemy she could not afford to make – even if she had just stitched her up.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it? We have’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘approximately twenty-two hours to salvage something from this.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Lucinda. ‘Maybe I could get Greg Nicholls’ girlfriend to wear one of your dresses?’

  Sasha put a hand over her eyes. A girlfriend?

  ‘Who is this girlfriend?’ she sighed.

  ‘Giselle Makin.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She’s an actress and model, absolutely beautiful. And Greg is the movie’s leading man. She’ll be very visible on the red carpet.’

  As if the tabloids would be interested in a nobody like her, thought Sasha. She looked across at Philip who was desperately making ‘What the hell’s up?’ gestures. But then she noticed something behind Phil. Propped up in the corner of the office was a roll of blush-pink silk georgette. And Sasha had a sudden flash of inspiration.

  ‘Visible on the red carpet, you say?’ she said, smiling.

  Sasha and Ben worked around the clock. At 3 a.m., when Ben started making irritable noises about needing to leave, Sasha took the only key they had to the studio door and flushed it down the toilet.

  ‘We’re not getting out of here until Philip lets us out at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she told him sternly. Sasha could sympathise, of course. It was impossible to make a bespoke dress to Ben’s exacting standards in eighteen hours – usually it took weeks – so they were adapting an existing sample instead. Carefully Sasha unpicked a long satin-faced organza skirt from the old dress while Ben got to work constructing the bodice. It was Ben’s design but Sasha’s vision; she knew exactly what she wanted the dress to achieve.

  By the time the birds starting singing in the street outside, the gown was taking shape, and at nine thirty, black rings under her eyes, Sasha took the dress directly to Giselle Makin’s Notting Hill apartment where she met Lucinda. Sasha wasn’t entirely surprised by Giselle’s reaction the first time she tried the dress on; clinging to every generous curve of the actress’ body, it left very little to the imagination.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said as she looked in the mirror, her eyes wide. ‘Greg is going to kill me.’

  ‘Greg won’t be able to keep his eyes off you,’ said Lucinda reassuringly as Sasha made some adjustments with her stylist’s pin box and sewing kit. Giselle did indeed look sensational. Her deep strawberry-blond hair looked like the most precious amber against the natural pink blush of the gown. Sasha just knew the media were going to go mad for her – hell, she was even going to have Hollywood knocking on her door after this red-carpet appearance. Lucinda was obviously thinking the same thing.

  ‘She looks incredible,’ she gushed. ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘You can start by sorting out a couple of VIP tickets for the premiere,’ she said. ‘I need them biking around to Holland Park immediately.’

  Lucinda looked puzzled. ‘You and Phil have tickets, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not for us.’ Sasha smiled. ‘They’re for another very important guest.’ The second stage of her plan was about to begin.

  The two most sensational women on the red carpet at the By Midnight premiere were wearing Rivera. One of them was the fashion company’s CEO. Striding out confidently in her silver minidress, Sasha bathed in the blinding light of the paparazzi’s flashbulbs, knowing this was the start of the media’s serious interest in her. But it was Giselle who made the press erupt into a feeding frenzy. As she followed Greg out of their limousine, she kept a respectful two paces behind him, but not for long. The silk georgette corset of her dress, which in the car had looked merely a soft pink, appeared to turn completely transparent in the glare of the flashbulbs. The roar of the crowd in Leicester Square was deafening.‘Giselle! Giselle! Over here!’ they yelled, ignoring all the other stars walking up to the theatre. She played her part brilliantly, a half-smile on her face as she moved slowly along the red carpet, the wide graceful skirt of the dress billowing like a cloud of apple blossom, her semi-translucent corset revealing her dark brown nipples. It was an incredibly flattering dress, one that made Giselle look part saint, part sinner, a beautiful fallen angel caught between heaven and hell.

  ‘I think we can call that a job well done,’ whispered Philip, planting a warm kiss on the back of Sasha’s neck.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ said Sasha, looking back down the carpet, her eyes searching for new arrivals. Then finally she spotted them: Robert and Connie Ashford hurrying past the photographers.

  ‘What have you got up your pretty little sleeve this time, Sinclair?’ Philip chuckled as he watched a satisfied smile spread across Sasha’s face.

  ‘We’re going to expand into America,’ she said simply, ignoring his confused expression.

  ‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘We have meetings with Neiman Marcus and Saks in a week’s time.’

  ‘No, I mean really take America. I want our own Rivera store on Fifth Avenue, Phil,’ she said, turning into the cinema.

  ‘But we can’t afford—’

  She cut him off. ‘And I want it by this time next year.’

  The next morning, Giselle Makin was on the front of every major publication, although her erect nipples had been discreetly airbrushed into respectability. And from the Sun’s women’s pages to the Telegraph’s fashion column, they were all asking if the designer of Giselle’s dress, Rivera, was the New Dior. Not since Gianni Versace had sent the four supermodels down his 1990 Autumn/Winter runway had a designer made such a splash. It was better than Sasha had dared hope. Lucinda Clarke was calling her every five minutes with another request for an interview or a quote from the new fashion sensati
on, but Sasha had something else to do first. For a moment she let her hand rest on top of her battered old 1990 Filofax. Miles had given her Robert Ashford’s direct line just before their holiday to Angel Cay that summer. It’s strictly for emergencies, Sash. Well, five years later, Sasha felt it was time to make the call. Not an emegency per se, but important enough.

  ‘Robert. It’s Sasha Sinclair.’

  ‘Sasha, what a surprise,’ he said, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from her. ‘I believe we have you to thank for yesterday’s impromptu night out.’