Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  He tossed the file on to the desk and walked towards the marble staircase. He and Chrissy had moved into the five-storey white stucco townhouse just off Portobello Road in May. It had an outside hot tub, basement gym and six bedrooms; to be honest, it felt too large for them except when they entertained. He climbed up to the master bedroom on the third floor, looking at his watch. He and Chrissy were due to catch the Eurostar to Paris that night for a meeting with a hotelier interested in running the Globe concierge service as a franchise.

  ‘Chris?’ he called. ‘You up here?’

  The bedroom had deep cream carpets and a huge oval bed covered in olive-green silk, but the room was dominated by a Marlene Dumas painting of a naked woman on all fours. He walked past it and through to the en suite bathroom, a white-tiled wet room with twin showers and a huge white marble bath. Chrissy was lying in it, swathed in bubbles, her face almost obscured by the rising steam.

  ‘Hi, lover,’ she smiled, lifting a hand and blowing a cloud of froth towards Miles.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bath and trailing a hand in the water.

  ‘Too right we do,’ said Chrissy. ‘We have a problem with Martin.’

  Miles smiled to himself. While he got to grips with the spidery Ash Corp. structure, he had handed the running of the Globe business over to Chrissy and she was ruthlessly pruning the dead wood from the London club.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘It’s what he’s not done,’ said Chrissy before rattling off a long list of complaints.

  ‘So fire him.’

  ‘I already did. I poached the deputy manager from the Lanesborough – young, ambitious, efficient, plus he’s taking a pay cut to come across to the Globe. It’s a win-win.’

  Miles nodded grudgingly. Lately his relationship with Chrissy had been going downhill fast. Everything she did seemed to annoy him – the way she said ‘sat’ instead of ‘sitting’, her fixation with soap operas – in fact, some days he could barely stand to be in the same room as her. But when it came to the business, she was indispensable. She was tough, clever and one of the few people Miles could trust to give it to him straight.

  ‘I’ve been going through the Ash Corp. structure,’ said Miles.‘Can you believe my dad bought a dry-cleaning chain?’

  ‘Well, I do need someone to do my cashmere,’ she smiled.

  Chrissy had come a long way since her skin-tight minidresses and stilettos when they were first married. She now had accounts at most of the shops between Sloane Square and Knightsbridge and an entire bedroom off the main suite as a giant walk-in wardrobe.

  ‘The whole thing needs slashing back,’ said Miles. ‘It’s like the old man wasn’t living in the modern world.’

  ‘Well let’s start with what you can fix: off-load the best stuff, shut down the rest. Then you need to look at the worst areas and fire everyone not pulling their weight.’

  ‘You can’t fire everyone,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Well where are the weak spots?’ asked Chrissy, reaching out a suds-covered arm for a sponge.

  ‘The hotels division is a mess.’ Miles sighed.

  Chrissy snorted. ‘The problem is no one wants to go there,’ she said. ‘Remember Cannon Bay?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  Cannon Bay was a five-star hotel resort on the French side of St Martin in the Caribbean. They had gone to St Martin to inspect a golf course complex when they were planning to extend the Globe Country Club franchise earlier that year. As Cannon Bay was the most exclusive resort on the island and an Ash Corp. hotel, they had booked a suite from curiosity. It had been awful. The staff were unfriendly, the food was bland and the paint was peeling. When Chrissy politely complained to the manager, he told her she was ‘lucky to stay here’. Chrissy had replied, in her sweetest, poshest voice, that he was lucky to keep his teeth. He was the first Ash Corp. employee they had fired.

  ‘Our spies are telling us that it’s the same in all the hotels. Old-fashioned, stuck-up and wasteful.’

  ‘Made in the image of their owner, darling,’ said Chrissy.

  He frowned. Chrissy had good reason to hate his father, that was true, but he felt uncomfortable when she criticised Robert.

  ‘The good thing is that the hotels are all in great locations,’ said Chrissy, oblivious to Miles’ annoyance. ‘It’s much easier to revamp an interior than to build from scratch.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ said Miles. ‘But how to revamp them? We don’t want to lose the old clientele.’

  ‘Bollocks to the old clientele,’ snapped Chrissy. ‘What have you always told me? You have to be bold. We should be offering luxury right across the whole division for every different taste.’

  She was exactly right, of course. There was no reason why they couldn’t vary what was offered: some small and exclusive, some catering for the business travel and conference market, but all adhering to one trusted brand manifesto: ‘spend your money here and you’ll get the very best’.

  Chrissy pulled the plug with her toes and stood up, pulling a towel from a heated rail behind her. Miles felt his heart give a little thump as he watched her dry herself. She still had the power to arouse him, not that he had acted upon it for a long time. Too much energy required elsewhere.

  ‘I’ve actually been thinking about this,’ said Chrissy, wrapping herself in a robe. ‘Ashford Hotels needs a flagship, the one place that embodies everything we stand for – unattainable luxury you can attain.’

  Miles chuckled. ‘Snappy tag-line. Do you mean like a super-hotel? ’

  ‘Not a hotel, a resort,’ she said, her excitement visible on her face. ‘What says total luxury better than your own private island, like Branson does with Necker or David Copperfield has with Musha. White sands, palm trees, blissful isolation.’

  The smile on Miles’ face faded. He knew her well enough to realise where she was going with this.

  ‘Angel Cay still belongs to my mother, Chris.’

  ‘But can’t we buy it from her? We could create the world’s most luxurious island resort.’

  ‘Let’s just leave Angel Cay out of this, shall we?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Miles?’ she said, allowing her irritation to show. ‘Why do you hate talking about the island? Why do you change the subject whenever I mention we go?’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘Because I don’t want to go and waste two weeks on a bloody desert island. That’s not how empires are built, Chrissy, and you know it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I think we need to go, Miles.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because all we seem to do these days is row. I for one wouldn’t mind two weeks on a desert island. Just me and you. It could be our second honeymoon.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a conference call in ten minutes. Sorry, Chrissy. We’ll take this up another time.’

  Miles stared out of the taxi window as the cab drove through the Paris streets towards the Seine. It was almost 6 p.m., but he and Chrissy had only just left their lunch meeting at Chez le Anges. It had gone well; François Bernard, the French billionaire who owned some of the finest hotels in Europe and spoke his own version of Franglais, had loudly proclaimed Miles a ‘fuck genius’, causing every head to turn their way. In fact, the Globe pitch had been Chrissy’s idea, not that he was going to tell François that. She had suggested that the Globe concierge service could be used as a sort of super-butler for François’ high-rolling clients, being put at their disposal before and after their visit to arrange transport, prepare the room, ensure the best seats at the opera and the best tables in restaurants, then make sure their onward journey went just as smoothly, checking that their luggage, shopping and business documents were waiting for them when they arrived at their next destination. It would be like having your own Jeeves-style manservant – albeit for a limited period. It was exactly the sort of thing they planned for the Ashford hotels, only this deal was infinitely more profit
able, as Miles had negotiated that François would sub-contract the service, allowing them to take a percentage of every outlandish request, plus he would pay a licensing fee to use the Globe name, giving the brand increased visibility and cachet.

  Miles looked across at his wife, looking chic and relaxed in Chanel. He had been nervous about handing the Globe over to her, but he had to admit he had underestimated her once again. Not even Miles could run both Ash Corp. and Globe simultaneously, so it made sense to delegate the smaller operation, but he had an emotional attachment to his ‘baby’. Even babies have to go out into the world sometime, he thought.

  ‘Are you pleased with me?’ Chrissy asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m pleased with you,’ he said, kissing her.

  ‘Good, because you’re going to love how I plan to celebrate.’

  ‘Where are you taking me, exactly?’ he asked, peering out of the window as they passed Le Garnier Opera.

  Chrissy smiled and tapped the side of her nose. ‘You’ll see. And stop looking at your watch. We need a night off, Miles; since you took over Ash Corp., you’ve been working practically non-stop.’

  ‘I said I’d call Bill Loxley,’ said Miles impatiently, name checking the general manager of the London Globe. ‘And we need to discuss your plans for expanding the clubs into Europe.’

  ‘See?’ said Chrissy. ‘You can’t stop for a minute, can you? And I’m sure Bill would rather go home and watch Eldorado than speak to you.’

  Finally the taxi stopped outside a hotel in the Fifth. Miles peered out of the window, frowning. It was a pretty but slightly run-down area with narrow streets and old-fashioned streetlamps. There were a few bars and brasseries with awnings and neon signs which reflected down into the streets, shiny and treacle black from the earlier rain.

  ‘What is this?’ said Miles, looking up at the hotel dubiously. It was shabby chic personified; a crumbling beau monde frontage with double-glass doors. ‘Are you proposing to buy this too?’

  ‘No, silly,’ smiled Chrissy, hooking her arm though his and leading him inside. ‘This is the surprise.’

  Miles watched his wife speak to the manager in fluent French and the old man handed her a key.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ he hissed as they stepped inside the old-fashioned wrought-iron cage of the lift. ‘Give me thirty seconds and I can call the Crillon and see if the penthouse is available.’

  ‘It’s not a joke,’ said Chrissy, pulling open the concertina lift gate and leading him towards a pair of dark wood doors. Inside, it was like a miniature version of the king’s chamber at Versailles. A huge four-poster bed with turned gold-leaf uprights and red, dusty velvet drapes. Gold plaster cherubs surrounding a large oval mirror and a cracked crystal chandelier. Chrissy stripped off her coat and dropped it on a chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Miles.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said, a sexy smile on her face. ‘We have dinner booked at a little brasserie just around the corner at eight. But first . . .’ She slid her hand inside his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt, planting a kiss on his neck.

  ‘In this shit-hole?’

  She moved behind him and slid off his cashmere overcoat. ‘It’s romantic,’ she whispered into his neck.

  ‘It’s revolting,’ said Miles, looking at the bed and feeling his skin begin to itch. She pulled down the shoulders of her dress and let it slide down her lithe body. Underneath she was wearing a black push-up bra and stockings and suspenders – no panties. She was slim, boyish, with breasts he could cover with the palm of his hand. Holding his gaze as she moved, she slid down his body and unbuckled his trousers, reaching inside for his cock.

  ‘We are a team, honey,’ she whispered. ‘In life, in business, in bed.’

  She took him into her mouth and he gasped. It had been so long since they had done anything sexual, but then it had been so long since he had felt a hint of the sexual chemistry he remembered from those heady days in Thailand.

  She gently pushed him towards the bed and straddled him, pushing herself down on him, hot and wet.

  ‘Oh God,’ he moaned, falling back on to the bedcover.

  ‘Relax, honey, just relax,’ she whispered, undoing her bra and letting her hard nipples skate over his chest. ‘Imagine we’re back in Patong,’ she breathed into his ear. ‘We’re in my little flat. We didn’t get out of bed for days. We fucked and fucked.’

  Miles tried to remember; he tried to send himself back to that hot, cramped apartment, to that time when they had been so happy, so together. She was grinding herself down on him now.

  ‘Come on,’ she gasped. ‘Fuck me.’

  But he couldn’t. Suddenly he knew it was all wrong, and his erection ebbed away and slipped out of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chris,’ he said, pushing her off and quickly pulling his trousers back up. ‘I’m tired, tense. There’s too much stress at the moment.’

  He looked back at her, sprawled on the bed, hugging her arms around herself protectively, her eyes hurt and pleading. It was the first time he could remember seeing her look vulnerable.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Fine,’ she snapped, putting her clothes back on.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Chris. I just need some space.’

  He got dressed and went out on to the street, where a taxi took him into the Marais. He was angry, frustrated and couldn’t even put his finger on why. Wandering the back streets, he found himself at a club which, from the clientele hanging around outside, he guessed would suit his needs. He turned and stepped inside, looking forward to an anonymous Frenchman finishing off the job that Chrissy had started in bed thirty minutes earlier.

  48

  September 2003

  ‘Do you think this is too daggy for school?’ asked Oliva, looking at herself in the mirror. She was wearing tight jeans, a candy-striped T-shirt and hot-pink baseball boots.

  ‘I know you don’t have to wear uniform, Liv,’ said Grace, ‘but it’s still school, not a fashion show.’

  ‘I’ve got to look good on my first day, haven’t I?’ said her daughter. ‘I bet you were the same.’

  Grace frowned; now she thought about it, she couldn’t actually remember. She had blocked out so much of her early years; some parts had been completely erased from her memory. Maybe it was just the strain of the day, she thought as she looked at her watch for the third time in as many minutes.

  Where is Julian? she thought, walking to the window. Calm down, Grace, she told herself. It’s not the end of the world. But it felt like it. Ever since she had left Parador, Liv and Joe had been her world, the reason she got up every morning. And now they were leaving for Danehurst, she felt as if she was waiting for a hospital operation. She’d have much preferred them to go to a local day school near their new home, a farmhouse on her mother’s Oxfordshire estate. But the twins had been adamant that they wanted to go to Danehurst.

  ‘It looks amazing, Mum!’ Olivia had said when they had got the school prospectus. ‘I can’t believe you and Uncle Miles both went there.’ Grace suspected her daughter was secretly rather more impressed that Sasha Sinclair had gone to Danehurst. Since their meeting at Freya’s wedding, Olivia had taken out a subscription to Vogue and had declared her intention of becoming an ‘international brand’ like Sasha. Of course the children had not been told of Sasha’s involvement in their grandfather’s death, but Grace still found it galling that Olivia should regard her as such a role model.

  She looked over at Joseph, dark-eyed and moody, the perfect image of his father. He was leaning over his trunk – the same one Miles had taken to Eton almost twenty years ago – rummaging inside with one hand while holding his neatly written checklist in the other. Joe was the one she worried about. He was much quieter than Liv, more serious and deep, but with a dry sense of humour. Olivia on the other hand, currently letting Connie take her bags to the car while she read a magazine, was very much her father’s daughter. Beautiful, charming, flamboyant, a littl
e egocentric. She would do fine.

  Outside the farmhouse a horn pipped.

  ‘That must be Julian,’ Grace said, jumping up. ‘Now are you sure you don’t mind if he takes us all to the school?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ said Olivia, still flicking through her magazine. ‘We like Julian and we’re glad you’ve finally found someone who can put up with you.’

  ‘I know, darling,’ said Grace, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘But it’s your first day at school and it should be your dad taking you . . .’