Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Mum, we’re eleven!’ said Olivia. ‘We understand what’s happened. Loads of parents get divorced, it’s no big deal.’ She got up and hugged Grace. ‘Julian’s nice and Dad lives on the other side of the world. What more do you need?’

  Grace laughed. Getting relationship advice from her eleven-year-old daughter now!

  ‘Anyone want to go to school?’ shouted Julian from downstairs.

  Grace and the children came downstairs into the farmhouse’s chalky pink living room.

  ‘I found a load of boxes outside, so I put them into the car,’ smiled Julian, ruffling Joe’s hair affectionately. ‘I hope they’re yours?’

  ‘Hey, not the hair!’ said Joe, dodging him and sloping outside.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. You need to look gorgeous for all the girls. Talking of which . . .’ He grabbed Grace and drew her close, kissing her on the lips.

  ‘Eww,’ said Olivia, pushing past. ‘Get a room!’

  Grace’s relationship with Julian Adler had started slowly in the weeks after Robert’s death. He had sent her a large bouquet of lilies with his condolences and a note reading: ‘The one time people leave you completely alone is when you’re standing in front of paintings. If you ever need peace and quiet, just call.’

  The first time she called, he had given her a very personal tour of his exhibition. He had been funny and engaging, but he had also given her space. So she had called again, just for a coffee, which had led to dinner, which had led to . . . Well, eighteen months later, she found she couldn’t imagine a time when he hadn’t been there. He was part of her motivation for moving back to England full-time and his energy and joie de vivre were exactly what she needed to pull her out of her grief. She had lived with a creative man before, of course, but life with Julian was the direct opposite to the cloying, monitored, cosseted existence of Parador. Together they travelled to New York, Rome, Moscow, even the northern reaches of Finland, where they had swum in lakes under the midnight sun and camped in a teepee made of reindeer skin. He was a media darling – invited to everything – and he took her to showbiz parties: premieres, gallery openings and wild soirées in boho lofts belonging to artists. Having lived a very gentle existence in Ibiza for eight years, he made her feel bolder, stronger, which was precisely why she needed him at her side today.

  They squeezed everything into Julian’s Jeep and Connie came to wave them off. Looking out of the back window, Joe nudged Grace.

  ‘I guess this is it, huh, Mum?’ He smiled.

  ‘I guess this is it,’ said Grace. It was time to go back to her past.

  The drive from Oxfordshire to West Sussex took less than two hours. As their car pulled through Danehurst’s stone gates, two decades seemed to melt away. In many ways the pupils and parents gathered around the front doors counting suitcases and kissing goodbye didn’t look that much different from when she had first started at the school back in 1980. The clothes were a little different, but there was the same polish and confidence in both generations, although there were more obvious signs of money now: the black helicopter by the tennis courts and the stacks of matching Louis Vuitton luggage. There was even a gold Hummer belonging to an LA rapper who was sending his son for an English education. It had always been a creative, media school, smiled Grace, watching Joe’s awed expression as he saw the car.

  Grace crunched across the gravel drive to embrace an old woman wearing a stiff tweed suit.‘Still here, I see, Miss Lemmon.’ She smiled.

  ‘Just about,’ said the head teacher. ‘I’m finally retiring next year.’

  The formidable Miss Lemmon had been a source of considerable fear for the pupils of Danehurst, but holding her shoulders now, Grace couldn’t believe how small and fragile she was.

  ‘Is that Julian Adler?’ she whispered, looking behind Grace.

  ‘My boyfriend, I’m afraid,’ said Grace, a little embarrassed.

  ‘How exciting! Get him to doodle on a school programme before he leaves. We’ve got a charity auction coming up in a few weeks’ time; might raise enough for a new roof for the library.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can do better than a few doodles,’ said Grace, suddenly remembering the hours she had spent in that self-same library looking at books on Greek sculpture and laughing at the willies.

  ‘You’re in the creative arts yourself, I believe?’ said Miss Lemmon. ‘I always thought you’d become a writer, but I saw your portraits of that Peruvian tribe in the Sunday Times the other week and thought they were quite wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all starting to work out,’ Grace replied modestly.

  ‘You’re a photographer with two wonderful children, turning up with one of the world’s greatest living artists. I’d say that was a little better than working out, Grace Ashford. And how’s your brother these days? He seems to be doing well if the papers are anything to go by. I believe you also knew Alex Doyle and Sasha Sinclair? The pupils get very excited when they hear those two are ex-Danehurst.’

  Grace gave a thin smile. ‘Well, I think I’d better sneak off while the twins aren’t looking,’ she said. Across the driveway, they were both talking excitedly with other children. ‘But do keep a watchful eye on Olivia. She can be a handful.’

  ‘They always are, Grace.’ The headmistress smiled. ‘Give me the girl of eleven and I’ll give you the woman.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Grace.

  Julian drove back, sitting in silence as Grace wept, waiting for the storm to pass.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ said Grace finally as she wiped her face and blew her nose. ‘It’s been quite a day all in all.’

  He squeezed her knee. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got something to take your mind off it.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Grace.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He took a detour around some smaller B roads, cutting across country back towards Oxford, driving through pretty chocolate-box villages and leafy glades. They pulled off the road and proceeded down a long winding drive, flanked with lime trees, which seemed to go on for ever. Grace could see no clues as to what this place might be. Not a farm – too well kept; not a big hotel – no golf buggies or helpful signs ‘to the Spa’.

  ‘It’s massive,’ she said when she finally saw the stately home in front of her. A huge high-gothic mansion complete with castellations and stained-glass windows.‘Very Brideshead,’ she added appreciatively.

  ‘At the risk of sounding like a geek, Brideshead was actually filmed at Castle Howard in Yorkshire,’ said Julian, pulling up a little way from the front. ‘But Toddington Hall was designed by the same architect. It’s Grade I listed, naturally. Thirty-five thousand square feet of space.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a work of art.’

  Julian grinned. ‘I’m glad you said that,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve bought it.’

  She laughed with surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said, shrugging.

  ‘Well for one thing, look at it.’ She giggled.‘It’s like the Taj Mahal. It isn’t just a house, it’s a national monument. It’s not the sort of thing you buy on impulse, like a pair of shoes.’

  ‘I did give it some thought,’ he said, reaching into the glove compartment for some papers.

  ‘I can see you’ve got a plan.’ She laughed.

  They got out of the car and took in the lazy September sun spilling across the honey-stone façade.

  ‘I thought this could be a project. Our project,’ he said putting his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Our project?’ she said.

  ‘We should renovate it together,’ he said, unfolding the paper he was carrying and spreading it over the Jeep’s bonnet. It was a set of blueprints for the revamp. ‘I thought that whole east wing would be perfect as a gallery for my work and for other artists,’ he said, pointing to the plans. ‘We could make it as important as Tate Modern. I thought you could look after the living quarters. Add those girlie little t
ouches you’re so good at.’

  ‘Hey!’ she said, punching him on the arm.‘But this will take years, won’t it?’

  ‘Not that long. Besides, as it’s closer to the kids’ school, you could see them at weekends.’

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  He lifted her up on to the bonnet of the car, standing between her legs.

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ she asked playfully.

  ‘That we move in here together when it’s completed. What do you say?’

  He slid his hand up the back of her T-shirt and pulled her closer, rubbing his crotch against hers.

  ‘Not here, Julian,’ she whispered, glancing around.

  ‘Why not here?’ He smiled, now pushing his hand up her skirt. ‘No one’s looking. Listen – silence.’

  He was right. No sight of anyone, anything around them, except the looming shape of the house. And no sound, particularly no lively children’s chatter from the back seat. It was strange, but at the same time oddly liberating.

  ‘Grace, relax,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Remember you’re not just a mother. You’re a woman too.’

  And as he slipped his fingers inside her panties, feeling her wetness, dipping inside her, she groaned in pleasure. And she knew she had finally come home.

  49

  March 2005

  From the twenty-fifth floor, Las Vegas lost some of its glamour. Standing at the window of the Ash Corp. Vegas office, Miles could see the whole of the Strip and much of it looked like a building site. At night, when the neon and the funfair fantasies of the castles and the pirate ships were all lit up, Las Vegas still looked like a day-glo rollercoaster of fun and sin, but in the harsh desert sunshine, you could see behind the façades and hotel fronts and it just looked dusty and a little forlorn.

  ‘So where are we up to with buying the Aladdin?’

  He turned back to face Michael Marshall, the American attorney he had appointed to oversee Ash Corp.’s commercial property interests, including the acquisition of a Las Vegas casino. The lawyer was a serious-looking man in his thirties with a straight nose and dark eyes.

  ‘I’ll be frank, Miles. I don’t think it’s going to happen,’ he said.

  Miles frowned. Since he had taken over his father’s company, he had become used to the marketing speak and double-talk of the business world. Everything was ‘in the pipeline’ or being ‘run up the flagpole’. They hid behind bland clichés either because they didn’t know what they were doing, or because they didn’t want to tell the boss that they couldn’t give him what he wanted.

  ‘That’s not what I want to hear, Michael,’ said Miles.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Marshall.‘But the facts are clear. Las Vegas is essentially a closed shop of Nevada-based investors creating a front for a number of well-connected syndicates and individuals, the biggest of which being the Mormons, who own most of the land out here. In short, the people who own Vegas don’t want you here – and you can sympathise.’

  ‘Sympathise?’ said Miles. ‘Whose side are you on, Marshall?’

  The young lawyer gave a slight smile.‘It’s nothing personal, Miles. It’s pure economics. Why allow an international player of Ash Corp.’s size and financial muscle on to the Strip? You’re only going to take money away from them, especially given your own personal reputation for reinventing the wheel.’

  Miles nodded. It was true: he was becoming a victim of his own success. His overhaul of the Ash Corp. hotel group had been a triumph. He had sold off the dead wood, then broken the remaining hotels down into groups – prestige, business and affordable – rebranded them and given all a complete refit from the bathroom tiles to the entertainment systems. It had cost the company hundreds of millions, but it had been a shrewd investment. Now people knew what they were getting from an Ash Corp. hotel: quality and value for money, even if they were staying in the James hotel chain at the budget end of the scale. At the top end of the market, the hotels were winning awards for unparalleled service and the interiors were being featured in design magazines. In the space of a year, Miles had doubled capacity and trebled the turnover. No wonder the Las Vegas establishment were reluctant to allow him free rein in their own personal playground.

  ‘OK, so what’s the big stumbling block?’ he asked, sitting down at his desk.

  ‘Two things: construction and licensing. The gaming commission are raising questions about Ash Corp.’s experience in this sector.’

  ‘We have gaming experience,’ said Miles. ‘Don’t they know we own The Laing?’ He knew it was a weak argument. The Laing was an old-school gentlemen’s casino in Mayfair catering to high-rolling Middle Eastern sheikhs and the Euro-aristo circuit. It was chic and discreet and it made huge profits, but it was a world away from the large-scale walk-in casinos of Las Vegas.

  ‘With respect, The Laing is a very different animal to say Caesars Palace, or the MGM. It’s rather like comparing Le Gavroche to Pizza Hut.’

  ‘So we buy in experience,’ said Miles. ‘We poach someone from Caesars or Steve Wynn’s outfit.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘Already done. We have the general manager from Mandalay Bay to head up the team when we’re ready to move and he’s agreed to come on board as a consultant when we go in front of the gaming commission.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want to let this one slip through the net.’

  The US was in the middle of a huge economic boom, but history told Miles that where there was a boom, bust wouldn’t be too far behind. But a Las Vegas casino was as close as you could get to a recession-proof business: when times got hard, people wanted to gamble.

  ‘How important is this to you, Miles?’ said Marshall. ‘Because it’s going to take some, uh, shall we say, fancy footwork.’

  Miles liked this man. He had only met Marshall twice before: once to sign off on his appointment, once to thrash out the initial approach to the gaming commission, but it was clear he was exactly the kind of man Miles needed in his organisation. Someone entirely focused on getting the job done, overcoming the obstacles by whatever means necessary. He also liked him on another level: Marshall was good-looking and energetic. Miles briefly allowed himself to imagine a scenario, then pushed it away. Back to business, he smiled to himself as the lawyer brought out a file.

  ‘What do you have there?’

  ‘A proposal for the casino project. I’ve done some initial projections, and to cut to the chase, getting blackballed in Vegas might be a blessing in disguise. Nothing is cheap in Vegas at the best of times and construction costs here are insane. I’m projecting one point five billion US – and that’s conservative.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Miles. Even for a company of the size of Ash Corp., that was an enormous investment, more so when you considered they were putting all their eggs in one basket. But Miles hated being told ‘no’ and he hated being blackballed even more. He looked at Marshall. ‘Tell me about this fancy footwork of yours.’

  Marshall paused for a moment. ‘My gut feeling is we’re banging our heads against a brick wall with the commission. Plus, none of the existing casinos are going to approve of us building a rival right next door to them, especially with the Wynn just opening.’

  ‘Agreed. So what do we do?’

  ‘It’s a little left field, but I think it can work. We already have a hotel in Vegas – we remodel that.’

  The Las Vegas James hotel was part of an old low-end Ash Corp. hotel chain, more of a motel-cum-flophouse jammed between the Stardust and the Frontier, two of the more run-down casinos at the north end of the Vegas Strip, away from all the glitz and glamour of the newer casinos such as the Bellagio and the Luxor to the south. Miles pulled a face.

  ‘The James hotel is a stinker, Michael. It’s in the wrong part of town. We can’t even get the fifty-dollar-a-night slot machine crowd in there.’

  ‘That’s where the left-field idea comes in,’ said the lawyer. ‘We forget the casino and concentrate on the hotel. Do what you do b
est, high-end luxury. Make it exclusive and hard to get in.’

  ‘But we’re missing the point of the exercise,’ said Miles. ‘The money is in the gamblers. The casino can make a million dollars on one spin of the wheel.’

  ‘And you can lose it too,’ said Marshall. ‘OK, so a hotel isn’t going to make that sort of money, but we have the space for a six-hundred room all-suite hotel, and if we establish it as the place to stay on the Strip ...’

  ‘But why would the high-rollers stay so far from the action?’

  ‘That’s your job, Miles. No one is better at persuading people that your establishment is the only place to be.’