Miles nodded. ‘OK, but even so, it’s still a wasteland up there.’
Marshall smiled. ‘The big guns are moving north, they have to. Trump is looking in the north end and Wynn’s already there. If those guys are there, it’s on the money. Plus there’s even talk of a huge retail park.’
‘How do you know?’
Marshall shrugged modestly. ‘I’ve seen some development plans, heard a few rumours. It’s my job, Miles. It’s one of the things you pay me for.’
He pushed forward another document. It was a set of drawings of how the remodelled hotel could look. It looked great – chic, tasteful, relaxed, everything Vegas was not. Miles raised an eyebrow at the name above the door.
‘Vegas Laing?’ he said.
‘The brand is already established,’ said Marshall. ‘It says European, exclusive, stylish, all the things you stand for, Miles. It says quiet money.’
Miles laughed. ‘Quiet money. Two words to sum up Vegas.’
Marshall nodded.‘People like to flash their wealth in Vegas, that’s true, but that will change if the economy takes a downturn. And the real high-rollers prefer staying under the radar.’
Miles turned the pages of the document and found more drawings of a much bigger development. ‘And what’s this?’
‘This is the future,’ said Marshall, walking around the desk. He pointed to a sketch of a high-rise building. ‘This is phase two. Once we’re established on the Strip, we stand a much better chance of getting past the gaming commission to build a proper casino resort. Even if we don’t get permission to build a casino at the Laing, we could build off the Strip where the land is cheaper.’
Miles traced a finger over the plans, enjoying having Michael standing so close to him. ‘Is there room?’
‘It’s a deceptively big plot,’ said Marshall, ‘but the rumour I hear is that the Stardust and Frontier are leaking money. One or both could go under in the next six months. If that’s the case, we could either demolish them or absorb them into the Laing.’
Miles looked up. ‘My word, Mr Marshall,’ he smiled, ‘you are full of surprises today.’
‘As I say, that’s what you pay me for,’ said Marshall, gathering up his files. As he walked back around the desk, Miles took in his lean physique.
‘Well perhaps we’d better think about giving you a raise,’ he said.
50
Sasha had wanted to open a Moscow branch of Rivera ever since the ultra-rich, high-spending tide of Russians began sweeping into London. She’d spent eighteen months doing her homework on the former Soviet capital, working out what the high net worth women of the city would want. If there was one thing Sasha had learnt from her time in the global fashion industry, it was that while all women loved shopping, their spending habits varied from country to country. The French bought fewer, more classic items, but they were prepared to pay for quality, while the Brits were more into trend-led impulse purchases. So when her research revealed that rich Russians liked their fashion to be an overt statement of their new-found wealth, she set out to make the launch of the Rivera Moscow a lavish, no-expenses-spared event, hiring the most prestigious firm of party planners to make it happen.
As the Rivera store was only small – she couldn’t believe the price of premium retail space in Moscow – they had decided to host the trunk show and party at one of the city’s prestigious venues. There had been an embarrassment of options: from the State Museum, whose address of One Red Square had almost swung it, to the Park Hyatt hotel which served cocktails at forty dollars a pop. In the end she had plumped for the library dining room of the Café Pushkin, which had practically become the local canteen for oligarchs, Russian politicos and supermodels.
They arrived in force. Men fattened with the proceeds of the newly capitalistic state. Wives dripping in sable mink and pink diamonds. Girlfriends and mistresses with angular faces and beautiful bodies. Sasha wasn’t intimidated; she knew she could compete with any of them. She had upped her personal Pilates classes from three to five times a week which had made her body even leaner than usual, and the quarter-head of Botox had smoothed her skin and given her a glow. Her favourite dress from the Spring/Summer collection had been customised especially for the Russian market, with crystal embellishment and a lower scooped neckline, accessorised by high metallic Rivera heels and a butter-soft Rivera clutch. Not only was she working hard to make Rivera a global brand, she knew she had to position it as a luxury goods company and not simply a fashion house.
‘Do you speak English?’ asked a male voice behind her.
She turned round to see a slim man in his late twenties with incredible blue eyes.
‘Of course I do,’ she replied. ‘I own the company.’
‘Phew!’ said the man, miming wiping his brow. ‘I thought I was going to have to walk around saying da and niet all night, hoping I got lucky.’
‘Well, I can teach you the Russian for “The Rivera store opens on Saturday” if you like.’
They laughed complicitly.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked and he smiled.
‘I get that a lot; I’m covered in a helmet half the time.’ He held out his hand. ‘Josh Steel. I’m a racing driver.’
‘Sasha Sinclair.’
‘I know,’ he said with a flirtatious smile.
‘What are you doing in Moscow? I didn’t know there was a race here.’
‘There isn’t,’ said Josh. ‘The season hasn’t started. But our team are looking for sponsors. I’m kind of here to schmooze.’
And so am I, thought Sasha, feeling cross with herself for wasting time on someone who wasn’t going to buy her clothes.
‘Well, good luck with the language barrier,’ she said, spotting the wife of a high-ranking politician across the room.‘I’ve got to mingle.’
Two hours later, the show was over and Sasha was glowing with a social and business triumph. Rivera’s Russian PR Karla had already warned her that they might have to reorder stock before the Rivera store had even opened – already a handful of women had proclaimed that they wanted ‘everything’, and neither Sasha nor Karla thought they were joking. Slipping on her russet-red fox fur, Sasha headed out into the chilly Moscow night air. She was the last to leave Café Pushkin and she was left alone on Pushkin Square.
Where’s my bloody car? she thought anxiously. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, not even knowing the word for ‘hotel’. The white boxy shape of a Muscovite taxi turned the corner. Cold, tired and desperate to get back to her hotel, she put her hand out to stop it.
‘Hey, missus,’ called an amused voice. ‘You don’t want to be getting into taxis all alone at night.’ Josh Steel was leaning out of the window of a black Mercedes, his blue eyes twinkling.
‘I’m screwed then, aren’t I?’ she said.
‘Too early to tell.’ He grinned, popping the passenger door open.
She walked across and got in.
‘What hotel are you at?’
‘Park Hyatt.’
‘Splendid, so am I,’ he said, gunning the engine.
‘I hope you’re going to stick to the speed limit, Mr Steel,’ she said in mock alarm.
He smiled. ‘I’m fast but I’m safe.’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
Back at the hotel, Sasha pretended to hesitate when he asked her for a drink. They took the elevator up to the tenth floor bar, overlooking the city, packed with businessmen and blondes wearing jewels as big as ice cubes.
‘Bloody hell, the drinks are expensive,’ said Josh, flipping through the menu.
‘I didn’t realise you were looking for a cheap date,’ said Sasha.
‘Just social observation. Down the street you can get vodka for fifty roubles.’
‘The Russian way. Everything is either very cheap or very expensive. They’re still caught between communism and capitalism.’
They slipped into easy conversation, swapping stories about their liv
es and people they knew in common. Josh was easy-going and fun, ‘the only way you can deal with such a stressful job’, he reasoned. It felt like a long time since Sasha had really laughed, and not talked about business, just fun throwaway things like people, parties and gossip. She loved that they were in such an exotic, alien environment and yet she could feel so familiar and relaxed with this stranger.
‘How do you think it went tonight?’ said Josh, swirling the vodka around the bottom of his glass.
‘Very well,’ said Sasha. ‘Which is a relief, as Rivera’s investors were divided over whether we should even have the party. They were worried we might devalue the brand if we were too aligned with new Russian money. It’s preposterous! I mean, where does that logic lead? We don’t sell to the Chinese because of their human rights track record?’
He held his hands up and laughed. ‘OK, OK, I’m on your side. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about business.’
‘Sorry.’ Sasha winced. ‘Was I ranting?’
He held up his thumb and forefinger. ‘Just a little.’
They sipped their drinks and fell into an amiable silence.
‘Hey, you know I have seen you before,’ he said after a pause. ‘At that party at Somerset House recently. I was going to come to speak to you but someone told me not to bother.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘They told me you batted for the other team.’
‘No!’ she gasped, truly amazed.
‘They said you never have a boyfriend.’
She drew herself up in the chair. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say, just because I don’t flaunt my love life all over the papers. Actually I dated my finance director for four years. Then there was someone else . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Someone I shouldn’t have been seeing.’
‘What happened? Wife find out?’
‘He died,’ she said, knocking back her vodka.
‘I’m sorry.’ He put his hand over hers and she felt her anger simmer down. She glanced up and he was looking at her with his Paul Newman eyes.
‘I’ll walk you back to your room,’ he said, signing the bill. ‘You never know who might be lurking behind the plants.’
They rode the lift down in silence and stopped outside her room. As she reached into her clutch for her key-card, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. He tasted sweet and sour, the vodka and his lips, and suddenly she wanted him. She popped the door open and, without turning on the light, he pushed her up against the wall, his mouth hot on hers, desire running from her navel to her groin. Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away from him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.
‘It’s ... it’s just been a while, that’s all,’ she said honestly. ‘Bit nervous.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ he said, chuckling.
It was true. There had been nobody since Robert, and she felt so closed off, so resistant to the desire that was searing round her body, she felt a physical ache as he touched her.
‘We’ll take it slowly,’ he whispered, sliding his hand behind her, unzipping her dress.‘You just relax. I’m going to remind you exactly what you’ve been missing.’
51
May 2006
‘Will you stop looking at me like that?’ said Melissa as Alex drove their 4x4 up Highway One towards Pacific Palisades.
‘Like what?’ asked Alex, glancing towards the passenger seat.
‘You’re looking at me weirdly,’ she said with a disapproving pout. ‘Like I’m a stranger or something.’
Alex chuckled and squeezed her knee. ‘Maybe it’s because you do look like a stranger. My wife left for the hairdresser’s at nine o’clock this morning and she hasn’t come back.’
Even members of Melissa’s fan club would be hard pressed to spot her tonight. Her face was nearly make-up-free, her usually red lips muted with a pale beige stain. A four-hour session at Guido, Beverly Hills’ most sought-after hairdresser, had turned her glossy blond mane chocolate brown, while her knee-length navy tea-dress hadn’t quite extinguished her sex appeal but had made her less available, more serious.
‘I want this part, Alex. Tonight I’m going to show him I am Danielle.’
Alex chuckled to himself. They were on their way to dinner with Christopher Hayes, the maverick director and screenwriter whose latest project was adapting Next Door But One, a Pulitzer-prize-winning book about sexual tension in 1950s suburbia. Melissa had already been offered the role of Nancy, the young temptress who seduces a Madison Avenue advertising executive away from his wife. But she didn’t want to be Nancy; she wanted the smaller but more pivotal role of Danielle, the wife.
‘Nancy gets you the front cover of GQ,’ she’d told Alex while reading the script in bed. ‘But Danielle wins you an Oscar.’
Most of the time Alex tried to avoid Hollywood’s power-broking party circuit, but he’d agreed to come along tonight because he was a huge fan of Christopher Hayes. The director had spent the eighties and early nineties making deeply intelligent and often quite weird films – studies of small-town paranoia, many of which Alex had seen with Emma at the Cornerhouse, the little art-house cinema in Manchester. Every actor in Hollywood wanted to work for him, and judging by the huge Spanish-style mansion overlooking the ocean, his off-the-wall movies were big business.
A maid in grey uniform answered the door and led them through to an open living area facing the Pacific, which was fading from view as the sun sank behind dusky clouds. Alex couldn’t help but grin inanely when Christopher came over and shook their hands and introduced them to the other dinner guests.
‘Al, Melissa, you both know Justin Coe?’ he said.
‘We’ve met,’ simpered Melissa. ‘And of course I’m a huge fan.’
‘Oh, I can’t think why,’ said Justin, flashing his perfect white teeth.
Justin Coe was one of Hollywood’s biggest and most bankable stars. He had signed up to play the role of Ray, the advertising executive in the movie.
‘So what do you do, Al?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Al’s just a singer,’ said Melissa.
‘Really?’ said Justin, his smile dimming slightly. ‘You done anything I might have heard?’
‘Nothing much yet,’ said Alex. ‘Made a few demos, hoping to get a few gigs in the valley.’
‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ said Justin, steering Melissa away. ‘You really have to meet Daniel over here . . .’
At dinner, Melissa was seated between Christopher and Justin, while Alex was relegated to the other end, next to Christopher’s wife Jennifer, an impressive and rather intimidating woman wearing a camel-coloured trouser suit. Alex sat quietly, just absorbing the Hollywood shop talk – who was making what, who was screwing who, who had a terrible coke problem, who was in rehab – swinging between boredom and awkwardness. By the time the dessert was brought out, he had taken to playing a game with himself, counting the times the word ‘awesome’ was used in conversation. He watched as Melissa and Justin stood up, heading out towards the swimming pool ‘for a smoke’. He was just about to follow when Jennifer touched his arm.
‘You really shouldn’t have fucked with him, you know,’ she whispered.
Alex looked at her, startled. ‘Who?’
‘Justin. Or Teeth as I like to call him,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s not the done thing to make the star look stupid, even if he doesn’t realise.’
‘Sorry, he was being a knob.’
Jennifer laughed, a full-throated, fruity chuckle. ‘Knob,’ she repeated with relish. ‘I love the way you speak – and that wasn’t supposed to sound patronising. You wouldn’t believe how much bland shit I have to listen to at these things. It’s nice to meet someone who says what he thinks.’
Alex smiled politely, trying to remember everything Melissa had told him about Jennifer in the car. She was a former columnist for the New York Times turned scriptwriter and novelist. That might explain her forthright approach.
‘So with that in mind, why don’t you tell me what you th
ought of Firefly?’
Firefly was Christopher Hayes’ last movie, a twisted tale of unrequited love set in a remote town in the Midwest.
‘I thought it was brilliant,’ said Alex.‘I loved the homage to French New Wave in the scene at the gas station.’
Jennifer glanced over towards her husband, who was locked in earnest conversation. ‘Crock of pretentious shit if you ask me,’ she muttered, and Alex had to cover his mouth to stop himself from coughing his blueberry tart across the table.
‘I’ll be honest, Jennifer.’ He laughed. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to say that.’
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