Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 2

Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 2

'Me? Work at the company this summer? I thought you were joking.'

'Why would I joke about that?'

'Because I'm knackered. Because I've spent the last six months swotting for my A levels.'

'Not too hard from what I hear. I know Oxford require only two Es, but they do expect you to aim aim a little higher.' a little higher.'

Miles glanced away from his father, knowing the older man had a point. Miles had never been one to distract himself with study when there were pleasures in the world to be indulged in. Miss Lemmon, Danehurst's head teacher, had taken him into her study at the end of the lower sixth and told him he'd be lucky to read theology at a polytechnic if he didn't start applying himself. But beneath the waster front, Miles was fiercely intelligent and had taken Lemmon's words as a challenge. He insisted he be entered for the Oxford entrance examination and after a two-week flurry of cramming had aced his exam and interview and was now due to go to Oriel College to study Modern History.




'Look, it's an interesting project. Surveying potential sites for a premium outlet village. Not a new idea, I know. Basically we're importing the concept from the designer villages like Woodbury Common in New York State. But I think it could really work in this country. The site we want is just outside Coventry. Then there'll be plenty of initial meetings with luxury labels to gauge interest in taking units. This is a huge market for us, a tremendous opportunity, Miles.'

'You want me to spend the summer in Coventry Coventry?'

'I'm sorry if I've spoilt your fun, Miles,' said Robert Ashford, although his glib tone suggested quite the opposite. 'Remember, it's the business that funds all this. It's not all pleasure.'

'I understand the principles of business,' sniffed his son. 'It's very straightforward, isn't it? I mean, I get why your mates are flying in tomorrow, for pleasure for pleasure. You need financing and generous planning permission to build your skysc.r.a.pers, so you fly your contacts out here and ply them with Krug and hookers.'

'Pardon?' hissed his father.

'Prost.i.tutes,' said Miles innocently, prepared to use his trump card. 'I mean, that's why you've sent d.i.c.k Donovan into Na.s.sau, isn't it? To sort out the arrival of half a dozen hookers? I have to say, it's not the sort of thing that makes one think more highly of one's parent.'

Robert glared at his son and Miles felt a wave of power surge through him, grateful for the information he'd gleaned earlier that week. He knew his father took mistresses over the years he'd noticed items of clothing around their London house that were definitely not his mother's, and had heard Robert in his study whispering things that certainly weren't to his business advisers. Then, on Tuesday, he'd heard a couple of staff sn.i.g.g.e.ring about Ashford's 'female entertainers'. Slipping the pool cleaners two hundred dollars to tell him more, Miles had learnt that every year on Robert's corporate Angel Cay weekenders, exotic dancers would perform on the beach, then clients would choose one of the girls for some personal entertainment of their own.

'So Mum knows about the dancers, does she?' challenged Miles. 'Well then, how about we keep it between the two of us and in return you'll let me have one last summer of freedom? It's not that I don't want to work for the company, Dad. I just don't want to work at Ash Corp. quite yet.'

'Don't threaten me, Miles. It doesn't suit you. Now perhaps we should defer this conversation till we both return to London. You've spent enough of your time and my money on ski slopes, exotic beaches and yachts. You are coming to Ash Corp. to work and that is an end to it. So don't even think about trying to get the upper hand with me. Because I will make life so difficult for you it will make your head spin.'

Miles clenched his fingers into tight fists. He would gladly have strangled his father at that moment.

Nothing he had ever done had been good enough for Robert Ashford, from the moment Miles had proudly brought home a prize for excellence from his first school. The teacher had praised his creativity, intelligence and application, saying that through enthusiasm and hard work he was ahead of most of the boys in the year above him.

Robert had taken one look and dropped the certificate in his office waste-paper basket. 'Only most most of the boys?' he had said. 'Second place is never acceptable, Miles.' of the boys?' he had said. 'Second place is never acceptable, Miles.'

Miles had been five years old.

He had waited in vain for a word of encouragement from his father for his progress at the Pony Club, on the athletics field or in his exams. Even when Miles had flown through the Common Entrance exam to get into Eton, Robert failed to pa.s.s comment. It particularly grated on Miles' nerves that to the outside world, his father was Mr Charming, supporting good causes and working tirelessly for charity. Whispers were that Robert would go into politics; only last month, with Thatcher's power waning, The Times The Times had run an opinion poll ent.i.tled 'Who would you like to see as PM?'. Robert Ashford had polled over twenty-three per cent: not bad considering he was the only non-politician on the list. 'Isn't he a nice guy?' people would say to Miles. 'He must be so much fun to have as a dad.' had run an opinion poll ent.i.tled 'Who would you like to see as PM?'. Robert Ashford had polled over twenty-three per cent: not bad considering he was the only non-politician on the list. 'Isn't he a nice guy?' people would say to Miles. 'He must be so much fun to have as a dad.'

How wrong they were. Miles had never been able to please his father, and so he had rebelled. At fourteen, after a string of misdemeanours, his mother had sent him to see a child psychologist a shrink! a shrink! who had suggested that Miles' bad behaviour was the one thing that got his father's attention. And so he partied harder and worked even less, until he was thrown out of Eton for drug use. who had suggested that Miles' bad behaviour was the one thing that got his father's attention. And so he partied harder and worked even less, until he was thrown out of Eton for drug use.

Part of Miles didn't even want to go to Oxford, knowing that his looming matriculation there was something that secretly delighted his father. Then again, the elitism of Oxford and the fact that his father hadn't even gone to university, let alone one of the best educational establishments in the world, appealed to him. He wasn't going to turn the opportunity down because of spite.

Without another word, Robert Ashford turned on his heel and sloped off through the sand towards the house.

Miles suddenly felt a pair of warm hands cover his eyes as a damp kiss was planted on the back curve of his neck. He could barely be bothered to turn around and look at her.

'Hey, lover,' purred Sasha, stroking the lapel of his navy linen suit. 'Why don't you go and change? You look like Gordon Gekko on holiday in that thing.'

'Maybe that's the look I'm going for,' he said flatly. If there was one thing Miles detested it was comments, derogatory ones, made against the sense of style he took very seriously.

'Go and put something more casual on,' pressed Sasha. 'Shorts or something. I've got a few things planned for this evening.'

'Like what? It's a Knockout It's a Knockout?'

'Don't be silly. Just chilling out. Making out,' she whispered.

Miles felt his eyes close in frustration. Yes, he had enjoyed being top dog at Danehurst, and yes, being a power couple with Sasha had been a large part of that, but it did not make up for the fact that everything she did seemed to annoy him. The way she laughed, the way she flicked her hair, the way she spoke to her friends, it all set his teeth on edge. Even the s.e.x was all a bit try-hard and it didn't really turn him on. He knew it had been a bad idea inviting her to the island but it had been hard not to, especially when she had got wind that his sister and her friends were going to be here too.

She took his reluctant hand and gave it a squeeze. 'So what was that heavy chat with your father about?'

'Me working at the company.'

'Wow! That's a great idea. I mean, really, what's the point in wasting three years at Oxford when you know what you're going to end up doing anyway?'

'I'm going to Oxford,' he replied, irritated. 'He means working for the summer.'

'Still, amazing amazing,' she laughed, squeezing his fingers again. 'We can go flat-hunting when we get back to London. A little love nest a deux a deux. What about Notting Hill or Chelsea? Yeah, definitely Chelsea. I was looking in the cla.s.sifieds of The Times The Times the other day and there was this great little mews for sale in that square behind Pucci Pizza. Not that I'll be eating pizza once I start modelling, but it was really cheap. The house I mean. Like only nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds or something.' the other day and there was this great little mews for sale in that square behind Pucci Pizza. Not that I'll be eating pizza once I start modelling, but it was really cheap. The house I mean. Like only nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds or something.'

'I'm not working for my father this summer.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'm going round Europe.'

Sasha looked thoughtful. 'I suppose I could get an agent in Paris.'

'No. I think you should stay in London.'

'But what about Europe? Can we go to St Tropez? Please? Please?'

'I'm going with Alex.'

Her face crumpled and he felt a well of disdain.

'What? Alex Doyle? But what about me? Us?'

Miles pulled away from her. Her voice was beginning to sound like the insistent buzzing of a bluebottle. Us Us. The words made him cringe. He wanted to dump her now, finish it for good, but he knew that it would only lead to a scene, and tonight was going to be bad enough with his father as it was. He was sick of women, with their constant chatter and inane obsessions with shoes and gossip. He just couldn't see the point.

'Look, Sasha, we need to talk.'

Suddenly there was an excited yodel from the direction of the tiki hut. Looking over, Miles could see one of the twins at this distance, he could not tell which one wrapped around the trunk of the coconut tree, at least twenty feet above the beach.

'What the f.u.c.k ...?'

There was a loud cry. And then, as if in slow motion, the body descended like a ripe coconut, hitting the sand with an audible bone-crunching thud.

Suddenly the beach was full of the sound of screaming.

Oscar or was it Angus? lay on the ground, surrounded by a flurry of waiters and butlers who'd sprung into action and were fussing round the body.

'Nightmare,' said Sasha, beginning to break into a run. 'I hope the silly sod hasn't hurt himself.'

'So do I,' growled Miles, upping his pace to follow her. 'His mother's American, and if the daft t.w.a.t has has hurt himself, I bet she goes and sues us.' hurt himself, I bet she goes and sues us.'

5

Dinner was not a success. Despite the perfection of the menu and the free-flowing, premium-quality alcohol, with Oscar in bed, in pain, everyone had to pretend to be concerned about his welfare and spent most of the meal discussing it, even though they all secretly felt that the night was more enjoyable without him.

Although the formal dining under the tiki hut had been prematurely disbanded, Alex had no intention of letting the evening, the holiday the holiday, finish there, and when Sasha suggested he get his guitar for a sing-song around the fire, he thought it was an excellent idea.

'Not calling it a night already, are you?'

Alex was coming out of his bedroom, guitar in hand, when he saw Grace coming down the hallway towards him. He felt his mood lift. He had always found his friend's sister approachable and down-to-earth and he suddenly wished he had been sitting next to her at dinner. As it was, he had been stuck at the other end of the table, next to Sarah, opposite Angus and within earshot of Robert Ashford. Feeling intimidated and completely out of his depth, he'd kept quiet until Sarah had seen his red star tattoo poking out from under the edge of his T-shirt, at which point she had asked, in a loud voice that had echoed all the way down the table, whether he was a communist and, with everyone listening, had grilled him with all sorts of tricky questions about nationalisation versus state control. How was he supposed to know the difference between Karl Marx and Stalin? It was just a design he'd picked out of a book in the tattoo parlour in Manchester's Afflecks Palace. The only way Alex had been able to get through the meal had been to keep drinking.

'I was just listening to the football results,' said Grace, pulling a jumper over her shoulders. 'The World Cup. England versus Germany.'

'I can't believe I missed it, but I couldn't find the channel on the radio. Did we win?' he asked hopefully.

'We lost. Gazza cried.'

He swore under his breath and then began to laugh.

'What's so funny? The nation's in mourning.'

'I was just thinking of you following the football.'

'Don't sound so surprised.'

'It's the thighs, isn't it?'

She smiled. It was a nice smile that warmed her entire face. 'Like I get an eyeful of Lineker's legs over the World Service.'

'Touche.' Alex laughed.

'At least Oscar's OK,' she said quickly. 'Nelson, our caretaker, has got his wife to fuss round him. His foot. It's just a sprain. Not a break.'

'So he'll live?' He grinned at her.

'He'll live.'

'More's the pity.'

'Stop it,' she giggled.

'Come on, an a.r.s.ehole with a sprained ankle is still an a.r.s.ehole.'

'Point taken. Miles' friends have always been on the exasperating side. Present company excluded, of course.'

He followed Grace through the Great Room and out of the house. Outside, he took a deep breath. The salty air, muddled with smoke from the bonfire and the sweetness of coconut from the sun-tan oil on his skin, was a real taste of the tropics.

'You know, without Oscar on the island, I could stay here for ever,' he said wistfully.

Grace nodded. 'Me too. Except I graduate on Friday so I have to get back, even if my dad wasn't kicking us all off.'

'I thought you were were a graduate. You've finished uni, haven't you?' a graduate. You've finished uni, haven't you?'

'I've done my finals but not had, you know, the black cape and mortarboard ceremony with the parents clapping proudly thing, thankful that their child achieved something other than cirrhosis of the liver after three years at university.'

'You got a first.' Alex smiled. 'People who get first-cla.s.s degrees do not drink their way through uni.'

'I do drink,' she said defensively. 'I'm drunk now. Well, drunkish. I'm pacing myself because it's my twenty-first on Sunday.'

'Wow, it's going to be one ma.s.sive long party.'

'Not really. I'm just going out for dinner with a few friends. That's my kind of celebration really.'

'No party?'

'What, you think it's better to have a three-ring circus like Miles' eighteenth, with six hundred people too drunk to sing happy birthday?'

Alex laughed; she did have a point. His friend had boasted that it was going to be the party to end all parties and it had been quite a spectacle. Held at the Cafe de Paris, it was rumoured to have cost Robert Ashford 300,000, which worked out at as 60,000 an hour, or 1,000 a minute. Still, at least Miles had enjoyed every single second of it. Unlike Grace, he thrived on being the centre of attention and had swaggered around in a pink suit like Don Johnson's younger brother. The wild rumour was that he'd ended the night in a suite at Brown's Hotel with two high-cla.s.s hookers, although Alex had never heard Miles himself mention it, which suggested it wasn't true. Miles would never miss an opportunity to boast about something like that.

They were by the pool now, next to the path back down to the ocean. Even from this distance Alex could hear the noise of the ghetto-blaster from the beach, and the braying sounds of Sasha and Grace's friends singing an off-kilter version of 'Nothing Compares 2 U' drifted up to the house. Suddenly he wanted to stay exactly where he was, talking to Grace.

'Do you want to hang around here for a bit?'

'Let's go and sit in the tiki swing.'

As she touched his arm, an unwelcome memory popped into his head and he regretted his invitation. The letter The letter. Six months earlier, he and Miles had gone to see The Cure in Bristol, meeting up with Grace and her friends. He'd had a fantastic time and it wasn't just the concert. When Miles had disappeared afterwards they'd all ended up in a dodgy club in St Pauls and he'd gone back to Grace's, where they had stayed up till five in the morning, drinking and laughing. Back at Danehurst Alex hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. He'd spent the evening listening to his Cure alb.u.m over and over just because it reminded him of her. Seized by the romance of the moment, he'd written her a soppy, overemotional letter, adding as a postscript the words 'Just Like Heaven', his favourite track, whose lyrics described the way he felt, like some secret message he hoped she'd understand, and had run down to the postbox.

Three days later she'd replied. It was a great letter, smart and funny, inviting him back to Bristol, and she'd signed off with five five kisses. Alex instantly lost his nerve. Yes, she was smart and funny, a bit too smart if the truth be told. Most importantly she was also off-limits. All it would take was one drunken fumble and his golden ticket into the Ashfords' idyllic inner circle might be immediately revoked. It just wasn't worth it. kisses. Alex instantly lost his nerve. Yes, she was smart and funny, a bit too smart if the truth be told. Most importantly she was also off-limits. All it would take was one drunken fumble and his golden ticket into the Ashfords' idyllic inner circle might be immediately revoked. It just wasn't worth it.

So he had defused the situation by leaving it another month to respond, telling Grace quite breezily, as part of his one-page missive, how he'd copped off with Petra Williams, the fox of the lower sixth, and how things with his fledging romance were going 'quite well'. She hadn't written back. It had been for the best.

Grace pulled her legs up on to the swing and tucked them under her as she arranged herself on the cushions. A hummingbird hovered over the swimming pool and the scent from the blue hibiscus bush was so strong it made Alex quite heady.

'You sitting down?'

He shook his head. 'It rocks. The way I'm feeling, I might puke on you.'

'You charmer.'

He sat down on the edge of the pool, a shimmering sheet of turquoise neon in the darkness, and dangled his feet into the water. Still thinking about the letter, and feeling quite intimate in this dark, romantic s.p.a.ce, he wondered how long he could leave it before he went back to the beach.