Sasha Sinclair smiled with satisfaction as she looked at the dinner table shimmering in the light of a dozen hurricane lamps. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty damn good; better than that mouse Grace Ashford could have done, anyway. Strictly speaking, Sasha was not the mistress of this house and, as a guest, she had no place making the arrangements for the final meal, but if she didn’t do it, who would? Miles’ mother Connie Ashford was at home in London. As for Grace? She was probably off somewhere with her nose stuck in a book. Poor Grace, she thought. No idea of social occasions.
Sasha walked around the table one last time, rearranging a fork here, a glass there, making sure everything was exactly where it should be. It had been her idea to have the dinner at the long table underneath the tiki hut on the beach; a stroke of genius, even if she did say so herself. The golden glow of the lamps on the sand spilled out glorious, flattering light; not that Sasha Sinclair needed any help looking exquisite. Naturally striking, with glossy honey-blond hair and almond-shaped eyes the colour of parma violets, she had brought three trunks for the week-long trip, but tonight the simplest thing in her wardrobe, an ivory kaftan that set off her deep bronze tan, made her look a million dollars. It had been no surprise to anyone that Sasha had landed a modelling contract with an agency in London; she would be going straight to Chelsea from the island tomorrow.
‘Miss Sasha, shall I set the place cards the same as last night?’ asked Juan the waiter.
‘No,’ she snapped, glaring at him. ‘Last night was a disaster.’
The previous evening they had dined in the island’s main house and Sasha had found herself trapped between Grace and her loud-mouthed friend Sarah. Neither of them had shown any interest in Sasha’s funny little story about how she had managed to buy the last Azzedine Alaïa dress from under Patsy Kensit’s nose and they had just chattered on about charity and politics and all those left-wing causes Sarah and her crusty parents thought were so important. Tonight Sasha had taken matters into her own hands, positioning Miles to her left, Freya to her right and – most importantly – Mr Ashford directly opposite.
She followed Juan as he placed the cards on each plate, ensuring he didn’t make any mistakes. The swarthy odd-job man was a permanent fixture on Angel Cay, but tonight there would be dozens of additional staff – butlers, boat boys, chefs – who had been drafted in to make the stay of Robert Ashford’s new guests as comfortable and luxurious as possible, and Sasha couldn’t afford anything to go wrong. Tonight was going to be special, she could feel it. Tonight was when Miles’ father – Robert – would recognise her as his son’s future wife and perhaps – though she barely allowed herself to think this – perhaps it would become official with a moonlit proposal. She didn’t expect anything too romantic. She knew Miles was not the most demonstrative of boyfriends – sometimes she even wondered whether he was capable of genuine feeling – but Sasha didn’t really care about that. What she cared about was position. She and Miles were a team, the king and queen of Danehurst, and she had no intention of giving that up now term had ended.
Sasha had set her sights on Miles Ashford the moment she had arrived at Danehurst two years ago after transferring from Wycombe Abbey, an academic school where they had gently suggested that the sixth form might not be the best choice for her. Sasha wasn’t fazed; she already had all the qualifications she needed: long legs, full lips and a ruthless focus on what she wanted. Beauty was just as important, more important than cleverness, and it had served her well at Danehurst as she had effortlessly seduced Miles. But now she needed to close the deal, make it binding with a ring on her finger before he left for university and she went to London to take up a modelling contract. It was obvious to anyone that Sasha would make the ideal wife for Miles – beautiful, ambitious, a true asset in any society marriage – but she was realistic enough to know that without a permanent claim on him, even she would struggle to keep the relationship together when Miles was at Oxford and she was in London.
‘That will be all, Juan,’ said Sasha as soon as the table was set to her satisfaction, and he scurried off, leaving her alone on the beach. Sasha looked up towards the main house, where she could see the windows casting out a pumpkin glow. More than anything, she wanted to hold on to all of this. She loved Angel Cay, not only the white beaches and lush scenery but also the house with its dramatic entrance hall and stylish interior, an artfully arranged mixture of expensive pottery, mismatched antique furniture and bright batik drapes. But to keep this in her grasp, she needed Miles.
Sasha smiled at the prospect of marriage. While she found Sarah Brayfield’s ‘I don’t need a man’ brand of feminism misguided, she had never expected to want to settle down so soon. But Miles was one of the most eligible young men in the country; even Tatler had said so. The timing wasn’t ideal, of course; she would much rather have spent her twenties jetting around the globe on glamorous modelling assignments and being wooed by movie stars before she found her perfect man. But sometimes things didn’t go entirely to plan and you met a man so spectacular you couldn’t let him go; Yasmin Parvaneh hadn’t hung around when she’d met Simon Le Bon, or Priscilla Presley and Elvis. Besides. It could be a long engagement.
Steeling her resolve, she thought of her handsome brother Adam, who’d left Durham University five years ago with his 2:1 degree and the world at his feet. On his gap year, waiting for his Civil Service fast-track place to begin, he had met and fallen in love with a Chinese girl, following her to Hong Kong, where he was now a lowly police sergeant with a one-bedroom apartment you couldn’t swing a cat in. ‘Don’t make Adam’s mistake,’ her mother had said. Sasha did not intend to. Marriage was an alliance, not a romantic ideal.
She turned and stared out to sea, the white caps of the breaking waves just visible in the twilight. There was one fly in the ointment. Alex Doyle. Lately, Miles seemed to spend every waking minute with his best friend from Danehurst. Sasha had no idea what he saw in such an oik or what they found to talk about. Yes, Alex was good-looking, of course, but he was so boring, always going on about politics and miserable indie music. Still, he wouldn’t be a problem after tonight; they were off to different universities and everyone knew that childhood friendships soon faded away when you met more interesting and sophisticated people at uni. Sasha felt a rare flutter of anxiety as she realised that the same thing would apply to her unless she managed to have a serious conversation about the future with Miles tonight. She turned and marched back towards the house with determination. She knew what she wanted: she wanted this life, she wanted money, luxury, influence and a five-carat c
lassic-cut sparkler from Tiffany. She wanted commitment from Miles Ashford and she was going to close the deal tonight. And nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to get in her way.
4
On the terrace below the house, two waiters were circulating with trays of canapés. Miles waved them over for a large vodka tonic. Dinner was not being served for another hour, and he didn’t think he could get through the night without a decent drink.
He thought of his earlier conversation with Alex – a grand tour of Europe – and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Until today he’d had some vague plans about hooking up with a few old Eton friends who were making a killing running illegal raves up and down the country. It sounded fun, but it was still work. After a handful of trust funds had kicked in on his eighteenth birthday, it was not as if Miles needed the money. But with three months of summer stretching out in front of him, he fancied more of an adventure. Already he had thought of a rough itinerary. Marbella for the tarts, the Greek islands for the parties, St Tropez for the little beach clubs, and Rome was always fun, he thought, imagining himself drunk, on a scooter, weaving his way through the streets of the Eternal City.
‘Starting a little early, Miles?’
He turned around to see his father looking at him disapprovingly. Even in middle age, Robert Ashford was still an attractive man. Despite a weak chin, he had strong blue eyes and thick brows that framed his face. His pale brown hair veered off uncomfortably into ginger in the sun, but the straw panama he put on to cover it was always worn with stylish rakishness. Miles shared the eyes and the elegant dress sense but had benefited from his mother’s better bone structure. They looked like uncle and nephew rather than father and son.
‘I’m on holiday,’ he replied with truculence.
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Robert wryly.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked, swigging his vodka defiantly.
‘I’d like you to come and see me after dinner. I’ve prepared a schedule for your time at Ash Corp. Sorry it’s taken me a little longer than I thought, but I’ve been waiting for the right project to come along for you to get your teeth into.’
‘Time at Ash Corp.?’ Miles looked at his father narrowly, still annoyed at the way Robert had gatecrashed his holiday, elbowing his way into their final-night dinner and then turfing them out a whole three days early because he had clients arriving.
Robert nodded. ‘You’ll be spending the time until you start at Oxford with me.’
Miles could scarcely believe his ears. ‘What?’
‘We’ve discussed this.’
‘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 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.