‘Until then, I suggest we all keep a tight lid on this. I have very important clients arriving at lunchtime and I don’t need the distraction. Let me handle this. You just forget it. Go and finish packing. As you know, the boat will be taking you to Nassau after breakfast. ’
Miles gave a small smile of satisfaction.
‘But . . .’ began Grace again.
‘This meeting is over, Grace. The incident is closed.’
Alex lowered his head, his shoulders bowed with regret, fear and shame that, he knew then, would last him a lifetime.
Part Two
12
December 1990
The Knightsbridge offices of the D&D advertising agency were impressive, but Sasha was too cold to notice. The dazzling white marble lobby with ultra-modern glass and chrome fittings and huge abstract artworks hanging on the walls failed to register with Sasha as she pushed through the revolving doors; she was simply glad to be in out of the biting Arctic wind. This winter seemed colder and more miserable than ever, she thought as she unzipped her thin leather jacket and click-clacked across to the lifts in her five-inch heels. But the dark clouds seemed to suit her mood exactly. It had been six months since she had finished at Danehurst and life wasn’t turning out how she had imagined it at all. By now she’d thought she’d be the next big thing in modelling, Britain’s Christy Turlington or a white Naomi Campbell. She’d had visions of days filled with photo shoots and fashion shows, the evenings spent at glamorous parties with celebrities and millionaires, before returning home to a loft apartment on Chelsea’s King’s Road with a Saudi prince or an oil baron on her arm.
But no, she sighed, thinking of the indignity of having to arrive at the agency by bus. Since summer, life seemed to have been reduced to one round of almost constant rejection, and it wasn’t something Sasha was prepared for. Her split from Miles had been traumatic enough, given that she’d had their entire life mapped out in front of them, but the bastard wasn’t even taking her phone calls any more. She’d flunked her A levels, and although she hated to admit it, her modelling career had hardly been much more successful – a teen magazine fashion shoot and one day’s work handing out leaflets at a fast car show. The worst part, however, had been the castings. Today’s go-see was her fourth of the day, the twentieth of the week, and she knew exactly how it would go. The scene at each appointment, whether at an ad agency or a glossy magazine, was depressingly the same. The fashion editor or art director would flick lifelessly through her portfolio as if there was nothing in it of interest whatsoever, look her up and down with a sour expression, then dismiss her with a quick nod of the head. And that was the good ones; sometimes they would actually discuss her shortcomings out loud. ‘She’ll never fit into the Ralph Lauren dress with those arms.’
For someone who had spent her entire life being told she was beautiful, it had been unfathomable. But Sasha was far too proud and stubborn to give in. No, she hadn’t spent the last five years doggedly working on improving her social position to give it all up now, Miles or no Miles. Her face would be her fortune or she would die trying. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, she thought, tossing her hair back over her shoulders as she exited the lift and strode up to the reception desk.
‘In the boardroom, last door on the left,’ said a bored brunette, pointing down the corridor.
Sasha took a seat on a chair outside, making sure to straighten her shoulders and back; you never knew who might be watching, although the only people she could see was a huddle of secretaries gathered around a photocopier babbling about the D&D Christmas party that evening.
After a few moments, she was summoned into the room, where the ad executives, a man and an older woman with a chocolate-brown bob, were sitting behind a desk. Unsmiling, the brunette asked for Sasha’s portfolio and flicked through it without interest. Sasha tried not to flinch. There were fewer than thirty photos inside it – just test shots, done by up-and-coming photographers to beef it up.
‘I’m new,’ said Sasha by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been living in the Caribbean,’ she added, hoping to sound more glamorous than her body of work suggested.
‘How old are you?’ asked the brunette.
‘Nineteen. Nearly.’
‘Have you thought about getting your nose fixed?’
Sasha blinked, trying to keep her face as even as possible. ‘Cindy Crawford didn’t get her mole done,’ she said brightly. ‘I think it’s sometimes best to leave things as nature intended.’
The male executive smiled and walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod. ‘Shall we?’ he asked his colleague, who just shrugged.
The man was young but important-looking, dressed in a black turtleneck and small wire-framed John Lennon glasses; Sasha deduced he was the art director. He waved her over to a chair in front of the camera and she felt an unexpected flurry of nerves. Every rejection she had so far received would be worth it if she scored this one gig. D&D’s biggest client was Benson confectionery, and the rumour was that they were currently looking for a girl to front a campaign for a new range of chocolate ice-cream bars. Forget the money – this would mean print ads, billboards and, more importantly, television ads. Whoever landed this would have their face on every street corner and in every front room throughout the summer. It wasn’t Vogue, but it was big.
‘I’d like you to say these words to camera,’ said the brunette, making some notes on a yellow pad in front of her.‘Venus ice cream. It’s chocolicious.’
Sasha was suddenly glad of the three-week drama summer school she had attended in 1985.
‘How do you want me to say “chocolicious”?’ she asked. ‘Playfully? Sexily? I can put on an American accent if you’d like. I’ve spent a lot of time in New York and Miami.’
‘English will be fine,’ replied the brunette thinly.
A red light flicked on and Sasha fixed her gaze into the black depths of the camera lens.
‘Try Venus,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s chocolicious.’
‘Can you stick to the script?’ said the woman with irritation.
‘Of course,’ said Sasha, turning back to the camera.
‘Venus ice cream,’ she breathed, more seductively this time. ‘It’s chocolicious.’