‘Yes,’ she said quietly and a look of complicity darted between them.
‘We all have,’ he nodded, taking her hands. ‘I left my family, I moved to New York. I was selfish and pursued my own dreams and ambitions and didn’t once think of the bigger picture. Everybody has regrets, things they wish they could change. But it’s never too late to put things right.’
She looked at him, and a surge of hope filled her. Was that the answer? Since Angel Cay, she had felt as if she had been running, constantly on the move, never once daring to stop and look back. She was weighed down by the guilt of what she had done – what she had failed to do – that night. She had never believed that the boy on the beach had got up and walked away, much less stolen a boat and run off to a nearby island. It was all too convenient. No, that whole terrible mess had her father’s filthy fingerprints all over it; it was a glittering illustration of the corruption Gabriel was fighting against, a horrible example of all the deals done to make things go away and to keep things the same. Perhaps Gabriel was right, perhaps this was a way to atone for that one mistake. Maybe it would lift the weight that was pushing her down, bending her double. She looked into his eyes and nodded.
‘OK, I’ll help you,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll do whatever you want me to do.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, kissing her forehead. ‘Thank you, my love.’
She held up one finger. ‘But on one condition.’
‘Name it,’ he said.
‘Promise me that when we’re done and all this is over, you’ll get that sexy ass back on that chair and finish your novel.’
He threw his head back and laughed, and as he did so, he looked younger, more like the man she had seen that balmy night on Macrossan Street.
‘You’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘Now come on downstairs and let’s grab some champagne.’
27
‘Should I wear this, or this?’ asked Chrissy, holding up a slinky black dress in one hand and a tiny scarlet one in the other. Lying across the bed of their Capital Hotel suite, Miles barely looked up from the copy of The Times he had been reading. Neither dress was from their Harvey Nichols shopping trip before Christmas and both of them looked tarty. Then again, he was a long way past caring.
‘The black one,’ he said, his eyes not straying from the article he had become engrossed in: a review of a gig Year Zero had done the night before at the Brixton Academy. Rereading the text and examining the photo of the ‘hot Manchester four-piece’, Miles found himself becoming very irritable. Alex bloody Doyle, making the papers before him – and The Times at that! He pushed himself up and stalked to the minibar, unscrewing two bottles of Jack Daniel’s and pouring them into a glass simultaneously. It was the second time this week he’d felt a stab of envy: a Christmas card from Grace he’d seen propped up on the mantelpiece at Ashford Park had had the same effect. It was an expensive embossed affair featuring a black and white photograph of Grace, Gabriel and the children. Who did she think she was, Princess Diana? It didn’t seem two minutes ago that Alex was living with his mother in some horrid northern town and Grace was working as a deckhand in Australia, but that had all changed, hadn’t it? The grandeur of the Christmas card and the size of the review in The Times spelt out one thing in big capital letters: SUCCESS. His sister and his former best friend had found it, Miles hadn’t. Things weren’t supposed to have played out like this. He was Miles Ashford. A leader, an achiever. But honestly, what had he ever done? Burnt down a house in Oxfordshire?
Chrissy emerged from the bathroom in the red dress, tottering on a pair of very high black heels.
‘Come on, we’re late,’ she said, prodding Miles in the side with her cheap clutch bag.
‘No we’re not. It’s New Year’s Eve. Nothing is going to get going until ten at the earliest.’
‘By which point we won’t be able to find a taxi and the tubes will be packed.’
‘I’m not getting the tube,’ said Miles with disdain.
‘I forgot,’ said Chrissy sarcastically. ‘It’s beneath you.’
‘No, I just have standards,’ he said, pulling on his coat.
She touched his cheek, but he flinched away. ‘What is it, honey?’ she asked. ‘Are you still pissed off about your dad?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ve been in a bad mood since the party,’ she said.‘You’re not still thinking about it, are you? He was just angry about the wedding. He’ll come round.’
Miles was trying to put a brave face on it, but the truth was he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the party. Nor had he told Chrissy about his father’s ultimatum. Annul the marriage or you’re out of Ash Corp. You have until New Year to think about it. He still didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to annul the marriage, and he felt sure that a grovelling apology and a promise to send his new wife to finishing school would be an acceptable compromise. But did he want a life at Ash Corp. working as his father’s lapdog? For all his bluster in front of his mother, right now, he had no other better alternatives.
‘Let’s not talk about this now,’ he said, avoiding Chrissy’s searching gaze and heading for the door. ‘You’re right, we’d better go or we’ll be forced to get on the bloody tube.’
Piers Jackson was an old friend from Danehurst now working at Saatchi’s and living in a huge loft apartment in Covent Garden. The loft was full and thumping with dance music by the time Miles and Chrissy arrived, the guest list a mix of young adland, the old boys’ public school network and a smattering of assorted interesting others, models, DJs, and West End hipsters.
‘Milo!’ cried Piers as he walked out on to the roof terrace. ‘And who is this lovely young thing?’ he added, drinking in Chrissy and her tiny red dress.
‘This, Piers, is my wife.’
Piers did a double-take, then roared with laughter. ‘Good God, Milo, you had me going there for a moment.’
Chrissy smiled sweetly and stepped forward, offering her hand. ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ she said in her best plummy accent. ‘I’m Christine Ashford, delighted to meet you.’