Quickly Grace scooped the unstirring twins up and walked to the door as Isabella gave them a final goodbye kiss.
‘You will look after Gabe, won’t you?’ she asked, tears in her eyes.
‘Of course, he will be fine.’ Isabella opened the door and Grace stepped through. ‘And Grace?’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine too.’
I only hope you’re right, thought Grace, biting on her lip to stop herself from sobbing. I only hope you’re right.
34
March 1994
Sasha had never spent more time preparing for a meeting; she would hardly have taken more care over her appearance if it had been Oscar night. She had tried on everything in her wardrobe, rejected the lot, then trawled Bond Street before deciding that her favourite Ben Rivera day dress was by far the most flattering and, of course, appropriate. As she was shown up to the office, she felt pretty good. She was tall and slender thanks to four-inch heels and a week on a drastic Ryvita diet and her blond hair was long and glossy thanks to a three-hundred-pound cut and colour at Neville. Of course, she would have perferred to be coming here with a successful career to boast about – at the very least, an eight-carat engagement ring. But then this wasn’t a social call. She had only come because she had to.
‘Hello, Miles,’ she said, walking into the Globe Club office, swaying her hips. The years had been kind to Miles Ashford, she thought, taking a seat opposite him. In a sharply tailored navy suit, accessorised by just a tan, her ex-boyfriend had transformed from an attractive yet gangly youth into a handsome twenty-three-year-old man oozing confidence and polish.
I’d be oozing confidence if I owned the Globe, thought Sasha begrudgingly. The Covent Garden club was unquestionably the hippest, most elite place in town. On the way up to Miles’ top-floor office, she’d seen two actors, a rock band and a group of writers in intense discussion over cappuccinos. London was gathering a buzz as the place to be – not since the sixties, when Mary Quant, Shrimpton, Bailey and the Stones had helped make it a global mecca for all things cool had the capital had such a feeling of possibility and excitement. And right now, the Globe Club was at the epicentre of it all; the place to be seen.
‘Tea?’ asked Miles, reclining in his Eames chair and buzzing his secretary. Sasha bristled at being treated like any other corporate guest, but then again, any hopes of a private, intimate tête-à-tête had been dashed when he had suggested meeting at his office.
‘Only tea?’ She smiled. ‘In the old days it would have been a cheeky lunchtime martini.’
‘I don’t drink on duty, Sasha. In fact, I rarely drink at all these days.’
‘Things have changed,’ she said, genuinely surprised.
A beautiful girl dressed in tight black cigarette pants came in and placed a tray of tea on the leather-topped table. Miles barely took his eyes off the girl while she was in the room, a gesture Sasha felt sure was for her benefit.
‘So how are you?’
‘Fine.’ She smiled. ‘Congratulations on your wedding, by the way. What does your wife do again?’
Miles’ mouth tightened into a line. ‘Chrissy is a partner in the business with me.’
‘Yes, I heard she was a hostess. That must be useful with a place like the Globe Club.’
They looked at each other, two fighting dogs circling, neither willing to back down.
Miles put a dainty cup in front of Sasha, rattling it in the saucer. ‘What do you want, Sash?’
‘I have a very exciting business opportunity for you.’
Miles gave a small laugh. ‘
You mean you want to borrow some money.’
Sasha had always known this wasn’t going to be easy, but she was determined not to wither under his mocking gaze.
‘You’re twenty-three years old, Sasha. What do you know about business?’
‘I could say the same about you.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But here you are, on top of the world.’
‘I found my calling,’ said Miles grandly.
‘Well it’s the same with me,’ she replied. ‘The aim of my business is to help make women look fabulous. And I was always top-notch at looking good, wasn’t I?’
Miles just shrugged non-committally and suddenly Sasha hated him. Miles Ashford with his family money and Oxbridge attitude. Without his trust funds he’d be nothing, and yet here he was, lording it over her like some ancient king. If she and his other friends hadn’t kept quiet . . . She took a breath. She was here for a reason, not to dredge up the past.
‘I am working with a couturier called Ben Rivera,’ she said, trying to maintain a businesslike tone. ‘It’s a small operation making red-carpet gowns; he’s as good as Lagerfeld or Lacroix, better even. The trouble is his outfit has little commercial backing, and as yet, it’s not geared up for any mainstream production or distribution.’