Miles curled a lip. ‘And I am interested in Ben Rivera because . . . ?’
She had to be honest with him. This office was the Last Chance Saloon. She had spent the last eighteen months walking a commercial tightrope; she needed wealthy investors, but she knew that looking for money on her rich social circuit might alert people to Ben’s potential. Already word was getting round the industry that he was a name to watch out for, especially since he had made a gown for Princess Diana. So Sasha had encouraged him to stay small, working on spectacular bespoke pieces while she tried to find someone to give her the money to steal the business out from under him.
‘You should be interested because everyone is interested in fashion now; everyone wants to buy into a slice of designer living. Image is everything, Miles. You’ve bought into that yourself with the Globe. But in the next ten years the top fashion houses will become billion-dollar brands with infinite brand extension opportunities. Here’s the business plan,’ she said, putting a slim folder in front of him. ‘That will show you how I’m going to do it.’
Miles sighed, flipping through the folder without interest. ‘And how much are you looking for?’
‘A million pounds,’ said Sasha calmly. ‘Three hundred thousand to buy Ben out, the rest for capital investment: a store in a chic street in London and the nuts and bolts of creating a ready-to-wear operation. Fabric, a manufacturer in Italy, distribution and so on.’
Miles folded his hands in front of him on the desk. ‘So let me get this right,’ he said with a superior smile. ‘Three hundred thousand buys you a controlling interest in Ben Rivera. Let’s say a sixty per cent stake. But you want to keep hold of a majority shareholding, which is fifty-one per cent. The designer also retains a share. So where does that leave the investor? You can’t honestly expect anyone to invest a million pounds for a ten per cent stake in a back-street fashion designer, can you?’ He gave a little laugh she recognised well, the laugh he reserved for people he pitied or felt were beneath him.
‘Ben Rivera is not a back-street designer,’ she said firmly. ‘His will be the next big name in fashion.’
Miles looked bored. ‘And who’s the management team?’
‘There’s me, of course.’
Miles laughed. ‘Spending money was always your strong point, Sasha, not making it.’
Sasha tried not to flinch. The management team was the weak part of her plan. She was completely convinced of her own abilities and the potential of the Rivera brand, but she was well aware that investors saw ‘creative’ types as a liability. They wanted to see that other people like them – steady, analytical people with a track record in business – were prepared to get involved in the project.
‘I have Philip Bettany, an analyst at Schroder’s, as my financial director.’
She hadn’t officially asked Phil if she could use his name, of course, and she had zero expectation that he would give up a glittering career in the financial sector to help his sort-of-girlfriend out with her silly dresses, but she wasn’t going to let Miles know that.
Miles nodded, looking much more impressed. ‘Well, he should know what he’s talking about at least,’ he said, tossing the business plan on his desk. ‘Trouble is, I haven’t got a million quid to give you.’
Sasha swallowed. She had expected resistance, even out-and-out refusal, but not this.
‘Bullshit, Miles,’ she said. ‘What about your trust funds?’
He held his hands open. ‘They’re bankrolling this place.’
‘I thought that was your father’s job?’
Miles shook his head. ‘You have the wrong information.’
She felt panic rising. She couldn’t leave this room without the money; what would she do? She’d tried every other avenue and it was only a matter of time before someone else spotted Ben’s potential.
‘You owe me, Miles,’ she said quietly.
‘And how exactly do I owe you?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. That night on Angel Cay, the body of the boat boy.’
‘What body?’ he said. ‘There was no body.’
‘Really? Well perhaps we should get the Bahamas police to interview Grace and Alex. That should jog everyone’s memory.’
He held up a hand. ‘Look, OK, so we all saw this guy on the beach. We all agreed to ignore it. All of us. But then it turns out the fucker wasn’t so dead after all. He nicked a boat and buggered off. So don’t pretend you have something over me. All we had was a thief, not a body.’
Sasha shook her head slowly. ‘You almost battered someone to death, Miles. How’s that going to go down with your little showbiz chums? I can’t see them flocking around when the story gets out.’
‘I did not batter anyone,’ he growled, gripping the front of his desk.
‘You know it, I know it, Grace and Alex know it. Why else do we all avoid each other like the plague?’
‘You don’t know anything,’ he spat. ‘Why the hell would I even care about that stupid deckhand?’