‘Listen, Em, I got drunk and I missed a gig, that’s all it is.’
She looked at him, her eyes puffy red crescents. ‘No, that’s not all it is,’ she said sadly. ‘You’re on self-destruct, Alex; something’s eating away at you like maggots and I can’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself any more.’
Hazy morning light was pouring through the windows. Six months in the flat and they had never got round to putting curtains up; they hadn’t been there enough for it to matter. Sunlight sparkled off her deep red hair and he could see her eyes were glistening. In a strange way she had never looked more beautiful.
‘Emma, please, I know this isn’t what you want.’
She shook her head. ‘No. It isn’t what I want. But it’s what I need.’
‘Marry me,’ he said, sinking to his knees and grabbing her hands.
She pulled away from him. ‘Ah, the big romantic gesture that makes it all go away.’ She laughed sarcastically. ‘It’s too late, Alex, much too late.’
‘It’s not just a gesture!’ cried Alex. ‘I’m asking you to be my wife! Please, all I want is to be with you. Just tell me what’s wrong, and I can change.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re not going to change, Alex,’ she said regretfully. ‘Not until you work out what’s wrong.’
He looked at her sadly, wishing he could talk to her about the one thing in his life that was screwing him up. He had never told her about the island. He had wondered many times if it was why it sometimes felt lonely in the relationship. Secrets isolated people. Secrets made you dishonest. And how good could a relationship be if it was dishonest?
He clenched his fists together, dismissing the thought. This relationship was a good one. Emma was a good one.
She stood up and picked up her denim jacket and her handbag. ‘I’ll get someone to pick the boxes up later in the week.’
He felt in free-fall. ‘Emma, please! You can’t go!’ he shouted, his voice choking.
But she was already at the front door. And then she was gone.
36
May 1995
Sasha was broke. So broke, in fact, she wasn’t sure she could afford the taxi fare. She looked out of the window as London slipped by and wondered how she had managed to spend three quarters of a million pounds so quickly. First of all, buying a majority stake from Ben had cost her more than she’d thought once he’d got a lawyer involved, then there was the scandalous cost of a leasehold on a small retail premises on Belgravia’s Ebury Street, not to mention the crippling costs of turning the bespoke operation into a ready-to-wear label: fabric, pattern cutters, shop staff, plus regular visits to the Milanese factory manufacturing the designs. Some days it just felt like they were shovelling cash into a big furnace and watching it burn.
And now she was the boss, Sasha had to deal with everything from electricity bills to managing Ben’s ego. It had taken every ounce of her charm and patience to persuade Ben that while his gowns were the last word in luxury, they were not going to build a fashion empire with red-carpet dresses – they needed clothes women could wear every day. So, after weeks of cajoling, he had finally agreed to expand his designs from eveningwear into daywear – and what designs they were. Cashmere sweaters beaded with seed pearls, light wool pencil skirts, jackets with nipped-in waists and crystal buttons, shirts with tulle appliqué detail. It was a confection of timeless, low-key luxury; it was perfect.
But the clothes, of course, were only the beginning. Next they had to persuade the fashion press that Rivera – Sasha had insisted the ‘Ben’ be removed to avoid it being too aligned to its founder – was a label worth talking about. Which was exactly why Sasha and Philip were in a taxi pulling up in front of BAFTA’s headquarters on Piccadilly.
‘Hang on,’ said Philip, as he saw the party decorations. ‘I thought we were here to see a film?’
‘No, this is work,’ said Sasha. ‘It’s always work, remember?’
Philip rolled his eyes. It was a standing joke between the two of them that Sasha had become a serious workaholic. She was working fifteen hours a day shuttling between the studio, the shop and after-hours parties to network and spread the word. She was CEO, creative director and head of public relations all in one.
‘This is a cast and crew preview for By Midnight,’ she explained, linking her arm through his. ‘The premiere is in two weeks and the word is it’s going to be the biggest British movie of the year. I’ve had to pull every string just to get us in here.’
‘But what’s this got to do with the label?’ he frowned.
‘Kate Williams is the star of the movie and I want her in a Rivera dress for the premiere.’
Philip gave her a cynical look. Even he knew it was a long shot, but long shots were all they had left. They had spent the last month brainstorming marketing plans, but everything they came up with, even the wildest ideas, cost money. Philip had been pushing to run a print campaign for the Autumn/Winter collection in Vogue but Sasha knew it was hopeless. Financially, magazine advertising was way out of their reach: a photographer to shoot the thing, models, locations, film, processing, on top of the cost of actually placing the ad. They were talking a hundred grand before they even blinked.
‘Come on, we can do this,’ said Sasha, smiling up at him as they entered the BAFTA offices. She certainly looked the part of ass-kicking fashionista: in skin-tight black cigarette pants with a cashmere Rivera twinset, she looked like a sexy cross between a Mitford sister and Marianne Faithfull.
Philip reached over and squeezed her hand, but she let go of it immediately. ‘Business, remember,’ she said and walked inside.
Shit, Kate Williams isn’t here, she thought with sinking disappointment as she scanned the bar area.
Lately she couldn’t help but think she was swimming against the tide. The company needed a break and they needed it quickly. Without a much higher profile, Rivera was doomed. She looked around the crowd, hoping for the late arrival of the leading lady. As she did so, Jason Abbot, one of the supporting actors in the movie, gave her a lazy, mischievous smile. It was a look Sasha was used to: interest, desire. She smiled back and wondered if she should cross the room and follow it up. A famous boyfriend would certainly be beneficial when it came to the business. But then she glanced over at Philip laughing with the film’s director and she felt a flush of guilt. She wasn’t in love with Phil Bettany – she had no time for any such complications – but she was certainly fond of him. More importantly, she needed him. Not only did he have a six per cent shareholding – a condition Miles had stipulated for his investment – he had also given up his job at Schroder’s to become Rivera’s chief operating officer and was proving invaluable on the commercial side of the business, negotiating with the factories, structuring credit facilities with the fabric suppliers: keeping the ship steady. She glanced at the actor again: he was still looking. No, she thought firmly, I mustn’t. I really mustn’t.