‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘Smashing.’
Flashbulbs popped as they went into the party. ‘Oi, Melissa, one of you on your own, eh love?’ shouted a photographer and Alex stepped to the side as she posed alone. It had happened before, of course – for some reason Alex’s music hadn’t taken off in the UK in the same way as it had in the States – but tonight it annoyed him more than usual. We’re supposed to be together, tonight of all nights, he thought. Finally, they went inside and Alex immediately approached a waiter holding a tray of drinks.
‘Champagne, please,’ he said.
‘Oh no, can you fix us two Virgin Bellinis?’ interrupted Melissa.
‘But we’re celebrating, aren’t we?’ frowned Alex.
‘Al, we don’t need to get wasted to celebrate, you know.’
He was just about to argue when a face across the room caught his attention. Grace was here! He looked up and waved.
‘Who’s that?’ said Melissa.
‘Who?’ he said distractedly.
‘The fat one in the blue dress.’
He turned on her. ‘Hey, that’s an old friend of mine.’
Melissa pouted. ‘Someone else you’ve slept with, then.’
‘No! I haven’t slept with her, she’s just an old friend. And a lovely person.’
Melissa’s face softened. ‘Sorry, honey,’ she said, slipping a hand around his waist. ‘It’s just I don’t want you getting away from me now I’ve snared you.’
Snared me? thought Alex. ‘I’m not going anywhere, you know that.’
‘Well, great, let’s go and tell your friend the news.’
‘What news?’
‘The “we’re getting married” news, stupid.’
He felt his cheeks flush. ‘Of course. Well, maybe later,’ he said, suddenly feeling tongue-tied and embarrassed. ‘Don’t you want to tell your friends first?’
But Melissa had already gone, trotting over to another super-groomed blonde woman. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘you’ll never guess, but I’ve got some fabulous news . . .’
And when Alex looked around for Grace, she had gone.
Sasha loved the venue for her party; she only wished it hadn’t come with strings attached. Chambrey Park was not quite the biggest private residence in the Home Counties but it was, quite possibly, the prettiest. The cut-glass chandeliers sparkled diamonds of light around the restored ballroom which was lined with beautiful modernist art: Warhol, Basquiat, Matisse. Its owner, Abu Dhabi billionaire Iftaka Khani, had been extremely generous in offering Sasha his house for her thirtieth birthday party. Generous, but not altogether altruistic. He had taken a great shine to the beautiful entrepreneur, lavishing her with gifts, dinners and invites to his many homes around the globe, and as Sasha was officially single, and he was one of the most eligible bachelors in London, he clearly thought it was only a matter of time before they would become an item. He certainly had made an effort. The catering had been done by the Fat Duck restaurant, just a stone’s throw away in Bray, and the music was courtesy of Fatboy Slim. That alone must have cost a fortune. Still not enough, thought Sasha with a shiver, thinking of Iftaka’s fifty-inch waist and hairy hands.
She walked through the party exchanging air-kisses and compliments, then stopped on the mezzanine balcony. Behind her through long windows she could just see the River Thames glinting in the moonlight, while in front of her the party was crackling with laughter and energy, the guest list a glamorous mix of old money, new money, fashion legends and Hoxton hipsters. She smiled as she remembered the times she’d had to sweet-talk bouncers to get into the sought-after London parties. But fashion had been kind to her, sweeping her up on the crest of a wave and giving her a place in society, not to mention a flourishing business. What was it that Vogue had said about the Rivera label recently? That its fans were buying into the fantasy of Sasha Sinclair’s lifestyle: chic, successful new millennium glamour. Well it was a fantasy she had created all by herself, she thought. This party was full of so-called ‘self-made people’ who’d actually been backed by family money or wealthy spouses. Yes, Sasha had needed investment too, but she had used every ounce of ingenuity, every contact, every business advantage; she’d worked ruthlessly to make it happen.
Ruthless. That was what Ben Rivera had called her when she’d finally pushed him out kicking and screaming, although she’d noticed that he didn’t refuse the five-million-pound pay-off. ‘Rivera will never succeed without me!’ he had declared. Well he was wrong. She’d swiftly hired a talented young French designer, and with Sasha firmly steering the design, she had taken the company to even greater heights – it had recently been valued at a hundred million dollars. No, it was an amazing place to be at thirty, but still Sasha felt a pang of sadness. There was one person missing from this party: her father. Twelve months ago Gerald Sinclair had had a stroke which left him paralysed down one side. Although some speech and mobility had returned slowly, he was still a shadow of himself and she hadn’t been surprised when her mother had turned up at the party without him. She smiled to herself. If Ben Rivera thinks I’m ruthless, he’s never met my mother.
Her mobile phone was buzzing. Irritated, she snapped it open and then smiled at the message. ‘First bedroom on the second floor,’ it read.
Robert was waiting for her, silhouetted against the window. She locked the door and went over to him, running her hands over his shoulders.
‘Where’s Connie?’ she whispered.
‘Talking to Iftaka Khani.’
‘Ironic,’ said Sasha.
He looked at her seriously. ‘There’s nothing going on there, is there? You and Iftaka. I mean, it’s good of him to do this . . .’