‘I’ve never made him promises.’
‘Good.’
His smile pleased her. Recently they’d celebrated the fifth anniversary of their relationship. It was longer than most marriages in their world. Yes, Sasha sporadically dated other men, but whenever Robert called, she would come running. He was her north point, the only other passion that co-existed with her business in her universe. She didn’t like being possessed, even if it was her choice, but she still wanted to feel desired.
‘I’m a single girl, Robert,’ she said. ‘I can do what I please.’
‘Don’t go playing hard to get,’ he said, turning her around and kissing the back of her neck. ‘Not when I’ve got something special planned for us both tomorrow.’
He slid his hand into her dress and cupped her breast, rubbing the nipple with his palm. She tipped her head back and moaned. She wanted him inside her now, and from the hardness of his cock, she could tell he wanted her too.
‘The door’s locked,’ he mumbled into her hair.
Suddenly she took a step away from him and turned around. ‘Well you’d better go and unlock it,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the party.’
He looked at her, puzzled.‘Sasha, we’ve got a private minute here. Let’s make the most of it.’
God, she wanted him, but she knew it was time to play a different game. It was time
to start calling the shots. The truth was, she’d hated seeing him arrive with Connie, hated the polite, remote way he’d spoken to her when they had been standing with mutual friends. She knew it was the price of their secret romance, but it was a price she was no longer going to pay.
‘Sasha. I can’t go back out there. I’ve got a hard-on the size of Africa.’
She looked him up and down witheringly. ‘Hmm. Looks like you’re going to have to stay here for a little while then,’ she replied flatly, handing him an interiors magazine from the bedside table as she headed for the door. ‘But don’t worry, we can pick up where we left off tomorrow.’
‘Remind me why I’m here?’ said Sarah Brayfield as she watched Sasha Sinclair glide down the stairs.
‘She’s not that bad,’ smiled Grace, glad that her former flatmate had come to the party with her. Sarah’s no-nonsense approach hadn’t changed over the years – Grace suspected it was essential in her job as a media litigation lawyer – and it was refreshing to go to a society party with someone who didn’t think everything was ‘fabulous’.
‘She is that bad, Grace!’ said Sarah. ‘You might have forgotten what a pain in the arse she was that holiday in Angel Cay, but I haven’t. She’s poisonous and she always will be.’
‘Ah, the tolerance, the generosity of spirit; Sarah Brayfield, how I’ve missed you.’ Grace giggled.
The two women clinked their cocktail glasses together. As part of her plan to build bridges she had burnt over the years, Grace had contacted Sarah straight after Freya’s wedding and was delighted when she had agreed to be her ‘date’ for the party. It was hard to believe that she hadn’t seen her since she had left for Thailand all those years ago. That, Grace now realised, was the real tragedy of Angel Cay. It had robbed her of her friends.
‘When are you coming back to London, Gracie?’ asked Sarah. ‘I’ve still not forgiven you for buggering off to Australia and marrying Che Guevara.’
‘You mean the father of my children,’ she said, raising one eyebrow.
‘Yes, him. And then you go off and lead the bloody good life in Ibiza. You know I never saw you as the Spanish Felicity Kendal. Come on, you’ve got to admit you miss London?’
Grace pulled a face.
‘Well all right then, you must miss me at least? I promise I’ve cleaned up my act. I don’t even drink snakebite and black any more on a night out. It’s all elegant cocktails and good behaviour now.’
‘I should think so. I’d hate to think of you staggering around the High Court reeking of booze.’
They laughed.
‘Seriously, though, we do have to get out on the pull,’ said Sarah. She had never married – another of the things she had inherited from her hippy parents was a distrust of the institution – and had only recently split up from her barrister boyfriend of three years. ‘I mean, when was the last time you had sex, Grace? If you tell me it’s last century I’m going have to batter you with this cocktail umbrella.’
‘It’s hard being a single mum.’
‘Excuses, excuses.’
‘I’m serious,’ protested Grace. ‘I was at Glasgow airport the other day and this Ewan McGregor lookalike smiled at me at the baggage carousel. You should have seen his face when the kids came to help me with the luggage.’
‘Well I saw Julian Adler clocking you earlier.’