‘Oh, I can,’ said Miles. ‘You see, if you don’t sign this now, I am calling the police.’
‘The police?’
‘You’ll be aware that infidelity is a criminal offence in Dubai. Punishable by twelve months’ imprisonment, I believe. It’s rarely upheld for foreigners unless a strong complaint is made to the authorities, but, as you know, I am very well regarded in the United Arab Emirates. And once the Dubai authorities see this DVD, I’m sure they’ll want this sort of behaviour held to account.’
Chrissy ran at him screaming, her fingers clawing at his face, but Miles caught her wrists and flung her into a chair.
‘I won’t do it!’ she hissed, her eyes blazing. ‘This is blackmail! I’ll fight it every inch of the way.’
‘You’ll be fighting it from a jail cell, and I hear the conditions in prisons over here are pretty grim. Mind you, I’m sure they’ll be interested in your lesbo show.’
‘Fuck you, Miles!’ she shouted.
‘No, fuck you,’ he spat, grabbing the contract and the pen and shoving them into her hands. ‘Did you really think you could screw me over, flaunt your affair with some underling in my face? No, you’ve fucked up, Chrissy, and there’s a price to be paid. Now sign.’
She looked up at him, her face a mask of hate. Then her shoulders slumped and her head hung down. She took the pen and signed the contract. Miles picked it up and slipped it into a leather document folder, then locked it in the safe. When he turned back, Chrissy was looking at him like a wolf with its leg caught in a trap. Which I suppose she is, he thought.
‘Please understand, this is just protection, Chrissy,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘It’s going to be far better if we work with each other rather than against one another.’
‘You can’t stop me seeing Bill,’ she said insolently.
He smiled cruelly. ‘I think you’ll find I can. I’m offering him the job as general manager of the Globe Sydney. That should be far enough to keep his filthy paws off you.’
‘He won’t take it.’
‘Oh he will. If he doesn’t, by the time I’ve finished muddying his reputation he won’t be able to get a job shovelling shit from the pavements in Soho.’
He stretched across to the small mahogany table and picked up the phone. ‘Room service?’ he said. ‘Mr Ashford here in the penthouse. I’d like you to prepare something special, perhaps that thing you do with quail? And retrieve a bottle of forty-seven Petrus from the cellar. My wife and I have something to celebrate.’
57
December 2008
When the Toddington Hall renovations were finally completed, after almost four years of work and five million pounds on structural and cosmetic alterations, Julian decided to throw a weekend house party to celebrate. To Grace’s disappointment, he invited art dealers, collectors and gallery owners, a very staid and serious crowd, and she was beginning to wish she’d laid on hors d’oeuvres on the terrace instead of a hog roast.
‘Never let it be said that your boyfriend doesn’t like the sound of his own voice,’ whispered Sarah Brayfield, loitering at the back of the west wing gallery, sipping a much-needed glass of red wine. Grace giggled behind her hand, feeling like a naught
y schoolgirl bunking off a field trip. They were forty-five minutes into a guided tour and had yet to leave the gallery, where Julian was standing in front of his paintings and talking expansively about his early abstract period.
‘He’s just proud of what he’s done.’ Grace smiled.
‘Well I’m not sure about the paintings, but you can’t fault what he’s done with this place,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m just hoping you’re going to adopt me and I can move into the bedroom in that Rapunzel turret.’
Her friend was right. Toddington Hall was absolutely spectacular. The house itself was a labyrinth of rooms, secret turrets and huge bedrooms, while the grounds had miles of woods, lush meadows and lanes flanked by lavender and cow parsley where Grace would spend hours riding her bike in the sun.
‘Well that’s enough about my daubings,’ said Julian. ‘Now I’ve got something a little special to show you. Follow me, everyone. To the screening room.’
Grace smiled at the guests, showing them towards Julian’s specially constructed darkroom. He was keen to show off his new project, ‘Newspeak’, a wall of sixty-four television screens which would randomly flick between TV stations around the world. He had installed a giant satellite screen on the roof for the purpose.
‘I think I’ve seen enough for one day,’ whispered Sarah as they sloped off to hide in the kitchen, toasty from the Aga filling the room with heat. ‘Feels like we’re back in the Bristol house,’ she said, settling at the farmhouse table. ‘Remember how the boiler was always on the blink? Either tropical conditions or icicles on the cold tap.’
Grace nodded and filled up their glasses. ‘That seems a lifetime ago.’
‘For you maybe,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m still single, childless, careless . . . only difference is its five-hundred-quid Frette sheets keeping me warm at night.’
‘You were adamant last month you like being single.’
‘I said I’m not afraid of being single. Thing is, I don’t want just anyone. I want the right one. Speaking of which, did you read about Alex and Melissa’s divorce? Sounds messy.’