‘We do. And of course I was the backer in the early days of Rivera. Is she still earning her keep?’
Miles did not miss Steven Ellis’ tight, fake smile: it told him more about the state of the company than anything a market analyst could cook up.
‘Sasha is Sasha.’ Steven shrugged, his smile never slipping.
After a few minutes of polite chit-chat, Randall and Steven disappeared across the lawns to check out the vintage car collection that had been parked beyond the bandstand. Miles and Arnaud exchanged raised eyebrows.
‘So what’s happening there?’ asked Miles. ‘Steven looked like he was sucking on a lemon at the mention of Sasha.’
‘No love lost between him and Ms Sinclair.’ Arnaud smiled.
Arnaud and his Argentinian wife Letizia were legendary social entertainers and were always to be found at the epicentre of London’s elevated social scene. Consequently, he could usually be relied upon to know the latest gossip.
‘Letizia was at lunch with Steven’s wife at Harry’s Bar on Friday,’ he said. ‘Apparently Steven and Sasha are barely speaking to one another these days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Steven is furious that despite all the hard work he puts into the company, Sasha takes all the reward. You heard she’s got an MBE for services to fashion?’
Miles shrugged. ‘To be fair, she did build the company up from nothing before the private equity boys got involved.’
‘Maybe,’ said Arnaud. ‘But she has never really been hands-on with the business side. That was always left to Steven and Lucian, the previous CEO. The company has only become an international force since they had a chief installed who knew what they were doing.’
Miles chuckled. ‘I don’t see what the problem is. After all, Sasha has always been a brilliant self-publicist. And now she’s just a glorified figurehead for Rivera, it gives her the opportunity to do what she does best: flouncing around the world in sexy little dresses talking about herself.’
‘Well, either way, Steven is pissed off. He’s tired of the entire business community thinking that Sasha is Donald Trump in stilettos, when really all she’s doing these days is confusing marketing with partying. She should be careful anyway. It can’t be good for business when the CEO and the president of Rivera can’t stand being the same room.’
Miles nodded, his neutral expression never betraying how he was absorbing every detail and formulating a plan. He had been watching Rivera more closely for a while now. Just before Christmas he’d had one of his team prepare a report on the company which told him that the label hadn’t been too affected by the recession thanks to clever diversification and a flourishing accessories and scent line. However, the fact that Steven and Sasha were at each other’s throats was good news; in fact, it was excellent news. Looking back, Miles had been naïve to get rid of his holding. At the time he had been happy with a hefty return on his original investment, but now, quite suddenly, he wanted Rivera back. After the death of Robert Ashford, he had promised his mother that he would not interfere with the company out of spite or revenge, but now she was gone, and anyway, circumstances had changed. He would never forgive Sasha for what she had done; plus this was business. Miles could do with a company like Rivera; a luxury goods firm would sit nicely next to the Globe and the Laing brands. It wouldn’t do his own image any harm either – he could be seen as a style leader, and that could open up all sorts of opportunites for Ash Corp.: cars, travel, jewellery, media, any area where design and trend-setting were key.
He stared out into the party as he began to think. Certainly the timing was bad. If he made a bid for the company now, it wouldn’t come cheap. He had an injection of cash coming in this summer – the Fairmont hotel group had made an excellent offer to buy Angel Cay – but that was all earmarked for the residential Mumbai project with Anil. And then there was Sasha to consider. Although she was only a minority shareholder and couldn’t officially block a sale, she could still make things very, very difficult. No, what he needed was an interim buyer, someone who wanted to get in and out quickly with a tidy return – but not too tidy. A name popped instantly into his head. Simon Assad. He was the French guy he remembered from Oxford, the one who had made his first million with a string of internet cafés in the big university towns and had gone on to be one of the sharpest financiers in town. Assad had a fund that was comprised partly from his own wealth but with the financial muscle of other major investors. And he loved short-term investments that would turn over a quick profit.
Miles took a long drink of his wine as he felt a surge of excitement: he was sure that Simon was the man for the job, but how to play it? He couldn’t tip Assad off directly that Rivera was ripe for an approach. No, he would have to share this information with a trusted source, who could then advise Assad to make the move himself. And then Miles would be perfectly poised to take the company over.
Seeing that Peter Mandelson had just arrived, he walked down the steps to greet him with a renewed spring in his step. Thanks, Daddy, he thought to himself. This party really is quite a splendid idea.
67
At thirty-seven, Simon Assad was a man in a hurry. He had graduated from Oxford at twenty, finished his MBA at Stanford three years later and quickly made his name with Denton Barnes, one of London’s top investment brokers. Now he was out on his own, he worked eighteen-hour days, six days a week and for the past five years had taken no holiday longer than a three-day break. The plan was to retire at forty, and as that milestone was hovering in the distance, he had just three years to make another hundred million dollars. Rivera would help him some way towards that goal.
On paper Rivera had been one of the most exciting investment opportunities in some time. A strong, glamorous brand, it had enormous potential to expand quickly and successfully into the Chinese and Indian markets which would make for a fast and profitable return – exactly what Assad was after. The tip-off had come to him from Nat Churchill, a friend from Oxford who was now one of the most respected bankers in the City. An initial bid had already been made to Randall Kane, which had allowed Assad to start due diligence: the process of assessing a business’ true worth before a sale.
Sipping a glass of mint tea, Simon looked at the documents in front of him. They were transcripts of interviews he had commissioned with the staff, getting their opinions on the company’s strengths and weaknesses. Staff members were often reluctant to take part, seeing this sort of thing as disloyal or e
ven dangerous – after all, who knew if the sale would go ahead and they might be left having slagged off the MD? But in this case, the company staff had been particularly open, either singling out Steven Ellis or Sasha Sinclair for praise. Everyone in the company was agreed that Steven was an excellent CEO but Sasha’s contribution, while more nebulous, was just as, if not more, crucial. She was a powerhouse networker and marketeer. More importantly she was the face of the brand, the person thousands of women wanted to be. For Simon it was a dilemma, as it was just as clear that Rivera couldn’t continue with them both. If he was going to buy the company he had to choose which one to keep as part of an ongoing management team. Which was why he had arranged supper at Mark’s Club with Nat Churchill, having asked his old friend to invite along Miles Ashford. Miles had been an early backer of Rivera, plus Nat had told him that he’d dated Sasha at school. Hopefully Miles would be able to give him some insight.
Ashford was late of course, breezing into the club with a silver-tipped umbrella and talking to half a dozen diners before he even got to the table.
‘Simon. You remember Miles Ashford from Oxford?’ said Nat as Miles finally sat down opposite him.
‘Of course,’ said Simon. Everyone knew Miles Ashford at Oxford. Assad had never actually met him – but he had seen him in the pubs along the river or smoking outside the Bodleian in his gold-piped military coat, like Napoleon on his lunch break. Usually Assad hated the gilded elite with their flash cars and braying girlfriends, but in a strange way he had admired Miles. The short-lived Youngblood Society was the stuff of Oxford legend, and Miles had gone on to make a huge success of the Globe brand without any support from his wealthy father, something which certainly demanded respect. Simon had expected him to spend supper boasting about his successes and name-dropping his celebrity connections, but in actual fact he was quiet and polite, laughing along at Nat’s overblown account of his recent expedition to Antarctica.
‘Just going for a slash, then I’m off,’ said Nat, glancing at his watch.
Both men watched him go.
‘Do you have to go too?’ asked Miles.
Simon shook his head. ‘Not really, why?’