Miles sat on the deck of the super-yacht Simba, listening to the gentle breeze ruffling the sails and the chink of the ice in his vodka. He had his own tub of course – the 125-foot Conifer he’d inherited from his mother – but the Simba, belonging to the Indian steel magnate Anil Chawla, was magnificent. Two hundred and forty feet of sleek engineering genius, it could glide along with wind power like an America’s Cup winner, or cruise effortlessly across the Pacific in a gale using the Rolls-Royce engines. Plus it had its own swimming pool. Luxury yachts were the boardrooms of the twenty-first century, where global deals were hatched in secret, and it was infinitely preferable to talk business here, moored off the coast of Corfu, than it was in some bland air-conditioned office block in London or Manhattan. Miles was not prone to envy, but he certainly admired this boat – and the man who owned it.
‘I’m sorry about your mother, Miles,’ said Anil. He was sixty years old and looked twenty years younger, his latte-coloured skin remarkably free of lines, his wiry body yoga-toned. He was worth a conservative estimate of twenty billion dollars, but the whisper was that there was far more hidden away.
‘Thank you,’ said Miles, looking away and sipping his drink. His grief was still raw. He had never been particularly close to Connie, in fact had only seen her two or three times a year in the past decade, but her loss had hit him harder than he had imagined. He had felt quite choked speaking at the funeral in front of four hundred people; his grief being worse because he simply hadn’t expected it. Despite her slight frame, Connie had always been the Ashford family’s powerhouse, and he just couldn’t believe she was dead. The precise events surrounding her death were still unclear, but apparently it was as simple and tragic as that she’d had a few too many drinks celebrating her grandchildren’s birthday and had got disorientated wandering around Julian’s monstrous mansion. One fall in the dark and that was it – she was gone.
They talked for a while about the people they knew in common. It felt good to be treated as an equal by someone of Anil’s stature.
‘I hear that the Chelsea Museum is about to come on the market,’ said Anil.
Miles had heard that rumour too. Every heavy-hitting developer was going to be after the site. It was without question the most exclusive pocket of London.
‘Are you going to bid?’
Miles shook his head. ‘Unlikely. I think I have enough property in London at the moment.’ The truth was that he wasn’t sure he could afford to take on the project. The last two years had been tough; they’d only just managed to scrabble out of the Las Vegas debacle by the skin of their teeth and he’d lost millions in the project in Dubai when the Middle Eastern bubble burst. The money was still coming in, but Ash Corp.’s reputation had been dented and Miles badly needed to spread out into new markets. And for that he needed allies.
‘Yes, I have seen your developments there – and in New York,’ said Anil. ‘In fact I bought my son one of your Hyde Park penthouses. ’
Miles was of course aware of that. In 2007, at the height of the market, Anil had bought it for forty-five million as a wedding gift for his son.
‘Well if London is overplayed for you, perhaps you will be more interested in this,’ said Anil. ‘I have just purchased a parcel of land in Mumbai. I have money to invest but not developing expertise. I think we could work well in partnership.’
Miles did not betray his feelings, but he was immediately excited. Ash Corp. had suffered in the downturn, but it was not a global depression. There were pockets – vast pockets – of prosperity. Wealth was shifting from the West to the East, the emerging nations riding a wave of conspicuous consumption, and India was a future superpower. Miles knew that his strategy of courting the super-rich, building them apartments beyond their own lurid dreams, would work perfectly there. But first he needed to establish a foothold.
‘What sort of figures are we talking about?’ he asked casually.
Anil shrugged and named a figure. A huge figure. A figure that represented a big risk for Ash Corp. If it succeeded, of course, Miles could buy his own version of the Simba. Something even bigger, sleeker. But if it failed – and foreign developments were fraught with endless hidden pitfalls, as he had found to his cost in Dubai – then the company would be dangerously exposed. Miles pursed his lips thoughtfully, his face a diplomatic mask. His poker face. Should he bet or fold? Push all his chips in the middle or stick with the safe option?
He smiled to himself. Safe wasn’t in Miles’ vocabulary. He had been adamant he would keep investing through the recession. Like a shark, if you stopped swimming, stopped moving forward, you just died. But the banks had tightened up their lending facilities even for clients as wealthy and prestigious as Ash Corp. They were unlikely to extend more credit to him unless he liquidated some assets first. He would need to free at least fifty million dollars in liquid cash just to get started. How could he get hold of that money so quickly without going to the banks?
A butler dressed in an all-white uniform handed him a glass of ice-cold lassi. It felt thick and creamy on his tongue. Corfu glistened in the distance and the answer became instantly clear to him. The island.
Not a year went by without someone making a serious offer for Angel Cay. American oil men, the wealthiest Hollywood celebrities, de luxe hotel groups. Lately it had appealed to Russian oligarchs and the new Chinese super-rich. But Robert Ashford, and then Connie, had always refused to sell. It was their sanctuary. Miles had no such love for the island, and after his parents’ death, it was his to do with as he liked. In fact, he would be glad to be free of it.
He put out his hand to Anil.‘I think you’ve got yourself a partner.’ He smiled.
66
June 2010
Although it was a ninety-minute journey from London to Miles Ashford’s Oxfordshire estate, everyone who had an invitation to his summer party came. It was a tradition his father had started – gather the top players in every field together, ply them with the finest wines and make them feel as if they were at one of the best parties of their li
ves. Miles had to hand it to the old man, it was a clever move. The party cost almost half a million pounds but it paid dividends in goodwill, great contacts and information.
As Miles looked down on to the lawns from the terrace, he knew he had scored another hit. It was the perfect sort of hot Sunday afternoon, the kind of hazy English summer day which made Ashford Park look particularly spectacular, and his party planners had done a splendid job converting the gardens into a vision of an Edwardian English park. There were pedaloes on the lake, a brass band playing a medley of Beatles hits in a striped bandstand, while the peacocks strutting around the lawns were no match for the guests – Mayfair hedge-fund kings, Hollywood stars, national treasures, sporting legends, Euro-royalty and dot-com billionaires. This wasn’t just a party. Miles’ summer party was now one of the key social events of the year.
He smiled as his friend Arnaud Dauphin the financier approached with two other guests.
‘Excellent party, Miles, as always,’ said Arnaud. ‘Do you know Randall Kane and Steven Ellis?’
Miles smiled broadly, shaking the men’s hands. He was aware of both men’s involvement with Rivera.
‘I’ve heard of both of you by reputation of course. Randall, I believe we met when I was out in New York?’
‘I do believe I dropped by the Globe Club more than once.’
‘You and the best of Manhattan.’ Miles smiled. ‘So how is the lovely Sasha?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Randall. ‘You two go back a long way if I remember correctly?’