Kiss Heaven Goodbye (39 page)

‘Hey, great sweater.’

A blonde woman with feline eyes stepped over to Sasha and touched the beading on her top.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s my own label, actually.’

‘Really?’ asked the blonde appreciatively. ‘Where do you stock?’

‘Rivera, the store is in Ebury Street,’ said Sasha, handing her a business card.

‘Well I’ll definitely pop by,’ said the blonde, passing Sasha her own card.
Lucinda Clarke. Director Image PR
, it read.

‘You do publicity?’ said Sasha.

‘Talent publicity, yes.’

‘Who’s your client tonight?’

Lucinda smiled. ‘Kate, although she’s not here of course; she’s filming in Croatia of all places.’

Sasha immediately saw an opening. ‘I’m actually looking for a publicist for Rivera,’ she said as casually as she could, ‘although I don’t suppose you do corporate work?’

‘Honey, it’s my company.’ Lucinda laughed, touching Sasha’s arm. ‘We’ll take the work I say we take.’

‘Interesting,’ said Sasha, leading the woman towards the screening room. ‘In which case, I have a proposal for you.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve taken on another publicist,’ said Philip, storming his way into the small office above the Ebury Street store. Two weeks on from the
By Midnight
preview, the company’s financial woes had not improved. ‘Do I need to remind you we’re already paying for a very expensive publicist and that we have six months of their contract to run?’

‘Different sort of publicist,’ said Sasha, sitting down at her desk and spinning her Rolodex. ‘Not only is Lucinda going to get her clients into our clothes, she’s going to represent me.’

‘What on earth do
you
need a publicist for?’

Sasha just smiled inscrutably. She actually couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. While having every star in Hollywood wearing Rivera creations would be invaluable publicity, no one was a better ambassador for the brand than Sasha Sinclair herself.

‘You’re sure this PR bird can get Kate into the dress for tomorrow’s premiere?’ said Philip sceptically.

Sasha unzipped the clothes bag hanging on a rail and pulled out the dress Ben had created specifically for the star. It was a beautiful red silk sheath that wrinkled and shone in the light.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she said. ‘It was one of the conditions of Image PR getting our business, so stop worrying.’ She blew him a kiss, then picked up the phone and dialled Lucinda Clarke.

‘Darling, it’s Sasha at Rivera,’ she said briskly. ‘I was just wondering whether to bike Kate’s dress over to your office or to her hotel?’

There was a long, ominous pause down the receiver.

‘About that . . .’ said Lucinda slowly. ‘Kate’s LA manager wanted to know who the designer of her premiere dress was going to be. When I said Rivera, he had a typical LA hissy fit.’

Sasha felt her pulse quicken.‘I don’t understand what the problem is,’ she said.

‘This is LA, Sasha. He wants his client in a named designer. Armani or Gaultier, something like that. Yes, I know it’s narrow-minded and snobbish, but in Hollywood, management calls the shots.’

You double-crossing bitch,
thought Sasha, but this was no time to let emotion get in the way.

‘Lucinda,’ she said coolly, ‘I thought we had an agreement.’

‘Darling, I’ve tried,’ protested the publicist.

Sasha took a tiny sip of her iced water. She was livid, but she knew she had to tread carefully. This was still her best chance of saving the label and Lucinda was one enemy she could not afford to make – even if she had just stitched her up.

‘So what are you going to do about it? We have’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘approximately twenty-two hours to salvage something from this.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Lucinda. ‘Maybe I could get Greg Nicholls’ girlfriend to wear one of your dresses?’

Sasha put a hand over her eyes.
A girlfriend?

‘Who is this girlfriend?’ she sighed.

‘Giselle Makin.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She’s an actress and model, absolutely beautiful. And Greg
is
the movie’s leading man. She’ll be very visible on the red carpet.’

As if the tabloids would be interested in a nobody like her,
thought Sasha. She looked across at Philip who was desperately making ‘What the hell’s up?’ gestures. But then she noticed something behind Phil. Propped up in the corner of the office was a roll of blush-pink silk georgette. And Sasha had a sudden flash of inspiration.

‘Visible on the red carpet, you say?’ she said, smiling.

Sasha and Ben worked around the clock. At 3 a.m., when Ben started making irritable noises about needing to leave, Sasha took the only key they had to the studio door and flushed it down the toilet.

‘We’re not getting out of here until Philip lets us out at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she told him sternly. Sasha could sympathise, of course. It was impossible to make a bespoke dress to Ben’s exacting standards in eighteen hours – usually it took weeks – so they were adapting an existing sample instead. Carefully Sasha unpicked a long satin-faced organza skirt from the old dress while Ben got to work constructing the bodice. It was Ben’s design but Sasha’s vision; she knew exactly what she wanted the dress to achieve.

By the time the birds starting singing in the street outside, the gown was taking shape, and at nine thirty, black rings under her eyes, Sasha took the dress directly to Giselle Makin’s Notting Hill apartment where she met Lucinda. Sasha wasn’t entirely surprised by Giselle’s reaction the first time she tried the dress on; clinging to every generous curve of the actress’ body, it left very little to the imagination.

‘Oh God,’ she said as she looked in the mirror, her eyes wide. ‘Greg is going to kill me.’

‘Greg won’t be able to keep his eyes off you,’ said Lucinda reassuringly as Sasha made some adjustments with her stylist’s pin box and sewing kit. Giselle did indeed look sensational. Her deep strawberry-blond hair looked like the most precious amber against the natural pink blush of the gown. Sasha just knew the media were going to go mad for her – hell, she was even going to have Hollywood knocking on her door after this red-carpet appearance. Lucinda was obviously thinking the same thing.

‘She looks incredible,’ she gushed. ‘How can I thank you?’

‘You can start by sorting out a couple of VIP tickets for the premiere,’ she said. ‘I need them biking around to Holland Park immediately.’

Lucinda looked puzzled. ‘You and Phil have tickets, don’t you?’

‘Oh, they’re not for us.’ Sasha smiled. ‘They’re for another
very
important guest.’ The second stage of her plan was about to begin.

The two most sensational women on the red carpet at the
By Midnight
premiere were wearing Rivera. One of them was the fashion company’s CEO. Striding out confidently in her silver minidress, Sasha bathed in the blinding light of the paparazzi’s flashbulbs, knowing this was the start of the media’s serious interest in her. But it was Giselle who made the press erupt into a feeding frenzy. As she followed Greg out of their limousine, she kept a respectful two paces behind him, but not for long. The silk georgette corset of her dress, which in the car had looked merely a soft pink, appeared to turn completely transparent in the glare of the flashbulbs. The roar of the crowd in Leicester Square was deafening.‘Giselle! Giselle! Over here!’ they yelled, ignoring all the other stars walking up to the theatre. She played her part brilliantly, a half-smile on her face as she moved slowly along the red carpet, the wide graceful skirt of the dress billowing like a cloud of apple blossom, her semi-translucent corset revealing her dark brown nipples. It was an incredibly flattering dress, one that made Giselle look part saint, part sinner, a beautiful fallen angel caught between heaven and hell.

‘I think we can call that a job well done,’ whispered Philip, planting a warm kiss on the back of Sasha’s neck.

‘Not quite yet,’ said Sasha, looking back down the carpet, her eyes searching for new arrivals. Then finally she spotted them: Robert and Connie Ashford hurrying past the photographers.

‘What have you got up your pretty little sleeve this time, Sinclair?’ Philip chuckled as he watched a satisfied smile spread across Sasha’s face.

‘We’re going to expand into America,’ she said simply, ignoring his confused expression.

‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘We have meetings with Neiman Marcus and Saks in a week’s time.’

‘No, I mean
really
take America. I want our own Rivera store on Fifth Avenue, Phil,’ she said, turning into the cinema.

‘But we can’t afford—’

She cut him off. ‘And I want it by this time next year.’

The next morning, Giselle Makin was on the front of every major publication, although her erect nipples had been discreetly airbrushed into respectability. And from the
Sun
’s women’s pages to the
Telegraph
’s fashion column, they were all asking if the designer of Giselle’s dress, Rivera, was the New Dior. Not since Gianni Versace had sent the four supermodels down his 1990 Autumn/Winter runway had a designer made such a splash. It was better than Sasha had dared hope. Lucinda Clarke was calling her every five minutes with another request for an interview or a quote from the new fashion sensation, but Sasha had something else to do first. For a moment she let her hand rest on top of her battered old 1990 Filofax. Miles had given her Robert Ashford’s direct line just before their holiday to Angel Cay that summer.
It
’
s strictly for emergencies, Sash
. Well, five years later, Sasha felt it was time to make the call. Not an emegency per se, but important enough.

‘Robert. It’s Sasha Sinclair.’

‘Sasha, what a surprise,’ he said, sounding genuinely pleased to hear from her. ‘I believe we have you to thank for yesterday’s impromptu night out.’

‘I know you and Connie have always been so supportive of my career. I’ve never forgotten your words of wisdom and encouragement. ’

‘I believe I told you to go to university. Shows what I know.’ He laughed.

She took a breath, then ploughed on. ‘Listen, Robert, I have a proposal for you. It concerns my fashion company Rivera. If you’ve seen this morning’s papers, you’ll be aware of it.’

‘Continue,’ he said, his bonhomie immediately replaced by a businesslike tone.

‘It’s a win-win situation if you like,’ she said, purring into the telephone. ‘I want to expand the company into America, you always want to make more money and get a foothold in a new market. And Robert, here’s how we’re going to do it . . .’

37

Alex shifted his hired Jeep into second gear as he turned into a tight hairpin bend.
Ibiza is hot
, he thought tapping the air-con.
I wish I had a drink
. The last seven days had been the first time in years he had been completely sober. Ironic really, considering this was one place where anything you wanted was freely available. He wound down the window and breathed in the air – a wooded blend of pine trees, salt and dusty soil that seemed unique to the northern tip of the island.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn
’
t have noticed any of that
, he thought. It hadn’t been any fun staying straight, that was for sure, but there were a few up sides, he supposed. Besides, he knew it was his only chance of survival. It had been ten days since Emma had left him and he had immediately gone on a huge bender; he could barely remember any of it, but he did know he had been found slumped in a cubicle in the toilets at the Groucho, blood and vomit caked on his torn shirt. His girlfriend’s departure had left a huge gap inside him and it was far too tempting to keep pouring booze into that deep, deep hole. So he had caught a taxi straight to Heathrow and taken the first flight he could get – it just happened to be going to Ibiza.

He ducked his head to squint at the expensive villas on his right. There it was – Villa des Fleurs. He felt a shiver despite the heat. It was hard to believe that pure chance alone had brought him to this island. It couldn’t just be random, could it? He turned into the driveway, then leant over to press the intercom buzzer next to the high steel gates. He felt a terrible flurry of nerves as the gates swung open and he caught sight of the rambling whitewashed villa and the pink bougainvillea climbing up to the teak shutters.

For a moment, he thought about throwing the Jeep into reverse and getting the hell out of there.
But someone or something wants me here,
he reasoned.
No point in fighting it, is there?
He parked the car and clambered out just as the villa’s front door opened.

‘Hi, Grace.’ He smiled. Her thick, dark-honey-coloured hair hung loose down her back, her fringe framing her deep blue eyes. She wore brown leather sandals, jeans and a white shirt in some flimsy fabric that looked a little see-through in the sun. He’d seen pictures of her in the broadsheets looking grown-up and intimidating in smart dresses and dark sunglasses, just like the politician’s wife she was. But this style suited her better; she looked like the old Grace.

‘So are you going to invite me in or let me burn to a crisp out here?’ he asked.

‘I forgot.’ She smiled. ‘Musicians never see daylight, do they?’

Walking into the villa, he looked around the cool rustic space while she poured him a glass of fresh lemonade.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said, shaking her head. Neither could he. When he’d arrived in Ibiza, he’d deliberately taken the most isolated hotel he could find, needing to sleep, detox and just hide away from the world, but by the third day he was feeling stir-crazy – and, if he was honest, desperate for a drink. He’d headed into Ibiza town, gone into the first bar and ordered a frozen marguerita. While it was being mixed, he picked up a local magazine on the bar and read about a photography exhibition featuring the work of one ‘Grace Hernandez’, the politician’s wife, who now lived on Ibiza’s north coast. He left a thousand-peseta note on the counter and walked out of the bar without looking back.