Page 114 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘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.

Grace took the jug of lemonade outside into a shady courtyard where two children were riding around on bikes.

‘Wow! Little Grace clones!’ he laughed, looking at their thick blond hair and tanned skin. ‘They’re gorgeous, Grace. But then they would be.’

Grace led him to a shaded terrace where they sat down with their drinks.

‘So, come on, Mr Rock Star, what brings you to Ibiza?’ she asked. ‘Some big gig at one of the clubs?’

Alex shook his head and looked away. ‘Just getting a bit of space,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Ah, the life of a celebrity,’ said Grace.‘I tasted a bit of it in Parador. I didn’t like it much, I have to say.’

‘But what about you?’ said Alex. ‘What’s the new Evita doing in Ibiza?’

‘Three afternoons a week I teach at the local school, which I’m loving. And then there’s the photography which you know about.’

‘No. I meant what brought you here.’

‘Well, that’s a bit more complicated. An assassination attempt, a failed marriage. Discomfort at being the “new Evita” as you put it. Take your pick.’

‘And I always thought it was Miles who was surrounded by drama.’ As they sipped their lemonade, Grace filled him in on the last few years. Her trip to Australia, meeting Gabriel, the wedding, the twins and her life in a gilded cage in Parador. Then the car bomb, Caro’s death and Gabriel’s subsequent election defeat. Listening to her problems, Alex felt the weight of his own lift a little. Yes, they had both been trapped and both been hurt, but at least no one was trying to kill him. Looking more closely, he could see the tired rings under Grace’s eyes, the fact that she’d lost a lot of weight since the last photos he’d seen.

‘I was in England when the old government was re-elected in Parador,’ she was saying. ‘We flew out here straight after the election. ’

‘Why Ibiza?’

Grace shrugged. ‘I wanted somewhere quiet, safe and Spanish-speaking for the kids.’

‘So you’re really divorced?’