Page 186 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘I’ve got some excellent Scotch back at mine. Vintage single malt from a tiny distillery on Jute. We didn’t really get to chat tonight and I assume that’s what you wanted?’

Simon smiled. He should have known Miles Ashford would have seen through his ‘old mates together’ ruse.

‘Sure, that sounds good.’

Six months earlier, Miles had finally separated from Chrissy. Although he had no intention of divorcing her quite yet, she had stayed in their Notting Hill home whilst he had moved to a huge penthouse overlooking Hyde Park.

Back home he opened a drinks cabinet hidden behind a series of mirrored panels and poured two generous measures of the Scotch.

‘May I smoke?’ asked Simon.

‘Let’s go on to the terrace,’ said Miles.

They went out into the mild night air. The terrace was illuminated by soft light and a black granite water feature provided a soft gurgling soundtrack.

Assad leant against the balcony, and as he watched Miles take a seat on a mahogany recliner he felt an erotic stir. He wasn’t sure whether it was because his family were staunchly conservative French Catholics or because the macho culture of the City forced people to stay in the closet, but he had only recently admitted his true sexual orientation to himself. But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from the job in hand.

‘So I hear you’ve offered for Rivera,’ said Miles, swirling the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass.

‘Did Nat tell you?’

‘No, just a rumour,’ he replied. ‘But I’m assuming it’s true, otherwise why else are you here? Not just for my excellent Scotch.’

They exchanged a flirtatious glance. Assad had heard the whispers about Ashford’s sexuality, that he liked men and women. It wouldn’t surprise him. Men like Ashford wanted everything.

‘What do you make of Sasha Sinclair?’ he asked.

Miles put his hands behind his head and looked thoughtful. ‘I think she’s ambitious and a talented marketeer,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t agree with the style magazines who say she’s the most brilliant fashion and business brain of her generation.’ His laugh did not convey unkindness, rather affection, and Simon was intrigued. He’d done his homework of course; Miles had known Sinclair for two decades and had directly invested in her company. The chances were he knew her better than anyone.

‘I suppose what I’m asking is whether you think Rivera can thrive without her?’ said Simon.

Miles downed his Scotch. ‘Look, I’ll be frank. In the early days Sasha’s vision and drive was crucial. But now? Things move on, Simon. Gucci didn’t exactly go to the wall when Tom Ford left the business. Besides which, Sasha was never even the designer, just the stylist. Yes, she’s an ambitious woman with good taste and a fat contacts book. But since Rivera has become big business, she’s only really been, well, just a very pretty figurehead.’

Simon nodded. He’d almost been convinced by the arguments of the Rivera staff and respected observers of the fashion industry that Sasha Sinclair was the key component of the label. But from a purely commercial viewpoint, that made no sense at all. Steven Ellis was a strong leader backed up by a talented design team. What role did Sasha Sinclair play beyond being a photogenic and well-connected brand ambassador? Then there was her million-dollar clothing allowance and her seven-figure remuneration package: outrageous for the amount of time she appeared to be in the office. No. What Miles Ashford was saying made perfect sense: Sasha Sinclair was well past her sell-by date.

He glanced at Miles, his legs slightly apart on the lounger, two buttons open on his shirt, and allowed himself a moment to imagine in what other capacity he might well be useful, but then pushed the thought away.

‘Well, thanks for the Scotch, Miles, it was excellent,’ he said, standing up.

‘Leaving so soon?’

‘Perhaps we can talk again if this bid comes off.’

Miles held his gaze. ‘I’d like that.’

Simon walked towards the door. Temptation wasn’t what he needed right now. In the world of Simon Assad, everything was strictly business.

In the back of her car on the way to Claridge’s, Sasha flicked through her diary, both pleased and concerned that every single weekend was booked up until September. Hen nights, house-warmings, polo matches, fortieths in Ibiza and weddings in the Loire – if any more invitations came through, she was going to need a bigger mantelpiece. The weeks in between were no less hectic: parties, openings, premieres; it was getting hard to squeeze the business meetings in between. But when Simon Assad had called her the day before to invite her for dinner, she made a space in her diary immediately.

As a director and shareholder in Rivera, she had been aware that Assad had made an initial bid to Randall. She wasn’t necessarily against another sale, of course. After all, diluting her shareholding would net her several more millions and finally propel her on to the Sunday Times Rich List, but she was also well aware that Simon would not want both Steven and her attached to the new management. She’d already had quiet words with key members of staff, enticing them with bonusess and promotion assurances if they would tell Assad that Sasha was an irreplaceable visionary. Hell would freeze over before she allowed Steven Ellis to push her out of her own company, she thought as she left her driver idling by the kerb and walked into Claridge’s.

Despite her resolution not to sleep with him – Sasha had met few men for dinner who did not want to finish the evening in bed – she had made a special effort for their meeting, even getting her blond hair cut into a severe bob which made her feel more in control and powerful. Assad was already waiting for her in the elegant dining room at a quiet table by the window.

He got up from his seat and kissed her on the cheek, but she was disappointed when he didn’t even show a flicker of appreciation for how she was looking. In fact his manner was brusque, efficient, purposeful. If she’d been expecting lingering aperitifs, flirtatious small talk and footsie, she was very much mistaken – she knew immediately that this was strictly business. And serious business.

‘Sorry for getting you here at such short notice,’ said Simon. ‘But this shouldn’t take long. You’ll be aware I have made a preliminary offer for Rivera.’

‘Of course.’