Page 69 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘Got any jobs then? Need any rancid prawn buffets rustling up?’ Grace looked at her friend for a moment and thought how happy she had been in Port Douglas, how carefree. She loved her husband and her children and she was smitten by the beauty of El Esperanza. At night, it was nothing short of magical, like a fictitious magic box dreamt up by Gabriel for one of his books. But it was also a lonely place.

‘Why not work here with me, with the kids?’ she said suddenly. She immediately felt stupid, arrogant even, suggesting that Caro might want to work for her. She was her friend, not the hired help.

‘What, as a nanny?’

‘I guess,’ shrugged Grace, a little embarrassed now. ‘But I would understand if it was too awkward for you.’

‘Are you serious? That would be amazing!’ Caro said, jumping up and hugging Grace. ‘But are you sure Gabriel won’t mind?’

‘Gabe is never here,’ Grace said with a note of defiance. Gabe couldn’t object to having Caro as their nanny – she was one of her most trusted friends. ‘He won’t mind,’ she said. ‘And anyway, this is my house now. What I say goes.’

She hugged her friend again and thought that for the first time since she’d been in Parador, she finally felt at home.

22

November 1992

Sasha put her foot down and gunned her silver Mazda over the hill, the big houses on either side blurring, the street lights leaving trails behind her. ‘Calm down,’ she whispered to herself, hitting the brake as she saw the sign for the Hinchley Wood golf club. ‘You only have to stay a couple of hours.’ She twisted the wheel and practically skidded into the car park; she knew that two hours was going to pass very slowly indeed.

Already people were leaving the party: fifty-something couples in M&S suits and Debenhams taffeta climbing back into their middle-management cars, gleaming Rovers and Ford Mondeos. Strains of disco floated on the night air, and through the plate-glass windows she could see into the Orchid Suite, festooned with paper chains, balloons and metallic banners exclaiming Happy Silver Wedding Anniversary!. She could almost smell the warm wine and the sausage rolls without even entering the clubhouse. Sasha hadn’t been to a party like this since – well, since her parents’ tenth wedding anniversary – and fifteen years later the scene hadn’t changed; the people were just a bit more stooped, the dresses a bit more fussy, the cars outside upgraded a notch to the executive model with the walnut dash.

Picking up her present from the passenger seat, she took a deep breath and walked in, immediately spotting old faces: parents of girls she knew from prep school, neighbours from Esher, her father’s colleagues, an assortment from her mother’s tennis and bridge club circuit. God, what a nightmare, she thought. But then she caught sight of one face through the crowd. Instantly she felt guilty at her uncharitable thoughts.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she said with affection, kissing his papery cheek and wondering at what point over the last five years her father had become old. His hair was fully grey and thinning all over and the once-handsome features had sagged, as if they were giving up.

‘Hello, Pumpkin!’ said her father, clearly surprised and delighted to see her. ‘I’m so glad you could make it. I didn’t think you were coming, you’ve been so busy lately.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Sasha, resisting the urge to add a darling at the end of her statement, a word that popped out like a reflex now. ‘Where’s Mum?’

Her dad waved a hand.‘Off somewhere enjoying the social adoration. ’

Sasha thrust the present into his hands. ‘For both of you. From Paris. For twenty-five years of marriage.’

He shook the beautifully wrapped box vigorously next to his ear and Sasha flinched.

‘No, no. Don’t do that. It’s from Lalique.’

‘Is that one of your fancy fashion labels?’ he asked.

‘Beautiful glassware actually. Mum will be aware of it.’

‘If it’s expensive and from Paris I have no doubt she will.’ He chuckled. ‘By the way, you look absolutely wonderful this evening. Both my girls have done me proud,’ he said, gazing across the room at his wife.

Sasha knew she looked good: her dress was a Ben Rivera one-off and she was grateful that her father had noticed she had made an effort. Sasha might be contemptuous of the Surrey commuter belt she had come from, but she had still dressed to impress the parochial crowd she had left behind. The rumour mill in this neck of the woods was more efficient and more vicious than Milan during fashion week. All her old school friends and their parents would have heard about Sasha’s relationship with Miles Ashford – he was almost famous, after all – and they would have delighted in the news that it had ended. Hopefully her bespoke dress

and her shiny sports car would show those tattle-tale bitches that she didn’t need a man to get on. And it was true: Sasha Sinclair was now one of London’s most in-demand stylists, not that any of this lot would know what a stylist was. Working on magazines, commercial shoots and private clients, she was making over fifty thousand pounds a year and was still only twenty-one. And to think she could be living here, working in a building society or something. The thought made her shiver.

‘You cold, love?’ asked her dad.

‘No, not at all.’ She smiled. The jazz band burst into their rendition of ‘Come Fly With Me’ and across the room Carole Sinclair, clearly a little tipsy, started motioning urgently at her husband to join her on the dance floor.

‘I think you’re on,’ said Sasha.

Gerald touched her on the arm fondly. ‘If your dance card isn’t full, would you do your old dad the honour after I’ve taken your mother for a spin?’

‘How could I refuse Esher’s answer to Fred Astaire?’

She watched as her father took his wife’s hand and proudly led her on to the dance floor. Her mother’s dress was coral silk, well-tailored, expensive, probably Escada or even Oscar de la Renta. She guessed that that one dress had hit her father’s chequebook harder than the hire cost of the Orchid Suite. Then again, in her mother’s mind, she was not in the Hinchley Wood golf club, but in the ballroom of the Dorchester.