Page 72 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

She wasn’t sure why she wanted to tell him, but she did. Perhaps it was being here, faced with a glimpse of her possible future if she failed to make her mark, that gave her the boldness to share her dreams.

‘I work with an incredibly talented designer,’ she said. ‘He has a clear aesthetic and a loyal client base; he could be huge but he doesn’t have the commercial sense to realise his potential. It would be so easy to spin the company out into handbags, scent, shoes . . .’ She stopped herself, searching Philip’s face. He was smiling, but he didn’t laugh at her.

‘Interesting sector, luxury fashion,’ he said in an even, considered voice. ‘But what management experience do you bring to the table? I thought you were a stylist.’

‘I might not have been to business school, but I know what women want and I know how to make them beautiful. Plus I’ve got my own contacts – rich women, celebrities – who I can use as free publicity. I’ve got a feeling that celebrity is going to be vital to selling fashion in the next few years.’

Philip looked thoughtful. ‘And does this designer want to sell?’

She’d had this conversation with Ben recently when she had taken him for cocktails at the Ritz, a celebration for getting one of his dresses on to Whitney Devine, a stunning American Grammy winner who was being photographed for a six-page Vogue story. In reality, she’d wanted to sound Ben out before everyone was after a piece of him. He had been disappointingly vague and elusive when she had suggested expanding the business – he didn’t seem to have any commercial ambition at all. For him, it was all about the creation of beauty. And there was no money in art. Well, unless you were Andy Warhol.

‘Everyone has a price,’ she said. ‘Besides, it’s a tiny operation. He works out of a stable in Battersea. He can’t ask much for it, can he?’

Philip shrugged. ‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘The starting point is to fix how much the company is worth, which you can do from a series of multiples and calculating from turnover, operating profits, that sort of thing.’

He took a pen out of his pocket and began scribbling some figures on a napkin, his brows knotting in concentration as he explained the principles of a corporate sale.

‘There are other factors as well. Does anyone else want to buy the company? How much potential does it have? I’m assuming you can finance the deal.’

He didn’t say it unkindly, but there was an implied scepticism that someone like Sasha would have any grasp of the problems of high finance. It only made her more determined.

‘Of course I can raise the money. Unless you can tell me a more clever way to do it.’ She smiled coquettishly. She hadn’t come to her parents’ wedding anniversary party to score with a man, but she needed information, and in her experience, dangling sex in front of them often had a loosening effect on their tongues.

‘Assuming you’re not bringing much capital to the table yourself, ’ said Philip, ‘you’re probably looking at private equity rather than a bank, but the fashion sector is still seen as high risk. I mean, the guy specialises in cocktail dresses. If it was jeans or something at the mass-market end it might be more attractive—’

‘But if people just see him as the cocktail dress man,’ interrupted Sasha, ‘then there will be less competition and we have more chance of paying less for the company.’

Philip smiled, clearly pleased at Sasha’s quick grasp of the situation. ‘I notice you’re using the collective term “we”.’ He laughed.

‘If I decide you’re the right man for the job,’ she said with a little more innuendo than was required.

‘Look,’ he said more seriously, ‘assuming this company is little more than a cottage industry, you could probably buy a controlling interest for tens of thousands, not hundreds. But then what? If the man really is working out of a stable, then it’s going to need a major capital injection to move the business forward. We’re talking factory production, large-scale distribution, advertising and marketing. Getting the company is just the start.’

Sasha nodded. He was definitely handsome. Didn’t rugby players have cauliflower ears and broken noses? He probably had a strong back and legs built for stamina too. She shook off the image; this was business and only business.

‘Can’t you ask around? You must know lots of money men.’

‘I will, but I’m not sure anyone will have the appetite for it.’

‘Please. Try.’

Philip grinned and filled her glass again. ‘In which case can I take you for dinner to talk about it further?’

‘But you’re the enemy, Phil Bettany,’ she said with a hint of mischief.

‘An enemy seeking forgiveness.’

‘Well, you might have to work hard for that.’

‘I’m willing to beg.’

Sasha laughed. She had no intention of sleeping with him, but he was a banker, a banker with contacts. He could be useful, very useful.

‘OK, dinner it is,’ she smiled. ‘I hope you can stretch to a full bottle of wine.’