Page 79 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ she giggled.

Miles shook his head. ‘I’ve never been more serious about anything.’

Carefully, she knelt down to face him, looking into his eyes and threading her arms around his neck.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘What?’ said Miles, a smile spreading across his face.

‘I said yes.’ She laughed.

‘Really?’

‘Yep,’ she said. ‘I mean, why the fuck not?’

Cackling with laughter, he grabbed her face and kissed her again and again.

They flew back to London via Vegas, and after a twelve-minute ceremony at the Little White Chapel of the West, Miles Ashford and Chrissy Devine became man and wife. They spent their first night in a suite at the MGM Grand, drinking champagne and taking coke. Lying back on the huge circular water bed as Chrissy stroked his cock, Miles couldn’t remember when he had experienced feeling this high, unfettered and free, the fact that he had not yet told his parents only heightening the delicious feeling of rebellion and power. In his quieter moments he preferred not to dwell on the fact of whether he really did love Chrissy – he supposed he cared for her as much as any married couple did these days. Whatever, he was looking forward to playing Professor Higgins to his own Eliza Doolittle. The first thing he proposed to do when they got back to London was to take her shopping and change his dirty little sex kitten into a Chelsea Blonde. He chuckled to himself. Whoever would have thought he’d be married at twenty-one? Well, he did pride himself on being a little unconventional. He drifted off to sleep, knowing that his night in that filthy booth in Bangkok seven weeks ago was well and truly erased.

25

December 1992

Miles had been to many parties at Ashford Park, his parents’ thousand-acre Oxfordshire estate. He could remember summer parties for the company being held on the large lawns that led down to the lake, where there would be pony rides for the children, a huge marquee serving Pimm’s and an open-air dance floor by the water. Robert Ashford had built a reputation for his hospitality, but as he drove his rented Mercedes up the driveway towards the main house, Miles could tell that the boat had really been pushed out for his mother’s fiftieth birthday party. The dove-grey Bath stone façade of the forty-roomed manor house was bathed in klieg lights and an army of valets were parking a fleet of expensive vehicles – Bentleys, Ferraris, Porsches – in a fan shape to one side of the house. It was like a festival for motor enthusiasts.

‘Nice pad,’ drawled Chrissy in the seat beside him.

He glanced across at her and laughed. The way she said it, so casually, as if she saw places like this every week.

‘Most people seem to agree with you,’ he said. ‘It was on the cover of Architectural Digest three years ago and we only gave access to four rooms and the gardens.’

‘Fancy,’ she said, checking herself in the mirror, pulling the shoulders down on her chic Armani cocktail dress to reveal more flesh.

‘Do I look white?’ she asked, touching up her make-up. ‘I can’t believe my tan is fading.’

He glanced across and winced at the long, square fingernails that gripped her scarlet lipstick. Miles’ Professor Higgins project had been a success – forgetting the nails, she looked every inch the well-dressed Sloane – but still he was nervous about tonight. Would she embarrass him? They had been back from Phuket for four days now and had been staying at the Capital Hotel in Knightsbridge. Miles had been keen to show off his home town to Chrissy and told her he wanted to spoil his new wife, taking her into London’s finest shops in preparation for their first meeting with his parents. At Harvey Nichols she had wanted a sexy Dolce and Gabbana dress, but Miles had steered her towards the more conservative Armani concession. Before her hair appointment at Michaeljohn, he’d had a quiet word with the stylist, asking him to tone down Chrissy’s vivid red hair into a softer shade of chestnut. And tonight, as they had dressed in their sumptuous hotel suite, Chrissy had spent half an hour looking for the ankle bracelet which Miles had thrown in the bin the day they had arrived. Miles had married Chrissy because he loved her overt sexuality and her fiercely independent streak, but at the same time he didn’t want the attributes he found so attractive to rock the boat tonight.

‘Look, about meeting my parents,’ he began as they pulled up a little way from the house. ‘They are going to ask a lot of questions. So maybe be a bit vague about Disco-A-Go-Go.’

‘Why, are you ashamed of me?’

‘No, baby. But my father can be quite conservative.’

‘I thought you didn’t care what your father thought.’

Miles rolled his eyes. ‘At some point I’m going to have to start working at Ash Corp. and my father’s an awkward bastard when he feels slighted. I want my pick of the company departments – I don’t want him dumping me in Finance or somewhere, because he can.’

‘And you think I’m going to get you sent to Siberia?’

Miles smiled. ‘Maybe. He’s going to be pissed off enough that we got married without asking his permission. I don’t need to make it any worse.’

‘I promise I’ll be a good girl,’ said Chrissy in a mocking tone. ‘Now, have you got the coke?’

Miles laughed and racked a couple of fat lines out on a road atlas, rubbing the residue into their gums.

‘OK, husband,’ purred Chrissy, her eyes suddenly more bright. ‘Let’s do it!’

‘Well, well. What a surprise,’ said Robert Ashford. ‘The prodigal son returns.’