Page 87 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

Piers took her hand and, not taking his eyes from hers, kissed it. ‘Well I have to say, the pleasure’s all mine, Mrs Ashford,’ he said lasciviously. ‘Miles always did have cracking taste in women. Whatever happened to that Sasha you were shagging at school?’

Miles shrugged, trying not to catch Chrissy’s eye. ‘I hear she’s modelling.’

?

?Men only, I hope.’

‘So how’s the ad game?’ asked Miles quickly, trying to steer him well away from past conquests.

‘Fantastic, even if I do say so myself,’ said Piers. ‘Lot of bollocks, of course, but the money’s OK and it’s a laugh. Why don’t I have a word with the recruitment director at Saatchi? You’re exactly the sort of person we want,’ he said, pouring them both a glass of red wine. ‘Could probably get you in at the junior account level.’

His cheeks flaring, Miles shook his head. That shit. ‘What was it Raymond Chandler said?’ he asked as casually as he could. ‘I think it was: “Chess is as an elaborate waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.” I won’t waste my time with either pursuit, Piers.’

Piers shrugged. ‘Fair enough, offer’s there. Fancy a line?’ He passed Chrissy a CD case which had four lines of cocaine already chopped out. ‘Ladies first,’ he smiled, handing her a rolled twenty-pound note. When it was his turn, Miles was only slightly surprised to see that the CD was Year Zero’s debut album. It didn’t stop him hoovering up the powder.

‘So what are you up to now, Milo?’ said Piers, pouring them both more wine. ‘Working for the old man?’

‘No,’ said Miles quickly.

‘Yes, sorry, Milo,’ said Piers with a sickly smile. ‘I did hear your dad had given you the old heave-ho, some bust-up at Chrimbo, wasn’t it?’

The rich man’s grapevine works fast, thought Miles with a sick feeling in his stomach.

‘Miles is working on his own project,’ said Chrissy confidently. ‘Property. It’s very exciting.’

‘Oh really?’ said Piers, putting his arm around Miles’ shoulders. ‘Listen, I’ve got a line on this myself. Me and a few chums have a bit of spare cash, trust funds and whatnot, we’re going to cash in on the Docklands Light Railway expanding out east – build some sexy little shag pads for the bankers. Wondered if you’d like to chuck a few shekels into the pot?’

‘Hmm, possibly,’ said Miles. ‘How much are we talking?’

‘Oh, eight or nine each, I thought.’

‘Thousand?’

‘Million?’ replied Piers casually.

Miles looked incredulous.

‘Well, not to worry if you can’t lay your hands on it,’ said Piers, sniffing. ‘Thought you had a few readies, but I s’pose they were all Daddy’s, eh?’

Miles almost laughed out loud. Piers’ father was one of the richest landowners in the country; this flat hadn’t been bought with his salary as an advertising executive, that was for sure. Clearly, however, his friend’s trust fund had been slightly more generous than his own.

‘I’ll think about it, OK?’ he said, trying to save face.

Piers nodded sceptically, his attention wandering towards a pneumatic blonde across the room. ‘Catch you later, eh, Milo?’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Give me a bell if it doesn’t work out, yeah?’

His humiliating conversation with Piers had done nothing to help Miles climb out from under his black cloud. Another of his contemporaries doing well, investing in the future, making cash, while Miles stayed where he was, unable to jump one way or the other. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter to twelve. Usually he felt fantastic on New Year’s Eve – invariably out of it, but always excited about the possibilities of the year ahead. Not tonight. Tonight he felt unsettled, edgy. A door at the far end of the loft led to an iron staircase and then the flat roof of the building. Walking out into the cold fresh air, he leaned against an old stacked chimney pot and lit a cigarette, looking out over the rooftops of London. The music from the party sounded woolly in the background, until it was cut through by the striking chimes of the illuminated church clock far off over the skyline. Muffled cheers rang out from the party and the streets far below. The door to the loft clattered open and Chrissy staggered outside, unsteady on her high heels, a bottle of champagne in one hand.

‘Happy New Year, honey!’ she grinned, flinging her arms around his neck.

Miles glanced at the church clock. Time’s up, he thought, imagining the Ash Corp. corner office with his name on the door. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he didn’t know anything else. He was frightened to be left outside looking in.

‘Nineteen ninety-three is going to be our year. I’ve got a feeling,’ said Chrissy, taking the cigarette from him and blowing a smoke ring. She examined his face. ‘You’re looking moody. Does that mean you’ve decided to go to work for your father?’

‘No,’ he said resentfully. He thought about telling her of his father’s threats, getting rid of her, wondering how she would take it. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. It would be so easy to blame all this on Chrissy, but the truth was, none of it was about her. He wasn’t rejecting his father’s ultimatum in some grand gesture of love; he was doing it for himself, because it was the only way to finally find his own place in the world. He just wished he had a clue where to start looking.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said crossly. ‘I’ll think of something.’