Kiss Heaven Goodbye Page 9

  One of the maids looked from Nelson to Grace and shook her head.

  ‘Maybe he’s sleeping in,’ said the chef. ‘Independence Day yesterday an’ all.’

  Nelson pulled a face and walked out. ‘Well, wherever he’s got to, we should tell your dad. Whether he’s injured or not, we can’t have a missing boat boy on the island when he’s bringing over those important clients.’

  Grace looked over to the house, feeling as if she wanted to be sick.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nelson with a sympathetic expression. ‘He’ll be understanding.’

  Grace snorted. You don’t know my father very well, she thought as they walked back along the path. No, you don’t know him at all.

  11

  Alex had run all the way back to the house, ahead of Nelson and Grace, carried by a wave of hope and relief. Maybe Bradley wasn’t dead after all, he thought as he sprinted up the path. Maybe we didn’t leave a dying man out there. Back on the beach, when he’d bent over the deckhand, he thought he had seen movement in the boy’s face. He wasn’t certain, just a flicker at most, but a possible sign of life, certainly. And now the boy was gone – he must have been OK.

  But you still left him, didn’t you? mocked an inner voice. You still abandoned someone who needed your help.

  It was true. What Miles had said out there had frightened him. He had come so far from a mill town terraced house, living a life of luxury on a private island beyond his wildest dreams, and – he was ashamed to admit it – his first thought when he’d seen the body was that it was all going to be taken away.

  Alex stopped by the pool and bent over to catch his breath, then powered on to the house, eager to break the news to Miles. Down on the beach he’d hated Miles for somehow trying to implicate him in that stupid fight he’d had with Bradley. But there was no body. And if Bradley was OK, what was the problem?

  He was just feet from his bedroom when the door to the room next door creaked open. Miles was standing there in a navy dressing gown, his expression flinty.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he spat, looking up and down the corridor warily.

  Alex searched for words but could find none.

  ‘I said where have you been?’ snapped Miles.

  He stepped back into his room and Alex followed. Miles closed the door.

  ‘I went to see Nelson,’ said Alex finally.

  Miles turned around and swept an armful of toiletries off the top of a chest of drawers. ‘Fuck,’ he growled. He looked away, his top row of teeth biting into his bottom lip.

  ‘Miles, someone needed to know,’ said Alex angrily.

  ‘You cretin,’ he snapped. ‘I thought we had a pact! Let someone else find the body.’

  ‘The more we lie, the more trouble we might get in to.’

  ‘What the fuck do you know about troubleshooting?’ replied Miles, his eyes dark in the low light. ‘Did you say we all saw the body?’

  ‘We didn’t mean to.’

  ‘We? You and Grace, I assume. Thanks for fucking nothing,’ he sneered.

  Alex had seen Miles in this mood before and it frightened him. He held up his hands, trying to calm the situation.

  ‘Look. Just hold on. When we went down to the beach with Nelson, there was no sign of him.’

  ‘No sign of the boat boy?’ asked Miles, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘The beach was empty. Bradley was gone. He must have been all right; fallen down and knocked himself out or passed out pissed, but he’d got up and left by the time we got back there.’

  Alex saw a look cross Miles’ face: confusion? Disbelief perhaps? Or was it guilt? Was Miles feeling the same sense of self-loathing he was?

  ‘He’s all right?’ said Miles, almost to himself. ‘But he was dead, I was sure I ...’

  ‘We still shouldn’t have left him there, mate,’ said Alex. ‘He’s still probably badly hurt.’

  ‘Don’t go getting all pious on me now,’ sneered Miles. ‘You were just as happy as the rest of us to leave him for dead, Alex. You wanted to save your own skin.’

  ‘What? No!’ protested Alex.

  Miles shook his head with disgust and turned towards the door. ‘Well, don’t start celebrating just yet,’ he said over his shoulder.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Alex opened it and saw Nelson standing there, his face expressionless.

  ‘Mr Ashford wants to see you in his study. Have you seen Miss Sasha?’

  ‘We’ll be there in a minute.’

  They found Sasha sitting on a sunlounger by the pool. Her hair was wet and she was wrapped in a bathrobe, her arms clasped protectively around her knees. She had sunglasses on and seemed to be staring blankly across the water.

  Alex hung back and watched the interchange between his friend and his lover.

  ‘My father wants to see us,’ said Miles flatly.

  ‘Let me change.’ Sasha’s voice was vague, despondent.

  ‘Just come.’

  She pulled off her shades and looked at them both. A trail of black eye make-up was smeared down her cheek. In the two years he had known her, Alex had never seen Sasha look anything but supremely self-confident and in control. But her open anguish spoke for all of them.

  ‘How does he know about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank Alex.’

  ‘What are we going to say to him?’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘The truth,’ replied Alex.

  Robert Ashford’s study was in a far wing of the house overlooking a sweep of ocean. Daylight had come quickly. Robert was already dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark blue tie when Alex, Miles and Sasha walked in. Grace was sitting sombre-faced in a leather chair facing his desk and Robert motioned to the seats beside her.

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ said Miles.

  His father shook his head slightly and pulled a sour face. ‘As you wish.’

  He folded his hands in front of him as if he were about to chair a board meeting.

  ‘Let’s get right to it, shall we? Would someone like to explain why Alex and Grace told Nelson there was a body on West Point Beach this morning?’

  There was a moment’s silence and then they all started speaking at once.

  ‘There was a body!’ said Grace over the top of the hubbub. ‘We thought he was dead!’

  Robert made ‘quieten down’ motions with his hands. ‘And who exactly is supposed to be dead?’ he asked.

  ‘Bradley someone. He was a boat boy hired to help out with your visitors,’ said Grace. ‘We were all walking back from Catseye Cove and we found him on the west beach.’

  Robert steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. ‘Was he breathing? Was there a pulse?’

  Everyone looked at Miles.

  Alex stared at his friend anxiously.

  ‘I was going to test for a pulse but we decided not to touch the body as the police would want to see it first.’

  ‘He was pretty still,’ added Sasha.

  ‘Still?’ said Grace. ‘He was dead! There was blood all down his face.’

  ‘Were you taking drugs? All of you?’ asked Robert finally.

  Grace was now visibly upset. ‘I know what I saw, Dad. And yes, we’d all been drinking, but we weren’t hallucinating.’

  Robert sat back in his chair with an air of annoyance. ‘Well, what I can tell you is that one of the boat boys does appear to have vanished. His bed was slept in, but there’s no sign of him on the island.’

  ‘Maybe he was washed out to sea . . .’

  Her father held up a hand. ‘I haven’t finished, Grace,’ he said. ‘What I was going to say was that Nelson has been down to the boat shed and one of the Boston Whalers is missing.’

  ‘So you think the little shit has done a bunk?’ said Miles.

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ said Robert. ‘But yes, I do.’

  ‘Are you going to call the police?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Immedi
ately.’

  Grace looked relieved. ‘Are you going to ask them to find out what happened on the beach?’

  Her father frowned and shook his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I’m going to ask them to get my boat back. There are half a dozen islands within a one-mile radius of Angel Cay and I’m going to have each one searched until we find him. Then I’m going to have the little thief clapped in irons.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Until then, I suggest we all keep a tight lid on this. I have very important clients arriving at lunchtime and I don’t need the distraction. Let me handle this. You just forget it. Go and finish packing. As you know, the boat will be taking you to Nassau after breakfast. ’

  Miles gave a small smile of satisfaction.

  ‘But . . .’ began Grace again.

  ‘This meeting is over, Grace. The incident is closed.’

  Alex lowered his head, his shoulders bowed with regret, fear and shame that, he knew then, would last him a lifetime.

  Part Two

  12

  December 1990

  The Knightsbridge offices of the D&D advertising agency were impressive, but Sasha was too cold to notice. The dazzling white marble lobby with ultra-modern glass and chrome fittings and huge abstract artworks hanging on the walls failed to register with Sasha as she pushed through the revolving doors; she was simply glad to be in out of the biting Arctic wind. This winter seemed colder and more miserable than ever, she thought as she unzipped her thin leather jacket and click-clacked across to the lifts in her five-inch heels. But the dark clouds seemed to suit her mood exactly. It had been six months since she had finished at Danehurst and life wasn’t turning out how she had imagined it at all. By now she’d thought she’d be the next big thing in modelling, Britain’s Christy Turlington or a white Naomi Campbell. She’d had visions of days filled with photo shoots and fashion shows, the evenings spent at glamorous parties with celebrities and millionaires, before returning home to a loft apartment on Chelsea’s King’s Road with a Saudi prince or an oil baron on her arm.

  But no, she sighed, thinking of the indignity of having to arrive at the agency by bus. Since summer, life seemed to have been reduced to one round of almost constant rejection, and it wasn’t something Sasha was prepared for. Her split from Miles had been traumatic enough, given that she’d had their entire life mapped out in front of them, but the bastard wasn’t even taking her phone calls any more. She’d flunked her A levels, and although she hated to admit it, her modelling career had hardly been much more successful – a teen magazine fashion shoot and one day’s work handing out leaflets at a fast car show. The worst part, however, had been the castings. Today’s go-see was her fourth of the day, the twentieth of the week, and she knew exactly how it would go. The scene at each appointment, whether at an ad agency or a glossy magazine, was depressingly the same. The fashion editor or art director would flick lifelessly through her portfolio as if there was nothing in it of interest whatsoever, look her up and down with a sour expression, then dismiss her with a quick nod of the head. And that was the good ones; sometimes they would actually discuss her shortcomings out loud. ‘She’ll never fit into the Ralph Lauren dress with those arms.’

  For someone who had spent her entire life being told she was beautiful, it had been unfathomable. But Sasha was far too proud and stubborn to give in. No, she hadn’t spent the last five years doggedly working on improving her social position to give it all up now, Miles or no Miles. Her face would be her fortune or she would die trying. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, she thought, tossing her hair back over her shoulders as she exited the lift and strode up to the reception desk.

  ‘In the boardroom, last door on the left,’ said a bored brunette, pointing down the corridor.

  Sasha took a seat on a chair outside, making sure to straighten her shoulders and back; you never knew who might be watching, although the only people she could see was a huddle of secretaries gathered around a photocopier babbling about the D&D Christmas party that evening.

  After a few moments, she was summoned into the room, where the ad executives, a man and an older woman with a chocolate-brown bob, were sitting behind a desk. Unsmiling, the brunette asked for Sasha’s portfolio and flicked through it without interest. Sasha tried not to flinch. There were fewer than thirty photos inside it – just test shots, done by up-and-coming photographers to beef it up.

  ‘I’m new,’ said Sasha by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been living in the Caribbean,’ she added, hoping to sound more glamorous than her body of work suggested.

  ‘How old are you?’ asked the brunette.

  ‘Nineteen. Nearly.’

  ‘Have you thought about getting your nose fixed?’

  Sasha blinked, trying to keep her face as even as possible. ‘Cindy Crawford didn’t get her mole done,’ she said brightly. ‘I think it’s sometimes best to leave things as nature intended.’

  The male executive smiled and walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod. ‘Shall we?’ he asked his colleague, who just shrugged.

  The man was young but important-looking, dressed in a black turtleneck and small wire-framed John Lennon glasses; Sasha deduced he was the art director. He waved her over to a chair in front of the camera and she felt an unexpected flurry of nerves. Every rejection she had so far received would be worth it if she scored this one gig. D&D’s biggest client was Benson confectionery, and the rumour was that they were currently looking for a girl to front a campaign for a new range of chocolate ice-cream bars. Forget the money – this would mean print ads, billboards and, more importantly, television ads. Whoever landed this would have their face on every street corner and in every front room throughout the summer. It wasn’t Vogue, but it was big.

  ‘I’d like you to say these words to camera,’ said the brunette, making some notes on a yellow pad in front of her.‘Venus ice cream. It’s chocolicious.’

  Sasha was suddenly glad of the three-week drama summer school she had attended in 1985.

  ‘How do you want me to say “chocolicious”?’ she asked. ‘Playfully? Sexily? I can put on an American accent if you’d like. I’ve spent a lot of time in New York and Miami.’

  ‘English will be fine,’ replied the brunette thinly.

  A red light flicked on and Sasha fixed her gaze into the black depths of the camera lens.

  ‘Try Venus,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s chocolicious.’

  ‘Can you stick to the script?’ said the woman with irritation.

  ‘Of course,’ said Sasha, turning back to the camera.

  ‘Venus ice cream,’ she breathed, more seductively this time. ‘It’s chocolicious.’

  It better be, thought Sasha, and smiled a dazzling smile.

  ‘So how was the casting? Who was it again? Vogue?’

  Carole Sinclair was sitting waiting for her daughter at a corner table in Harrods restaurant. In town for last-minute Christmas shopping, she had insisted on meeting Sasha after her casting and ‘treating’ her to afternoon tea. This annoyed Sasha; as a failed ex-model herself, her mother knew full well that she couldn’t actually eat anything.

  At forty-eight, Sasha’s mother looked ten years younger. She had perfectly blow-dried hair and her skin was lightly tanned from a recent tennis holiday in the Algarve. Around her feet were an assortment of green and gold Harrods carrier bags. Sasha had overheard her father say that they should ‘pull our belts in this Christmas’ but Carole clearly hadn’t been paying attention.

  ‘No,’ said Sasha, air-kissing her mother and sitting down. ‘It was an ad agency. They’re casting for the Venus chocolate girl.’

  ‘So have you got it?’ Carole asked with a note of disapproval.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Maybe if you didn’t wear jeans for your appointments you might be a bit more successful,’ she said, looking at Sasha’s skin-tight Levis.

  Sasha rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want me to wear, Mum? Couture?’
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  Carole picked a piece of imaginary lint from her tailored trousers. ‘I just think you might do better if you made yourself look a bit prettier. In my day we got dressed up when we went to see clients.’

  ‘And look what good it did you.’

  Carole Sinclair gave her daughter a tart glance. ‘I only want the best for you, darling.’

  The best for yourself, thought Sasha. At school, Sasha had spent so many years describing her father as the CFO of a multinational company that she had almost come to believe it herself, but the truth was a little less glamorous. Gerald Sinclair was the in-house accountant for a small shipping company and brought home £50,000 a year. A good salary, but not enough to keep Carole in the manner she desired. A townhouse in Belgravia and a chauffeur-driven Roller would have suited her mother’s ambitions; instead she had a four-bedroom semi in Esher and a three-year-old BMW.