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?’
‘Immediately.’
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
‘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?’
‘Immediately.’
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
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