‘Look, it’s an interesting project. Surveying potential sites for a premium outlet village. Not a new idea, I know. Basically we’re importing the concept from the designer villages like Woodbury Common in New York State. But I think it could really work in this country. The site we want is just outside Coventry. Then there’ll be plenty of initial meetings with luxury labels to gauge interest in taking units. This is a huge market for us, a tremendous opportunity, Miles.’
‘You want me to spend the summer in Coventry?’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoilt your fun, Miles,’ said Robert Ashford, although his glib tone suggested quite the opposite. ‘Remember, it’s the business that funds all this. It’s not all pleasure.’
‘I understand the principles of business,’ sniffed his son. ‘It’s very straightforward, isn’t it? I mean, I get why your mates are flying in tomorrow, for pleasure. You need financing and generous planning permission to build your skyscrapers, so you fly your contacts out here and ply them with Krug and hookers.’
‘Pardon?’ hissed his father.
‘Prostitutes,’ said Miles innocently, prepared to use his trump card. ‘I mean, that’s why you’ve sent Dick Donovan into Nassau, isn’t it? To sort out the arrival of half a dozen hookers? I have to say, it’s not the sort of thing that makes one think more highly of one’s parent.’
Robert glared at his son and Miles felt a wave of power surge through him, grateful for the information he’d gleaned earlier that week. He knew his father took mistresses – over the years he’d noticed items of clothing around their London house that were definitely not his mother’s, and had heard Robert in his study whispering things that certainly weren’t to his business advisers. Then, on Tuesday, he’d heard a couple of staff sniggering about Ashford’s ‘female entertainers’. Slipping the pool cleaners two hundred dollars to tell him more, Miles had learnt that every year on Robert’s corporate Angel Cay weekenders, exotic dancers would perform on the beach, then clients would choose one of the girls for some personal entertainment of their own.
‘So Mum knows about the dancers, does she?’ challenged Miles. ‘Well then, how about we keep it between the two of us and in return you’ll let me have one last summer of freedom? It’s not that I don’t want to work for the company, Dad. I just don’t want to work at Ash Corp. quite yet.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Miles. It doesn’t suit you. Now perhaps we should defer this conversation till we both return to London. You’ve spent enough of your time and my money on ski slopes, exotic beaches and yachts. You are coming to Ash Corp. to work and that is an end to it. So don’t even think about trying to get the upper hand with me. Because I will make life so difficult for you it will make your head spin.’
Miles clenched his fingers into tight fists. He would gladly have strangled his father at that moment.
Nothing he had ever done had been good enough for Robert Ashford, from the moment Miles had proudly brought home a prize for excellence from his first school. The teacher had praised his creativity, intelligence and application, saying that through enthusiasm and hard work he was ahead of most of the boys in the year above him.
Robert had taken one look and dropped the certificate in his office waste-paper basket. ‘Only most of the boys?’ he had said. ‘Second place is never acceptable, Miles.’
Miles had been five years old.
He had waited in vain for a word of encouragement from his father – for his progress at the Pony Club, on the athletics field or in his exams. Even when Miles had flown through the Common Entrance exam to get into Eton, Robert failed to pass comment. It particularly grated on Miles’ nerves that to the outside world, his father was Mr Charming, supporting good causes and working tirelessly for charity. Whispers were that Robert would go into politics; only last month, with Thatcher’s power waning, The Times had run an opinion poll entitled ‘Who would you like to see as PM?’. Robert Ashford had polled over twenty-three per cent: not bad considering he was the only non-politician on the list. ‘Isn’t he a nice guy?’ people would say to Miles. ‘He must be so much fun to have as a dad.’
How wrong they were. Miles had never been able to please his father, and so he had rebelled. At fourteen, after a string of misdemeanours, his mother had sent him to see a child psychologist – a shrink! – who had suggested that Miles’ bad behaviour was the one thing that got his father’s attention. And so he partie
d harder and worked even less, until he was thrown out of Eton for drug use.
Part of Miles didn’t even want to go to Oxford, knowing that his looming matriculation there was something that secretly delighted his father. Then again, the elitism of Oxford and the fact that his father hadn’t even gone to university, let alone one of the best educational establishments in the world, appealed to him. He wasn’t going to turn the opportunity down because of spite.
Without another word, Robert Ashford turned on his heel and sloped off through the sand towards the house.
Miles suddenly felt a pair of warm hands cover his eyes as a damp kiss was planted on the back curve of his neck. He could barely be bothered to turn around and look at her.
‘Hey, lover,’ purred Sasha, stroking the lapel of his navy linen suit. ‘Why don’t you go and change? You look like Gordon Gekko on holiday in that thing.’
‘Maybe that’s the look I’m going for,’ he said flatly. If there was one thing Miles detested it was comments, derogatory ones, made against the sense of style he took very seriously.
‘Go and put something more casual on,’ pressed Sasha. ‘Shorts or something. I’ve got a few things planned for this evening.’
‘Like what? It’s a Knockout?’
‘Don’t be silly. Just chilling out. Making out,’ she whispered.
Miles felt his eyes close in frustration. Yes, he had enjoyed being top dog at Danehurst, and yes, being a power couple with Sasha had been a large part of that, but it did not make up for the fact that everything she did seemed to annoy him. The way she laughed, the way she flicked her hair, the way she spoke to her friends, it all set his teeth on edge. Even the sex was all a bit try-hard and it didn’t really turn him on. He knew it had been a bad idea inviting her to the island but it had been hard not to, especially when she had got wind that his sister and her friends were going to be here too.
She took his reluctant hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So what was that heavy chat with your father about?’
‘Me working at the company.’
‘Wow! That’s a great idea. I mean, really, what’s the point in wasting three years at Oxford when you know what you’re going to end up doing anyway?’
‘I’m going to Oxford,’ he replied, irritated. ‘He means working for the summer.’
‘Still, amazing,’ she laughed, squeezing his fingers again. ‘We can go flat-hunting when we get back to London. A little love nest à deux. What about Notting Hill or Chelsea? Yeah, definitely Chelsea. I was looking in the classifieds of The Times the other day and there was this great little mews for sale in that square behind Pucci Pizza. Not that I’ll be eating pizza once I start modelling, but it was really cheap. The house I mean. Like only nine hundred and fifty thousand pounds or something.’