‘Which firm?’
‘Lewis Bettany, the company where he worked. They gave him redundancy three years short of retirement, presumably to avoid paying his pension. I’m having a friend check out the legality of it all first thing on Monday.’
‘Actually I heard they gave him a very generous settlement. Several times their legal obligation, I understand.’
‘Which my mother will go through like a plague of locusts.’ She sighed, her wine already finished. She held up her glass to him. ‘I’m Sasha Sinclair, by the way.’
‘I gathered,’ he said with a cheeky smile. ‘I’m Phil.’ He paused. ‘Philip Bettany.’
Sasha narrowed her eyes as she examined him.‘Tell me the name’s just a horrible coincidence,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ said Philip. ‘My dad is the MD.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘Well you’ve got a bloody cheek coming here,’ she huffed.
‘We’re invited. My mum, dad, brothers, the whole family.’
‘That’s so typical of my father,’ she said wearily, looking over at Gerald. ‘Nice guys come last. I learnt that lesson in kindergarten.’
‘Look, Sasha, I don’t know the details,’ said Philip. ‘My dad says it’s a decent pay-off and that they held on to him as long as they could. We’ve all been suffering from the after-effects of the recession. ’
‘How thoughtful.’
She shot a sideways glance at him. Actually, he was better-looking than she had first thought. Wide, pale grey eyes with thick lashes. If she had seen him at some party in London, she would have thought he was gorgeous.
‘So was it you who swung the axe, you arsehole?’
He snorted his wine down his nose. ‘Hey, don’t hold back.’ He laughed. ‘Say what you really mean. No, I don’t even work for Bettany’s. I work at
Schroder’s, the investment bank.’
Sasha pulled a bored face, but her interest in him rose a notch as her anger softened.
‘It’s OK, pays the rent,’ he said, catching her look. ‘But you’re right, it’s not exactly my childhood dream.’
‘Which was what?’
‘International-level rugby.’ He grinned.
‘You’re too pretty for rugby. And too thin.’
‘Fly-half. I played for Harlequins reserves until I ripped the cartilage in my knee. My career was over before it began really.’
He topped up their glasses. ‘So what do you do, Sasha? Model?’
This time she gave him a withering look. ‘That’s a corny line, even for Hinchley Wood.’
‘It’s not a line,’ he protested. ‘I actually heard you were a model.’
‘Ex-model. I’m a stylist.’
‘Well, that’s certainly a great dress,’ he said, looking her up and down approvingly.
‘I know. I want to buy the company.’
The words came out of her mouth without thinking. She had wanted to tell somebody about her plans to take over Ben Rivera for months, but the world she operated in was so gossipy and tight-knit and she wanted to be absolutely sure she could make it happen. She supposed it was easier to say it out loud to a complete stranger. Ever since that first meeting with the designer in his tiny Battersea workshop, she knew his designs were good enough to become a huge luxury brand – and quickly too. After all, Dolce and Gabbana were the stars of Milan fashion week after less than a decade in business. Giorgio Armani was a global success story, but had only started in the seventies. Society was increasingly design-conscious and label-aware, and Sasha predicted that by the turn of the millennium everyone would be eager for a slice of luxury label validation via designer underwear, scent, T-shirts, even jeans. It was happening already. Calvin Klein had built a billion-dollar empire by expanding into perfume and diffusion lines, making his chic minimalist aesthetic available to the masses and the elite.
‘Interesting,’ said Philip. ‘Tell me more.’