‘This is ridiculous,’ said Grace, noting with relief that her car was just turning into the hotel’s forecourt.
‘Your husband isn’t the first to take a pay-off and he won’t be the last,’ said the reporter, looking at her evenly. ‘Politics is full of people who start out wanting to make a difference,’ she continued. ‘But they quickly discover you can’t make a difference without power, and to obtain power, you need the support of influential people. Your husband has clearly decided that the price of that power is worth paying. How do you feel about that?’
The car pulled up and Grace jumped in, glad to be inside the armoured cocoon, behind tinted glass.
How do I feel about that? she asked herself. I feel sick, that’s how I feel.
‘Where to, Mrs Hernandez?’ asked the driver.
‘Take me home,’ she said.
30
No one could deny that the Globe Club was an exceptional place. The design was worthy of any coffee-table book about stylish interiors. They had the most beautiful staff – all resting actresses and models, hand-picked by Chrissy – and the first-floor haute cuisine restaurant was outstanding, overseen by Pierre Girard, a Michelinstarred chef Miles had poached from Paris. The rooftop spa had surpassed all his expectations: it was the last word in sybaritic luxury, with therapists flown in from Bali and Phuket and the best gym equipment that money could buy. No, there was only one problem with the Globe Club. It was empty.
Sipping an extra-strong espresso and trying to stave off another hangover, Miles was in a particularly filthy mood as he did his morning inspection of the club. He just couldn’t comprehend what had gone wrong. Chrissy had tried to tell him that they needed more time to build up their profile and that by this time next year the Globe would be the hottest place in town. But time was one thing Miles did not have. He had ploughed every penny he had into the club, even cashing in the chunk of Ash Corp. stock he had received on his twenty-first birthday, but the wages bills, rates and running costs would put him out of business within the year if they didn’t start generating some profit soon. As a sideline, he and Chrissy had been operating a discreet service of high-class escort girls to keep their heads above financial waters, but Miles didn’t want to be a male Heidi Fleiss. He wanted to be Ian Schrager, running a successful design-led hotel group. Worst of all, he knew that people – his father in particular – were watching the Globe very closely. Failure was simply not an option.
Outside the spa reception, Chrissy was supervising their florist as she placed an elaborate arrangement of lilies on a mirrored table.
‘Fancy lunch in about ten minutes?’ smiled Chrissy as she saw Miles walk over.
He ignored her and turned to the florist. ‘You’re fired,’ he said flatly.
‘Pardon?’ said the florist, looking flustered. ‘Are you not happy with the flowers?’
He pulled at a soft petal and glowered. ‘I’m not having my club looking like a bloody funeral parlour. Go on, clear off,’ he said, stalking out of the spa and down the walnut staircase to the restaurant. He took his
favourite table by the window which had been set with starched white napkins and water and wine glasses.
‘An omelette and some water,’ he said without looking up at the pretty waitress. He stared out on to the street, feeling angry and frustrated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chrissy enter the dining room.
She stood at the table for a few seconds, then, realising that Miles was not even going to look up at her, took a seat opposite him anyway.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
Chrissy put her hand on top of his. ‘It’s going to be all right, babe.’
‘Of course it’s going to be all right,’ he snapped. ‘We’ve got the best fucking flower arrangements in London.’
‘We did. Until you just fired her. By the way, that was totally out of order, no matter how worried you are about the finances.’
‘I’m not worried,’ he said tartly, aware that Chrissy would see through the lie; she probably knew him better than anybody in the world. ‘We’ve got to make this work,’ he said softly.
‘I know. And we will, but not by running around throwing tantrums.’
She was right; she usually was. He had to admit he had been blown away by Chrissy during the setting up of the club. Hard work combined with great ideas and a dogged determination made her a perfect business partner. She was a natural with the guests and with the staff she was firm but fair – at her core was an iciness, a hardness that meant no one dared take advantage.
‘Do you think the membership fee is too high?’ he asked her. Before he had met her, Miles Ashford had never asked anyone’s advice, but he knew could rely on Chrissy to give him a frank response. She shook her head.
‘The problem isn’t the fee. It’s not even the number of people we’ve got coming to the club – it’s the kind of people. We need the cream, Miles, the biggest names in London. Every A-list star that comes to town has got to want to come here.’
‘Thanks for the recap on my original idea,’ he said sulkily.
‘But that was only half the idea, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘The big idea was in the mix.’
Again she was correct. ‘The mix’ was one of the things they had identified as being crucial to making an outstanding club. You could have the most stylish interior and the world’s greatest chef, but if you didn’t have the right blend of people, you were never going to stand out. Studio 54 had it: artists rubbed shoulders with musicians, princes with whores. Truman Capote’s Black and White Tie Ball had it: the greatest fusion of actors, writers and socialites ever seen. But the Globe most certainly did not have it.