‘The good thing is that the hotels are all in great locations,’ said Chrissy, oblivious to Miles’ annoyance. ‘It’s much easier to revamp an interior than to build from scratch.’
‘Hmm . . .’ said Miles. ‘But how to revamp them? We don’t want to lose the old clientele.’
‘Bollocks to the old clientele,’ snapped Chrissy. ‘What have you always told me? You have to be bold. We should be offering luxury right across the whole division for every different taste.’
She was exactly right, of course. There was no reason why they couldn’t vary what was offered: some small and exclusive, some catering for the business travel and conference market, but all adhering to one trusted brand manifesto: ‘spend your money here and you’ll get the very best’.
Chrissy pulled the plug with her toes and stood up, pulling a towel from a heated rail behind her. Miles felt his heart give a little thump as he watched her dry herself. She still had the power to arouse him, not that he had acted upon it for a long time. Too much energy required elsewhere.
‘I’ve actually been thinking about this,’ said Chrissy, wrapping herself in a robe. ‘Ashford Hotels needs a flagship, the one place that embodies everything we stand for – unattainable luxury you can attain.’
Miles chuckled. ‘Snappy tag-line. Do you mean like a super-hotel? ’
‘Not a hotel, a resort,’ she said, her excitement visible on her face. ‘What says total luxury better than your own private island, like Branson does with Necker or David Copperfield has with Musha. White sands, palm trees, blissful isolation.’
The smile on Miles’ face faded. He knew her well enough to realise where she was going with this.
‘Angel Cay still belongs to my mother, Chris.’
‘But can’t we buy it from her? We could create the world’s most luxurious island resort.’
‘Let’s just leave Angel Cay out of this, shall we?’
‘What’s the matter, Miles?’ she said, allowing her irritation to show. ‘Why do you hate talking about the island? Why do you change the subject whenever I mention we go?’
He looked at her sharply. ‘Because I don’t want to go and waste two weeks on a bloody desert island. That’s not how empires are built, Chrissy, and you know it.’
She shook her head. ‘I think we need to go, Miles.’
‘Why?’
‘Because all we seem to do these days is row. I for one wouldn’t mind two weeks on a desert island. Just me and you. It could be our second honeymoon.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a conference call in ten minutes. Sorry, Chrissy. We’ll take this up another time.’
Miles stared out of the taxi window as the cab drove through the Paris streets towards the Seine. It was almost 6 p.m., but he and Chrissy had only just left their lunch meeting at Chez le Anges. It had gone well; François Bernard, the French billionaire who owned some of the finest hotels in Europe and spoke his own version of Franglais, had loudly proclaimed Miles a ‘fuck genius’, causing every head to turn their way. In fact, the Globe pitch had been Chrissy’s idea, not that he was going to tell François that. She had suggested that the Globe concierge service could be used as a sort of super-butler for François’ high-rolling clients, being put at their disposal before and after their visit to arrange transport, prepare the room, ensure the best seats at the opera and the best tables in restaurants, then make sure their onward journey went just as smoothly, checking that their luggage, shopping and business documents were waiting for them when they arrived at their next destination. It would be like having your own Jeeves-style manservant – albeit for a limited period. It was exactly the sort of thing they planned for the Ashford hotels, only this deal was infinitely more profit
able, as Miles had negotiated that François would sub-contract the service, allowing them to take a percentage of every outlandish request, plus he would pay a licensing fee to use the Globe name, giving the brand increased visibility and cachet.
Miles looked across at his wife, looking chic and relaxed in Chanel. He had been nervous about handing the Globe over to her, but he had to admit he had underestimated her once again. Not even Miles could run both Ash Corp. and Globe simultaneously, so it made sense to delegate the smaller operation, but he had an emotional attachment to his ‘baby’. Even babies have to go out into the world sometime, he thought.
‘Are you pleased with me?’ Chrissy asked.
‘Yes, I’m pleased with you,’ he said, kissing her.
‘Good, because you’re going to love how I plan to celebrate.’
‘Where are you taking me, exactly?’ he asked, peering out of the window as they passed Le Garnier Opera.
Chrissy smiled and tapped the side of her nose. ‘You’ll see. And stop looking at your watch. We need a night off, Miles; since you took over Ash Corp., you’ve been working practically non-stop.’
‘I said I’d call Bill Loxley,’ said Miles impatiently, name checking the general manager of the London Globe. ‘And we need to discuss your plans for expanding the clubs into Europe.’
‘See?’ said Chrissy. ‘You can’t stop for a minute, can you? And I’m sure Bill would rather go home and watch Eldorado than speak to you.’
Finally the taxi stopped outside a hotel in the Fifth. Miles peered out of the window, frowning. It was a pretty but slightly run-down area with narrow streets and old-fashioned streetlamps. There were a few bars and brasseries with awnings and neon signs which reflected down into the streets, shiny and treacle black from the earlier rain.
‘What is this?’ said Miles, looking up at the hotel dubiously. It was shabby chic personified; a crumbling beau monde frontage with double-glass doors. ‘Are you proposing to buy this too?’