Miles let himself in and threw his keys on to the hall table. The house was quiet, only a few lights on – probably just on the timers. Chrissy would be at the club until midnight at the earliest and Miles felt a little rush of excitement at being home alone. He chuckled to himself as he walked into his study: simple things. The problem with success was that you were never alone. Everyone wanted a moment of your time, to make decisions on a current project or to talk about plans for the next one. Then there was the endless schmoozing of politicians or socialising with useful contacts. In Dubai, where refusing hospitality of any kind was considered a terrible snub, that claustrophobia had been tripled. Not that it had been a chore. Miles could feel that the opening of the Laing resort in Dubai was going to be a triumph, and he had plans to use the same formula for super-luxe getaways in Mexico, Cape Town and Rio.
He poured himself a brandy, then flopped down in his favourite squashy leather armchair. He kicked off his shoes and scrunched his toes in the carpet. Bliss. He’d had this study built as the ultimate man-cave, with a walk-in humidor and every kind of sports, movie and porn channel piped into the entertainment system, but he’d rarely had time to take advantage. He grabbed the remote control for his plasma-screen TV. His thumb hovered over the ‘on’ button as he heard voices. He cocked his head. No, not just voices, distant laughter. God, I hope the neighbours aren’t going to have some sort of bloody party tonight, he thought.
He got up and walked in his stockinged feet out of his study and down to the kitchen. He didn’t turn on the lights – didn’t want to alert them before he could see what was going on. But he could tell straight away that it wasn’t the neighbours. The laughter was coming from his own garden – there was someone in the hot tub. The pool lights had not been switched on, but he could see the dim turquoise glow of the water and the steam coming off the surface. Making sure he was hidden in the shadows, Miles crept closer, until he could see. It was Chrissy, her hair wet and slicked back; her shoulders were under the water, but he could see she was topless. And her arms were around Bill Loxley, the general manager of the London Globe.
Miles’ fists clenched. Only a few years earlier, he would have exploded, but he was bringing his vicious temper under control. A road-rage incident two years ago plus innumerable verbal attacks on staff members had made him seek help from a celebrity shrink who taught him ‘coping techniques’. He closed his eyed and inhaled through his nose.
Had he known? He and Chrissy had spent days, sometimes weeks apart, and when they were together, they were often at each other’s throats. But that was just the way married couples were, wasn’t it? Similarly, their sexual relationship, so passionate in the beginning, had dwindled to nothing; surely that too was a common thing in marriage, especially after fifteen years? But the honest answer was no, Miles hadn’t known. In fact, the thought of Chrissy wanting, needing another man had never entered his head. But of all the people to choose: Bill Loxley! He was an employee. What he made in a year wouldn’t even cover Chrissy’s clothing allowance.
Opening his eyes, he watched Bill’s hand snake round the back of his wife’s neck, stroking her shoulder, looking into her eyes. Miles felt sick, genuinely nauseous. He’d much rather he’d caught them in flagrante; the easy and intimate way they laughed together in the blue shimmering water was harder to take. They looked like a couple in love.
He stepped backwards, padding away into the darkness, quickly grabbing his shoes and coat and turning off the lights. As he was heading for the door, he stopped and went back into the study, emptying his brandy glass and wiping it clear. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d ever been there. Out on the street, he quickly walked around the corner and pulled out his mobile phone, his breath puffing in the cold air.
First he called for his driver, then he scrolled down to Michael Marshall.
‘Michael,’ he said, surprised at how calm he sounded. ‘Sorry to disturb you so late, but I was wondering if I could just pop round? I wanted to test your knowledge of UK divorce law.’
Four weeks later, Miles was standing on his private terrace in the penthouse of the Dubai Laing, gazing out at the Arabian Sea shimmering like a sheet of black onyx in the moonlight. It had been a good day. A very good day. A 737 had shipped in the crème de la crème of London and New York to the launch of the latest Laing Resort. People of taste, influence or simply celebrity, they had each been given one of the ‘restricted suites’ with huge open-plan living space and personal spa complete with full-time masseur and private thirty-metre pool with direct sea views. Pampering, first-rate service and a gorgeous room, followed by a decadent no-holds-barred party on the beach: that was the way to spread the word about the unrivalled luxury of the Laing. A hotel was only as good as its reputation, and after today’s launch, everyone was going to want to check into the Laing.
He heard footsteps and turned as Michael Marshall approached him carrying a glass of champagne.
‘Are we celebrating?’
Michael nodded. The Dubai sun had bronzed his face, bringing out the colour of his eyes. In a blue shirt and cream trousers he looked liked Cary Grant. To his surprise, Miles felt himself becoming aroused, or maybe that was the thought of what was about to come.
‘They disappeared to the Bridge Suite about an hour ago and have just returned downstairs,’ said Michael, handing Miles a disc.
‘Good,’ said Miles, sipping the wine. ‘Give me twenty minutes and then send Chrissy up to see me.’
Miles finished the champagne watching the party scene below him. It was still in full swing, but for him,
at least, it was over. He showered and changed into his silk pyjamas and monogrammed slippers. He heard the door open just as he was walking back through – perfect timing.
‘Hey,’ said Chrissy. ‘Michael said you wanted me. Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Miles, handing her a glass of champagne. ‘Great party, by the way. You did very well.’
Chrissy had made such a success of the Globe clubs, Miles had felt no qualms about bringing her on board for the development and launch of the Laing ventures. She had been invaluable in softening and feminising his design vision for the Las Vegas hotel, and in sole charge of the opening night, she had struck the perfect balance between glitz and discreet luxury. Here in Dubai, she had once again shown her talent, making full use of the resort’s amazing pool and beach area, keeping the dress code casual – ‘no shoes’ – and handing out Slush Puppies and hot dogs. Yes, the Laing is sumptuous and elite, she was saying, but it’s also somewhere you can have fun. Chrissy had really turned into an asset. She was worth having around, but only if he could keep her under control.
‘So why did you want me?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to talk to you about something. I want to renew our vows.’
Chrissy’s face gave nothing away, she merely raised her eyebrows. ‘Why would we want to do that, Miles?’
He smiled thinly. ‘Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Darling, what a wonderful idea”, perhaps, or “I can’t wait to tell everyone”. Not “Why?”’
Chrissy took a sip of her champagne. ‘Well, things haven’t exactly been brilliant between us recently, you have to admit that.’
‘Then what better way to get through this rough patch?’ said Miles. ‘We can have a fresh start; it will be just like the old days.’
Chrissy laughed wearily. ‘The old days are long gone, Miles, long gone.’
Miles shook his head and looked at her for a moment, then raised his glass in salute.
‘Have it your way,’ he said. ‘You can’t say I didn’t try.’
‘What do you mean?’