He put his head in his hands.
‘Gary called me. She’s saying she was raped, and the police have pulled Martin and Kev in. They’re all denying it of course, and who knows if she actually said no.’
‘Do you really think that would have mattered?’ shouted Sasha, thinking of her first few months in London. Men with power, influence, or just the illusion of it, exploiting girls for disposable pleasure.
‘So if you’re all such great mates, how do the police know you were there?’
‘The girl went to the police station with her friend, the other one who was in there. She identified all of us.’
Sasha thought for a moment.
‘Would Gary or Martin say you left the room?’
‘No chance – you know how the papers work. It suits them for me to be dragged into this. They’re all Premiership footballers, but they’re not Beckham or Rooney, not household names. But if I’m involved, the media will home in on me, won’t they? Formula One Ace in Roasting Scandal and all that? No one will be interested in them.’
Sasha knew he was right. Not that Josh was entirely an innocent party here. After all, he’d fondled a drunken girl and then watched the other men have sex with her.
‘Go to the police,’ she said. ‘Tell them what you’ve just told me.’
‘What I say isn’t going to matter!’ he cried. ‘That girl will say I was in the room, she might even say I had sex with her. And that bastard Gary said he would take me down with them unless I kept my mouth shut.’
He looked at her hopefully. ‘There’s only one way I can see out of this ...’
‘What?’
‘Come with me to the station, Sash. Say I left the party with you at two o’clock. I’ll admit to having a drink with them but then say I left the room.’
‘You want me to lie?’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You’re a respected businesswoman. I admit I was wrong being there, but I’m not taking the heat for something I didn’t do.’
He stretched his hands over the table and grabbed hers. ‘Sasha, you have to help me.’
Snapshots of the past jumped into her head as she looked at his pleading eyes. The advertising party and the feel of the cold tiles in that toilet stall. Then the island, and Miles Ashford’s face on the beach. Power and lies, lies and power. She couldn’t do it again.
‘I can’t,’ she said, pulling away. She knew the media would tear Josh apart unless she backed up his story, but he had brought it on himself. And the truth was he wasn’t the only victim here. Sasha had her own reputation to think about. She’d built up one of the most successful fashion houses in Europe from the ground up; she wasn’t going to let some sordid little coke orgy screw that up.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why can’t you help me? We’re partners, friends. That’s what friends do for each other. They help each other, protect each other.’
‘That’s over, Josh,’ she said simply. ‘I don’t want to be in this relationship any more.’
‘I can’t believe you’re saying this, Sasha. Not when I need you.’
‘What you need, what we all need is just to tell the truth. It’s simpler that way.’
He stood up and walked to the door. ‘Well I didn’t think I’d hear you of all people say that.’
As he closed the door behind him, she felt a thick sob swell in her throat.
No, neither did I.
61
January 2010
Miles paced up and down the Ash Corp. offices high above the Las Vegas Strip. He was in a particularly foul mood this morning. Not even the blow job he’d received from Hans, the Canadian sous chef in the executive kitchen, had done much to cheer him up.
‘What are we going to do?’ he demanded. ‘The whole project is going tits up and you’re all just sitting there with pokers up your arses. Give me solutions, people!’