Original Sin (6 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Standing inside the glass elevator that ran along the west–facing wall of midtown’s magnificent Somerset Tower, Liz Asgill pushed the brushed chrome button labelled ‘penthouse’. She turned to Enrique Gelati, Manhattan’s most in–demand hair colourist, as the lift began its swift ascent.

‘It takes thirty seconds to go forty–three floors,’ she purred as night–time Manhattan disappeared beneath them, revealing the blackness of Central Park, the taxis buzzing around it like yellow wasps. ‘It’s the Ferrari of elevators, nought to sixty in two point five seconds.’

‘I hope the spa is also as good,’ said Enrique in a syrupy Spanish Cuban accent. ‘Asgill’s is not such a good name, no? Asgill’s is not La Prairie, I think.’

Liz turned and smiled thinly. Enrique had a reputation as being difficult, but he got away with it as he was regarded as a genius in his field. Great with brunettes, even better with blondes, half the Park Avenue Princesses owed their glorious honey–coloured manes to Enrique Gelati. Liz even knew of one household name who came to him to get her muff colour–corrected every six weeks. No wonder the waiting list at his Madison Avenue salon was three months long. As
Allure
magazine had said many times, ‘It’s easy to spot an Enrique Gelati blonde, but it’s impossible to get an appointment.’

‘I think you’ll be surprised at the spa,’ said Liz confidently. ‘The Spa Plus brand is a completely separate brand to Asgill’s. We’re just backed by the company money.’ She smiled warmly. Inside she was fuming, but she had to keep him on side. The Skin Plus Spa launch was only a month away and having Enrique as the salon’s creative director would be a huge coup.

Unlike many great businesses, Liz Asgill’s latest brainchild had not begun with a small idea but a very big, very ambitious one. She had decided to create Skin Plus as Asgill’s new up–market ‘cosmeceutical range’, a line as removed from the frumpy dead–duck family brand as a Rolls–Royce from a cart and horse. Liz’s plan was to start, not with the range of beauty products, but with a spa so sensational, so exclusive, it would have all of America talking. So far it was looking good. The spa’s interiors had been designed by Kelly Wearstler, she had poached spa therapists from Chiva–Som in Thailand, and colourists and cutters were decamping from John Barrett and Frédéric Fekkai to join her. There was just one problem. Liz needed a star, a big–name creative director for the hair salon, preferably someone who could bring a long list of celebrity clients with them. In this town, it was vital to have a name because New Yorkers were the most status–conscious women in the world. She could name a dozen Upper East Side socialites who had their hair cut by ninety–dollar local stylists but told their friends that their blonde buttery shags were the work of Sally Hershberger.

The lift door pinged open and they stepped out into the 25,000–square–foot space that occupied the top floor of Somerset Tower, a space that had taken Liz six months of ruthless negotiating to secure. Enrique’s eyes opened wide as he saw it and, although he was trying to play it cool, she could tell he was impressed.

‘Welcome to heaven,’ she said, sweeping an arm out.

They walked into a domed roof atrium of Venetian glass, with silver and ivory silk wallpaper and a long white leather reception desk. Liz led Enrique into a large room to the left.

‘This will be the waiting room for the salon,’ she explained. It had been repainted five times until Liz was satisfied with exactly the right shade of white.

‘The spa and hair salon areas are to your left and right. The organic restaurant is through there,’ she said, pointing down a long ivory corridor. There’s a champagne and juice bar and VIP spaces in all zones. The colour studio is over here,’ she continued, gesturing up to the glass ceiling. ‘Obviously in the daytime, it has fantastic light, which I think is crucial for you.’

Enrique nodded.

Liz felt a crackle of excitement as she showed off the rest of the premises to Enrique. For the first time in her career, she had been able to see an idea through from concept to launch, consuming so much of her time and energy over the past five years that it had cost Liz her marriage; but, as far as Liz was concerned, with success came sacrifice. She had a six per cent shareholding in Asgill Cosmetics, conservatively estimated at being worth about twenty million dollars, but it was a shareholding that was falling in value all the time. Since the death of her father, Asgill Cosmetics had been pitched into a downward spiral. Her brother William was now CEO, and nothing he did seemed to be able to stop the rot. Liz knew she was the only one who could save it, and this spa was the vehicle by which she would do it. She spun round on her five–inch heels to face Enrique. Before the guided tour, she had spent two hours buttering him up with pleasantries and compliments over dinner. Now it was time for business.

‘The deal is that I would like you to come and headline the salon, working three days a week here,’ she said.

Enrique pulled his long black ponytail out of its band and shook his hair onto his shoulders.

‘Liz, I tell you at dinner that I am very busy. As you can imagine, my phone is ringing all the time with proposals from people like you.’

Liz pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s funny, because in the light of everything that’s going on at your salon, I think the offer I’m making is a very attractive one indeed. A lifeboat, as it were.’

Enrique frowned. ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘I hear things aren’t too great with Gary,’ she said flatly. Gary Eisen was Enrique’s long–time business manager and backer.

‘He’s fine,’ said Enrique, tossing back his black hair. ‘He’s on the West Coast right now, checking out real estate for an LA salon.’

‘Really? I heard he was on the West Coast to check into Promises rehab clinic.’

‘Bullshit,’ he replied defensively, but his eyes betrayed his panic. Liz smiled, enjoying the moment: knowledge was power and she intended to use what she knew to her advantage. For the last month she’d had a corporate investigations team look into Enrique’s business and had found that, despite Enrique’s profile, his salon was being woefully mismanaged. Their plans to launch an Enrique hair–care range had not come off, and minuscule profits suggested that Gary was siphoning off money for his expensive coke habit and love of Brazilian rent boys.

‘Enrique,’ said Liz, ‘you need to face facts. You’re never going to make any serious money with just one salon, no matter how many celebrities you’ve got on your client list, especially when that salon is badly run. The money is in product ranges, selling twenty–dollar colour shampoo to secretaries in Cleveland. But … ’ Liz took a deep breath. ‘ … We both know that no one wants to work with you to produce those products because you and Gary are too unpredictable.’

‘Bitch. How dare you?’ he hissed. ‘It’s taken me fifteen years to have my own salon. I worked for everything I got. No rich daddy gave me mine.’

Little Latino prick trying to play hardball
, she thought, but then Liz was not in the business of trading niceties. She was glad she towered above him in her Giuseppe Zanotti heels. Hands on hips, bright red lips, complete intimidation.

‘Listen to me,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m trying to help you. Your business is going to go to the wall, no question. In two, three years’ time, you’ll be back in Miami, some colourist that once used to be big in New York, just another industry casualty. And then all that hard work will have been for nothing.’

For a few seconds he didn’t speak, clearly torn between rage at having been spoken to in such a way and needing Liz’s help. Finally he flapped his arms in surrender.

‘What do you suggest?’ he pouted.

‘My proposal is that I buy out Gary Eisen’s stake. You work two days at your salon, three days here at Skin Plus. Meanwhile, one of my team will manage the Enrique salon, increasing its profitability, and Asgill’s will license your name to produce an Enrique product range that we can get into drugstores by fall.’

Of course, that was only part of Liz’s plan. She was so proud of her full agenda that she almost wanted to blurt the rest out: that in twelve months’ time she would close down the Madison Avenue salon, integrating the entire Enrique salon into the Skin Plus Spa. She already had an idea who would buy the lease on the prime Madison Avenue real estate occupied by Enrique’s salon – and then she could screw him over the licensing deal and send the arrogant little jerk back to Miami with his balls in a sack.

‘I need to think about it,’ said Enrique, trying to hold his head high.

‘How about I give you till Monday?’

Down on the street, Liz watched Enrique disappear into a waiting car. She looked up to the top of Somerset Tower, a shard of illuminated glass stretching into the night sky. Adrenaline was still coursing through her blood; the thrill of a deal always did that to her; there was no way she could go home to sleep. She knew exactly what she needed.

She flagged down a yellow cab, its light spilling a glow onto the puddles on the road. Inside, she told the driver to take her to Clinton. Relaxing into the seat, she pulled a cosmetic wipe from her bag and carefully cleaned make–up from her face. She flipped open a compact and stared at the blank canvas of her features. Her blonde hair was cut into a short bob. Her eyes were small, her nose too narrow from bad rhinoplasty in the mid–Nineties, but she had a wide, sensual mouth and full lips and the overall picture was striking, handsome, and strong. People often compared Liz to her mother when she was younger, which Liz knew wasn’t exactly a compliment, especially as her father Howard had been a ridiculously good–looking man. Meredith was several notches down the attractiveness scale, but her family had money. That was just the way it was in their world.

She took out a lipstick and painted a slash of deep maroon across her lips; instantly she looked different, more sexual. Liz smiled at the power of cosmetics to change your face, your identity. She pulled another pot out of her bag. Asgill’s hair wax, which she ran over her hands and through her hair, combing it down severely along the contours of her skull.

She glanced up and could see the taxi driver looking at her, his eyes opening wider at her transformation. In thirty seconds, the smart woman with the smoky eyes and glossed lips – the typical groomed Manhattan businesswoman – had morphed into a futuristic sex kitten. Arriving at her destination, she exited the cab and wordlessly handed the driver a twenty–dollar bill.

Liz stood on the sidewalk and smiled at the neon sign for the Red Legs bar. It really belonged in the old Clinton, she thought. For years Clinton had been one of New York’s most notorious areas: poor Irish gangs and white trash living in comparative squalor. Hell’s Kitchen: that’s what it had been called before Giuliani had cleaned up the city. Now it was becoming gentrified, but the musicians, artists, and students were taking their time moving on and, if you knew where to look, you could still find a taste of down–and–dirty New York, a city that never ceased to excite her. She had spent time in London and Paris for the company, but nowhere had her as entranced as her hometown.

The entrance to the club was a metal door. There were people outside smoking, a transvestite blowing smoke rings into the night air, a couple having an argument, all the usual sights and sounds of the Big Apple. Liz descended the stairway and put her coat in the cloakroom, pausing at the entrance to the main room to check her reflection and compose herself. She knew what to expect; she had been to the club a couple of months before. It was one of her golden rules not to frequent the same place regularly, but she liked this place. A doorman pulled open a soundproofed door and Liz was engulfed by sound. The club was one huge underground space, crammed with sweating, writhing bodies moving to the deafening music as spotlights criss–crossed and whirled. The room was bathed in deep red light and, with the pulsing and shaking of the walls, Liz felt as if she was walking inside a giant beast. Pushing her way through the crowd, she took a seat at the end of black glass bar, sitting at right angles to the room, where she could observe the action without attracting attention. Nodding at the model–grade barman, she ordered a single malt scotch, wishing for the days when you could light up a cigarette.

She savoured the heat of the liquor in her throat and watched. She only vaguely listened to the music; that wasn’t why she was here. It was ten minutes before she saw him. Tall, handsome, a little dishevelled, a painter perhaps. But when their gaze met, he had a look in his eye that Liz recognized.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said over the music.

She gave a small smile, shook her head. ‘I’m not staying.’

He took a seat next to her and propped his elbow on the bar, just looking at her. Liz didn’t mind such a brazen approach; in fact she enjoyed it. She uncoiled slowly, watching his reaction as she crossed her long legs. Liz might not be beautiful in the way her sister Brooke was, but she had always been sexy. Her hardness, her cleverness, her sexual experience – who knew what drew men towards her? But Liz had an aura, a scent that only the right – or the wrong – kind of man could pick up.

‘I’m Russ. Russ Ford.’

‘Hello Russ,’ she said, staring off across the room, feigning indifference, even mild irritation. It was all an act, a game. She knew men well; she had been in this situation many times before and experience had taught her that men as good–looking as Russ liked to be treated like this. She waited, savouring the moment.
He will speak,
she thought,
any moment … now.