She took a breath, then ploughed on. ‘Listen, Robert, I have a proposal for you. It concerns my fashion company Rivera. If you’ve seen this morning’s papers, you’ll be aware of it.’
‘Continue,’ he said, his bonhomie immediately replaced by a businesslike tone.
‘It’s a win-win situation if you like,’ she said, purring into the telephone. ‘I want to expand the company into America, you always want to make more money and get a foothold in a new market. And Robert, here’s how we’re going to do it . . .’
37
Alex shifted his hired Jeep into second gear as he turned into a tight hairpin bend. Ibiza is hot, he thought tapping the air-con. I wish I had a drink. The last seven days had been the first time in years he had been completely sober. Ironic really, considering this was one place where anything you wanted was freely available. He wound down the window and breathed in the air – a wooded blend of pine trees, salt and dusty soil that seemed unique to the northern tip of the island. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have noticed any of that, he thought. It hadn’t been any fun staying straight, that was for sure, but there were a few up sides, he supposed. Besides, he knew it was his only chance of survival. It had been ten days since Emma had left him and he had immediately gone on a huge bender; he could barely remember any of it, but he did know he had been found slumped in a cubicle in the toilets at the Groucho, blood and vomit caked on his torn shirt. His girlfriend’s departure had left a huge gap inside him and it was far too tempting to keep pouring booze into that deep, deep hole. So he had caught a taxi straight to Heathrow and taken the first flight he could get – it just happened to be going to Ibiza.
He ducked his head to squint at the expensive villas on his right. There it was – Villa des Fleurs. He felt a shiver despite the heat. It was hard to believe that pure chance alone had brought him to this island. It couldn’t just be random, could it? He turned into the driveway, then leant over to press the intercom buzzer next to the high steel gates. He felt a terrible flurry of nerves as the gates swung open and he caught sight of the rambling whitewashed villa and the pink bougainvillea climbing up to the teak shutters.
For a moment, he thought about throwing the Jeep into reverse and getting the hell out of there. But someone or something wants me here, he reasoned. No point in fighting it, is there? He parked the car and clambered out just as the villa’s front door opened.
‘Hi, Grace.’ He smiled. Her thick, dark-honey-coloured hair hung loose down her back, her fringe framing her deep blue eyes. She wore brown leather sandals, jeans and a white shirt in some flimsy fabric that looked a little see-through in the sun. He’d seen pictures of her in the broadsheets looking grown-up and intimidating in smart dresses and dark sunglasses, just like the politician’s wife she was. But this style suited her better; she looked like the old Grace.
‘So are you going to invite me in or let me burn to a crisp out here?’ he asked.
‘I forgot.’ She smiled. ‘Musicians never see daylight, do they?’
Walking into the villa, he looked around the cool rustic space while she poured him a glass of fresh lemonade.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said, shaking her head. Neither could he. When he’d arrived in Ibiza, he’d deliberately taken the most isolated hotel he could find, needing to sleep, detox and just hide away from the world, but by the third day he was feeling stir-crazy – and, if he was honest, desperate for a drink. He’d headed into Ibiza town, gone into the first bar and ordered a frozen marguerita. While it was being mixed, he picked up a local magazine on the bar and read about a photography exhibition featuring the work of one ‘Grace Hernandez’, the politician’s wife, who now lived on Ibiza’s north coast. He left a thousand-peseta note on the counter and walked out of the bar without looking back.
Grace took the jug of lemonade outside into a shady courtyard where two children were riding around on bikes.
‘Wow! Little Grace clones!’ he laughed, looking at their thick blond hair and tanned skin. ‘They’re gorgeous, Grace. But then they would be.’
Grace led him to a shaded terrace where they sat down with their drinks.
‘So, come on, Mr Rock Star, what brings you to Ibiza?’ she asked. ‘Some big gig at one of the clubs?’
Alex shook his head and looked away. ‘Just getting a bit of space,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Ah, the life of a celebrity,’ said Grace.‘I tasted a bit of it in Parador. I didn’t like it much, I have to say.’
‘But what about you?’ said Alex. ‘What’s the new Evita doing in Ibiza?’
‘Three afternoons a week I teach at the local school, which I’m loving. And then there’s the photography which you know about.’
‘No. I meant what brought you here.’
‘Well, that’s a bit more complicated. An assassination attempt, a failed marriage. Discomfort at being the “new Evita” as you put it. Take your pick.’
‘And I always thought it was Miles who was surrounded by drama.’ As they sipped their lemonade, Grace filled him in on the last few years. Her trip to Australia, meeting Gabriel, the wedding, the twins and her life in a gilded cage in Parador. Then the car bomb, Caro’s death and Gabriel’s subsequent election defeat. Listening to her problems, Alex felt the weight of his own lift a little. Yes, they had both been trapped and both been hurt, but at least no one was trying to kill him. Looking more closely, he could see the tired rings under Grace’s eyes, the fact that she’d lost a lot of weight since the last photos he’d seen.
‘I was in England when the old government was re-elected in Parador,’ she was saying. ‘We flew out here straight after the election. ’
‘Why Ibiza?’
Grace shrugged. ‘I wanted somewhere quiet, safe and Spanish-speaking for the kids.’
‘So you’re really divorced?’
‘Officially the marriage was annulled; the family have Catholic friends in high places. I like to think the Pope gave me a get-out-of-jail-free card,’ she said, trying to smile, but Alex could see the sadness in her face. It was obviously hurting her more than she wanted to let on.
‘Anyway, what about you?’
‘You came to Ibiza to start a new life, I came here to escape my old one.’
‘Women trouble?’ Grace smiled.
‘Everything trouble.’
Grace stood up. ‘Ah, well that sounds like a long story,’ she said. ‘Shall I make some food? The kids haven’t had a sleep today so they’ll be in bed in an hour.’
‘Cool. You whip us up something hot and Spanish and I’ll play with Joe and Liv.’
‘Hot and Spanish you say? You’re not on tour now, you know.’
‘Hey, I’m a good boy, you know,’ said Alex. ‘You ask your friend the Pope.’
And he ran off down the garden making monster noises to the delighted squeals of the children.
What am I doing? thought Grace as she leant into the mirror to reapply her lipstick. He’s just an old friend, remember?
Before his unexpected phone call that morning, it had been a long time since she had thought about Alex Doyle. Not in a conscious way, at least. He’d appear as a faceless character in a bad dream or part of a vague sense of dread that she sometimes woke up with in the middle of the night. But she certainly hadn’t been longing for him. No, for the first time in a long time, she was happy again. She loved the villa, she loved working at the San Josef Primaria, a small rural school just a few miles away from her hamlet, she loved running the photography club, buying camera equipment with her own money, which brought enormous pleasure to both herself and the pupils of the heavily underresourced school. And she was happy alone, just her and the kids. There was no room for anything or anyone else in her life.
So why are you putting lipstick on? she asked herself. Why didn’t you make an excuse when he rang?
She went back into the kitchen. Outside she could see Alex chasing the shrieking kids with a leaky garden hose. Quickly she snatched up her camera a
nd shot off a roll of film of photographs, smiling as she thought what a natural Alex was with the kids. As the sun dipped in the sky, and the crickets came out with their brittle nighttime chorus, she put the children to bed with no trouble – Uncle Alex had exhausted them.
While Grace put the finishing touches to the food, Alex opened a bottle of wine and walked around the dining room looking at the black and white prints on the wall. ‘These photos are fantastic, Grace,’ he called. ‘You should do it professionally.’
‘Oh, it’s just a hobby,’ said Grace, poking her head around the door.‘The exhibition’s going to be fun, but I don’t think David Bailey is going to be quaking in his boots.’
Alex helped her carry the food outside on to an old wrought-iron table on the terrace and they lit some oil lamps; the sky had turned purple behind a line of olive trees. Grace served up a chorizo stew with garlic polenta and a big bowl of salad brimming with ripe red tomatoes. As they ate, Alex slowly filled her in on his own life.
‘So are you going back to Emma?’ she said.
‘I’m not sure she’ll have me,’ said Alex.‘She says I drink too much.’
‘Then stop.’
‘I’m going to try,’ he said with a half-smile.
‘No, you have to be serious, Alex,’ she said. ‘Join AA, go on a retreat, show her that you mean business. And we’ll start by taking this away,’ she said, reaching over and moving the second bottle of Rioja out of his reach.
‘Grace, please.’
‘No, Alex, I think Emma’s right. You’re a talented musician; you keep this up, you’ll throw it all away.’
He pulled a face. ‘Might be a bit too late for that. The songs have dried up and now Jez wants me out of the band.’
‘So leave.’
‘And do what?’
‘Start a new band. Or go solo. What is so difficult?’
‘I’m in a pretty successful band, Grace,’ he said. ‘I like playing at Glastonbury. Being Big in Japan. ’
‘Ah, so the best reason you can think of not to do it is because you’re comfortable?’
‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ he said quietly. Grace’s heart jumped as she realised there were tears in his eyes. She had been sitting here being a cheerleader, saying ‘Come on Alex, you can do it!’ without realising how defeated and broken he really was.
‘You are too brilliant to hide all that talent,’ she said. ‘And you are too bloody gorgeous not to be out there centre stage.’ She blushed as she said it, but she had to do something to help him crawl out of the hole he had fallen into. That was what friends did, wasn’t it?
‘I know it’s hard,’ she said softly, ‘but you have to try. Because I think that what you’re doing, making music that touches people, makes them happy and sad, I think that’s more important than any of your problems with Jez or Emma.’
Alex looked touched. ‘I will,’ he said.
Their eyes met and Grace felt a crackle of electricity between them, like the old spark, leaping across the space between them.
‘Listen, I should get back,’ said Alex suddenly, standing up.
‘Alex Doyle,’ she scolded, ‘don’t even think about it. You’ve had way too much to drink and I’m not going to let you kill yourself. There’s plenty of room here.’
‘Grace . . .’
‘Alex, please. I’ll make up the spare room. Stay in bed as long as you like, but I warn you, the kids get up at the crack of dawn.’
She showed him the way and gave him towels and blankets and a spare toothbrush. He reached over and touched her cheek.
‘Thanks, Grace,’ he said softly. ‘You know I’ve missed you.’
Her heart jumped.
‘You were always so sensible,’ he continued. ‘You always make things make sense.’
She nodded, fighting down the feeling of disappointment. Creamy moonlight streamed through the window and for a split second they were both back there on West Point Beach. She flinched and then knew he’d felt it too.
‘That’s what friends are for, Alex.’ She smiled. And friends is all we’ll ever be, she thought sadly.
38
June 1996
Alex stepped off stage at LA’s House of Blues, propped his guitar against the wall and sank down to his haunches. He was exhausted. He couldn’t remember when he’d worked as hard. And where had twelve months of soul-searching, discipline and back-breaking graft got him? A measly acoustic gig on a dead Tuesday evening. OK, so it was one of LA’s top rock venues, right on the Sunset Strip, and yes, he’d got a pretty good reaction considering, but he was playing as the first warm-up act to some local hair metal band. Headlining at the Hollywood Bowl it wasn’t.
Hauling himself to his feet, he stripped off his T-shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his face, smiling at the thought that when he was in Year Zero, their live contracts had stipulated that each band member ‘must be supplied with four brand-new forest-green towels’. He had always wondered why they had to be forest green. One of Jez’s demands, no doubt. At least he hadn’t had to listen to that cock for the last year, he thought with a grim smile.
Alex had quit the band the moment he got back from Ibiza; he had been more than a little annoyed that no one had begged him to stay and that the label had issued a statement saying that while his departure was ‘regrettable’, it would be ‘business as usual’ for Year Zero. In the usual scheme of things, this would have been the perfect excuse for Alex to drink himself into a coma, but that was the old Alex. The new Alex went back to the Notting Hill flat, packed a backpack, grabbed his guitar and flew straight to Ireland. He rented a tumbledown crofter’s cottage on a tuft of windswept headland in Connemara, grew a beard and slept in his clothes. He’d wake with the dawn, go for brisk walks and drink nothing but strong Irish tea. It was the ultimate in cold turkey, but he was also writing tunes that felt better than anything he’d ever written. On long hikes over the purple heather, the lyrics had come too. Verses of love and loss, romance and regret. Even memories, emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to think about were revisited and rechannelled into the music. He knew it sounded wanky, but in that little cottage he felt reborn.
And then he’d come out here, to LA. From the sublime to the vacuous, the home of the silicone breast and the coke spoon, the last place he wanted to be but the one place he needed to be if he was going to crack America. Some bloody hope, he thought, pulling on his one clean T-shirt. He snapped his guitar case closed and headed out on to the Strip. He had wanted to see the main act – he had a secret affection for spandex and drum solos – but it would have meant hanging around the bar. After almost one year sober, he couldn’t take that sort of risk.
‘Alex, Alex! Wait!’
He turned to see two pretty teenage girls, one blonde, one brunette, running towards him.
‘Can we have your autograph?’ said the blonde, handing him a black marker pen.
‘You sure?’ he said, bemused.
‘Hell, yeah,’ said the brunette, opening her denim jacket and thrusting her breasts towards him. ‘Can you sign my T-shirt?’
‘You were amazing,’ said the blonde.
‘Was I?’ he said.
‘Hell, yes. Those songs, they were so personal, so sensitive. I melted, man – I fucking melted.’
‘Hey, d’you wanna come to a party tonight?’ said the blonde, biting her lip playfully.
Alex laughed. It was certainly tempting, but he’d promised himself no more one-night stands, no cheap thrills in the club toilets. In fact there had been no one in the year since Emma had left him, but the attention was flattering nonetheless.
‘Ladies, it’s fantastic to meet you.’ He smiled. ‘But I’ve really got to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘My hotel. I leave for Santa Barbara tomorrow.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Soon. I promise.’
He kissed each girl on the cheek and started walking back up Sunset, whistling. In LA, everyo
ne went everywhere by car, but it wasn’t far to the hotel and it was a nice night to walk. A sweet, balmy breeze fluttered through the palm trees and Alex swung his guitar case happily; he felt relaxed, free and hopeful. People came out to see me! He was more excited about that than he would have been if a record executive had turned up. Because this time, Alex was making the music he wanted to make, not the music he hoped would get him a record deal.
His hotel rose like a gothic fairy-tale castle from the garish wonderland of Sunset Boulevard. The Chateau Marmont was Alex’s favourite hotel in the world, a place where you could not help but feel like a rock-and-roll star even if you were a carpet salesman from Wisconsin. He’d blown a huge chunk of his savings staying here, but Harry Cohn the hotel’s founder had summed up its magic when he said that at the Chateau Marmont you could be whoever you wanted to be. Right now, that seemed like a potent idea to hold on to.
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