Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  His cheeks flaring, Miles shook his head. That shit. ‘What was it Raymond Chandler said?’ he asked as casually as he could. ‘I think it was: “Chess is as an elaborate waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.” I won’t waste my time with either pursuit, Piers.’

  Piers shrugged. ‘Fair enough, offer’s there. Fancy a line?’ He passed Chrissy a CD case which had four lines of cocaine already chopped out. ‘Ladies first,’ he smiled, handing her a rolled twenty-pound note. When it was his turn, Miles was only slightly surprised to see that the CD was Year Zero’s debut album. It didn’t stop him hoovering up the powder.

  ‘So what are you up to now, Milo?’ said Piers, pouring them both more wine. ‘Working for the old man?’

  ‘No,’ said Miles quickly.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Milo,’ said Piers with a sickly smile. ‘I did hear your dad had given you the old heave-ho, some bust-up at Chrimbo, wasn’t it?’

  The rich man’s grapevine works fast, thought Miles with a sick feeling in his stomach.

  ‘Miles is working on his own project,’ said Chrissy confidently. ‘Property. It’s very exciting.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Piers, putting his arm around Miles’ shoulders. ‘Listen, I’ve got a line on this myself. Me and a few chums have a bit of spare cash, trust funds and whatnot, we’re going to cash in on the Docklands Light Railway expanding out east – build some sexy little shag pads for the bankers. Wondered if you’d like to chuck a few shekels into the pot?’

  ‘Hmm, possibly,’ said Miles. ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘Oh, eight or nine each, I thought.’

  ‘Thousand?’

  ‘Million?’ replied Piers casually.

  Miles looked incredulous.

  ‘Well, not to worry if you can’t lay your hands on it,’ said Piers, sniffing. ‘Thought you had a few readies, but I s’pose they were all Daddy’s, eh?’

  Miles almost laughed out loud. Piers’ father was one of the richest landowners in the country; this flat hadn’t been bought with his salary as an advertising executive, that was for sure. Clearly, however, his friend’s trust fund had been slightly more generous than his own.

  ‘I’ll think about it, OK?’ he said, trying to save face.

  Piers nodded sceptically, his attention wandering towards a pneumatic blonde across the room. ‘Catch you later, eh, Milo?’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Give me a bell if it doesn’t work out, yeah?’

  His humiliating conversation with Piers had done nothing to help Miles climb out from under his black cloud. Another of his contemporaries doing well, investing in the future, making cash, while Miles stayed where he was, unable to jump one way or the other. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter to twelve. Usually he felt fantastic on New Year’s Eve – invariably out of it, but always excited about the possibilities of the year ahead. Not tonight. Tonight he felt unsettled, edgy. A door at the far end of the loft led to an iron staircase and then the flat roof of the building. Walking out into the cold fresh air, he leaned against an old stacked chimney pot and lit a cigarette, looking out over the rooftops of London. The music from the party sounded woolly in the background, until it was cut through by the striking chimes of the illuminated church clock far off over the skyline. Muffled cheers rang out from the party and the streets far below. The door to the loft clattered open and Chrissy staggered outside, unsteady on her high heels, a bottle of champagne in one hand.

  ‘Happy New Year, honey!’ she grinned, flinging her arms around his neck.

  Miles glanced at the church clock. Time’s up, he thought, imagining the Ash Corp. corner office with his name on the door. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he didn’t know anything else. He was frightened to be left outside looking in.

  ‘Nineteen ninety-three is going to be our year. I’ve got a feeling,’ said Chrissy, taking the cigarette from him and blowing a smoke ring. She examined his face. ‘You’re looking moody. Does that mean you’ve decided to go to work for your father?’

  ‘No,’ he said resentfully. He thought about telling her of his father’s threats, getting rid of her, wondering how she would take it. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. It would be so easy to blame all this on Chrissy, but the truth was, none of it was about her. He wasn’t rejecting his father’s ultimatum in some grand gesture of love; he was doing it for himself, because it was the only way to finally find his own place in the world. He just wished he had a clue where to start looking.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said crossly. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  Chrissy nodded and dropped the cigarette on to the roof, carefully grinding it out.

  ‘The first thing to think about is what are you good at.’

  ‘Enjoying myself,’ he said with a distracted laugh.

  ‘Fun. There’s money in that. It’s a talent, you know, helping people have a great time.’

  ‘I’ve tried that, remember? The Youngblood Society.’

  ‘Don’t think of it as a disaster,’ said Chrissy. ‘Think of it as a trial run.’

  He looked at her with interest. ‘You think I should open a club?’

  She nodded. ‘Look around you, Miles. It’s New Year’s Eve. See it. Feel it.’ She was drunk, but her words were spoken with passion. ‘If you could bottle this feeling and serve it up every night of the year, you’d make a million.’

  ‘A billion,’ said Miles, feeling the confidence beginning to creep back into him.

  It wasn’t a half-bad idea and plenty of people had done it before. There was Annabel’s and Tramp, old-school hang-outs for old-school money and their faster new-moneyed friends. The Groucho Club had opened in the eighties, an elite drinking den for London’s media and liberal intelligentsia. But there was definitely room for something else, something with more energy and style. It could be the most elite private members’ club in London and then he could roll it out to other cities, maybe even extending the brand into hotels, restaurants and one-off events. His mind buzzed with the possibilities. It was so simple; it was playing to his strengths, doing something he knew about, and if he did it right, it could be a little gold mine.

  ‘Chrissy, you’re a fucking genius!’ he said, grabbing her and planting a big kiss on her mouth. Suddenly he saw it all clearly: he wasn’t going to join his father, he was going to take him on. He had a five-million-pound trust fund. He had the idea, and for the first time in his life, he had the absolute drive and determination to see it through.

  ‘Hand me that bottle,’ he said. ‘It’s time to get the party started.’

  By the end of January, Miles and Chrissy had viewed a dozen places all over London. To Miles’ surprise there had been a paucity of real contenders as a site for their new club. Most buildings had the size but not the location, or they had the location but were way out of his price range. Finally they got lucky with a double-fronted townhouse in Covent Garden being sold, as part of a divorce settlement, at a knock-down price. Glorious red brick, five storeys high, with a roof terrace, Miles knew it was right the moment they set foot inside. Immediately he was picturing power lunches, launch parties, even perhaps a jacuzzi on the roof for those decadent late-night trysts. It was in budget, and more exciting, the surveyors they employed were certain that the adjoining house was going to come on the market in the next two years, should further expansion be necessary. They spent a frantic five months acquiring planning permission, then a further manic three transforming the interior. Chrissy was there every day in her hard hat, yelling orders at the terrified builders, while Miles worked the phones and the lunch circuit, building a members’ list, creating a buzz, getting press. By the end of the summer, everyone in London’s hippest circles was talking about Miles Ashford, wanting to get close to this dynamic and ambitious new face. Nobody mentioned his father. And on the first of October 1993, when the Globe Club opened for business, the Evening Standard ran a picture of Miles on the front page, with
the caption ‘King of the World’. Miles couldn’t have put it better himself.

  28

  November 1993

  Alex had never been inside the Dorchester Hotel in his life, but he guessed that on a normal night, it didn’t look like this. The double-height marble lobby had been transformed into a circus tent, with brightly coloured canvas draped from the ceiling, acrobats performing in front of the reception desk and in the centre of the room, in a polished steel cage, a slightly bored-looking tiger.

  ‘Roll up! Roll up!’ bellowed a man dressed in the red coat and top hat of a ringmaster. ‘Come and see the greatest show on earth!’

  ‘Check this out,’ Alex whispered to Emma, as they pushed through the buzzing, excited crowd. ‘They’ve taken over the whole hotel. It must be costing them a fortune.’

  Music industry legend had it that EMG Records always spent a tenth of their year’s profit on their lavish annual party. This year had obviously been a good one, partly due to the resurgence of home-grown talent like Year Zero, but mainly because the company had released their entire back catalogue on CD: they’d managed a minor miracle of selling their assets twice over, often to the same consumers.

  They moved towards the ballroom, but every five paces someone would stop Alex to air-kiss him, flatter him about the new album or offer a raucous anecdote. There was a great buzz about the room, boozy and self-congratulatory – the best he’d experienced since the Brits earlier in the year, when Year Zero had been nominated but lost out to some dance act. Finally they got to the clown-staffed bar and ordered two of the garish ‘Big Top’ cocktails, clinking their glasses together.

  ‘Next tour, I reckon we’ll do something like this,’ said Alex. ‘Theme up the venues like Atlantis or something.’

  Emma dug him in the ribs. ‘Alex, you’re not U2 yet, you know.’

  ‘Next year, babe. Next year.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Emma seriously. ‘But it’s tough out there. There are some really great bands coming out of nowhere. I saw this band Oasis at the Powerhaus the other day. They were fantastic, almost what you’re trying to do but better.’

  ‘Cheers, Em,’ said Alex sourly. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’

  ‘I am. I’m just worried you’re going to get left behind. You’re not writing enough songs . . .’

  ‘Give me a fucking chance! I’ve been on tour for half the year, recording the other half, not to mention doing stupid Norwegian TV shows hosted by puppets! I barely have time to sit down and write you a postcard, let alone a hit record.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Emma. ‘Don’t get all worked up. If I can’t say what I think, Alex, who’s going to? Jez? Your management? They’re far too tight for my liking anyway.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘I just think Jez and Nathan have a different agenda to you. For Jez, well, it’s all about Jez, isn’t it? But for Nathan, it’s all about making money and obviously that means pushing Jez to the front – Jez is always going to mean bums on seats.’

  ‘So where does that leave me?’ said Alex sulkily.

  She shrugged. ‘Year Zero isn’t being sold on the music any more, is it? You’re like these cheeky-chappie Britpoppers who look good and give a catchy quote. Whoever talks about the songs any more?’

  Alex gestured angrily towards the rest of the party. ‘All these people!’ he snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear them as we came in? They were all saying how much they loved the album—’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody naïve, Alex,’ she interrupted. ‘The blood-suckers in this room would slap you on the back and call you a genius if you’d written “The Birdie Song” and it had made them money. What matters to them is that you’re keeping them in Ferraris and coke.’

  ‘When did you get so cynical?’ said Alex. He knew she was right, of course. For all their front covers and chart positions – four top-ten singles in a row – Year Zero weren’t exactly rolling in it, and if he was honest, he was increasingly uncomfortable with the way Jez had become the face of the band, constantly making the tabloids for some outrageous quote or being pictured rolling out of Browns nightclub in the company of models or soap actors. Worst of all, she was right about the music. The creativity of their first couple of years seemed to have disappeared.

  Alex swallowed the rest of his cocktail and gestured towards a clown.‘Can you get me a Jack Daniel’s?’ he asked.‘Make it a double.’

  Emma put her hand on his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘You’re right. Let’s just enjoy the party. Seems like Jez has already made a start.’

  ‘He’s here, is he?’ said Alex, knocking back his whiskey.

  ‘There he is. With that supermodel. Sophia whatsherface.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ he said, spinning around quickly.

  He watched the beautiful brunette wrap her arms around Year Zero’s frontman and almost coughed up his drink.

  ‘I can’t pissing believe it.’

  Emma chuckled. ‘Don’t get so wound up about it. Word is she’s a right music groupie. She’ll be moving on to the next NME cover star tomorrow.’

  She drew a finger to his cheek. ‘Look at you, all pink. Admit it, Doyle, you wish you were going out with a multi-millonaire supermodel rather than a lowly marketing exec. Although I do think I have better tits.’

  She was making a joke of it, but Alex knew she was pressing home a point.

  ‘My lovely marketing executive does have better tits. In fact she has better everything. But that’s not the point. I just can’t understand how he does it,’ he said, his voice beginning to wobble.

  ‘Look. There’s Clive from the New York office. Are you going to come over and say hello?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alex. He’s the big cheese over there. Schmooze. Network.’

  ‘I need another drink.’

  ‘Fine. Calm yourself down,’ she said, rolling her eyes and disappearing into the crowd.

  Alex couldn’t help his gaze wandering back in the direction of Jez, preening himself in front of his audience, loving every minute of his reflected glory. His irritation wasn’t exactly new; everything Jez did these days seemed to annoy him. His stupid political slogan T-shirts, the artfully done floppy hair, the way in interviews he always referred to the band’s songs as ‘my songs’, as if no one else had lifted a finger. And yet here he was with one of the world’s sexiest women on his arm. And then it clicked and in an instant Alex realised just what it was about Jez which so wound him up. Somewhere, somehow, in setting off to find a new life away from Danehurst, Alex had found another Miles. Another charmer, another self-interested manipulator who snaked his way through life with his hand out, expecting to be given everything. Jesus Christ, he thought, laughing to himself. Why didn’t I spot this before?

  He ordered another drink and threw it back, grimacing. By rights, he should have been incredibly drunk. He’d started drinking at lunchtime – just a few beers at the Engineer in Primrose Hill – and hadn’t stopped. But these days he never got the sort of happy highs he used to with alcohol. Now it was just a matter of trying to feel normal.

  Emma was laughing with Clive Benson now. She was doing so well at the company and he had no doubt that within ten years she’d be running the show, but his pride in her was bittersweet; she was always working, always coming up with some new scheme. They never seemed to relax these days, enjoy one another’s company, enjoy what they had. I can talk, he thought, putting his glass down on the bar. Emma had reminded him recently that he should be happy with what he had achieved; stop and enjoy the moment. After all, he had the life he’d always wanted: he was a successful musician, he lived with a fantastic woman: people would kill for his life. So why did he feel so miserable all the time?

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

  Alex turned to see two sapphire cat-like eyes looking at him: Sophia Brand.

  ‘Uh, sorry?’ he mumbled with complete surprise.

  ‘Just you looked like you were st
ruggling with some deep thoughts there,’ she said in her syrupy Deep South accent.

  ‘No, just the usual. Sex and football.’

  Sophia laughed and the blue eyes began to sparkle.

  Fuck, she’s beautiful, thought Alex. Up close she wasn’t as physically perfect as the magazine covers suggested – she was only late twenties, but fine lines were already collecting round her eyes and mouth and her pale olive skin wasn’t completely smooth. But those tiny flaws almost made her more striking, more real. He searched his mind for something witty or interesting to say.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Jack and Coke, thanks. I’ve got a room here in the hotel so I don’t have to stagger very far.’