Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Good for your career, you mean. Good for getting you a bloody Oscar.’

  ‘It’s not like that, Alex,’ she said defiantly. ‘Christopher and I are equals.’

  Alex knew what she meant by that. Hayes would give Melissa the sheen of respectability she craved. He could take her where she wanted to go – acceptance as a serious actress, not just a pretty face. She had her own money. Fame. Alex could offer her nothing but himself – and that wasn’t good enough.

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘There is no us!’ shouted Melissa. ‘Can’t you get that through your head? It’s over, Alex! Chris is going to end it with Jennifer. It’s serious between us. Especially now.’

  ‘Serious?’ he yelled, pulling the ring out and thrusting it in her face.‘This is an eternity ring, Melissa. That’s how serious I am about you. I wanted to grow old with you, I wanted us to be together for ever!’

  He strode to the edge of the terrace and, pulling his arm back, flung the ring out towards the lights of Hollywood. It twinkled briefly, then it was gone.

  55

  As the low outline of the Pennines came into view, Alex leant over and switched off the radio. He didn’t want any distractions as he drove into Macclesfield. It had been eight years since he had last visited his home town and he wanted to absorb everything. Peering through the drizzle spotting the windscreen, he took in the cramped grey terraces with their narrow ginnels, the tiny shops selling lacy ladies’ things and unfashionable lamps, the chippy, the church, the endless pubs with their welcoming orange glow. Suddenly all these things he had once loathed and rejected seemed more solid and important than anywhere else. This was where his roots were and, like it or not, where his heart was.

  He drew the black Mercedes into the kerb, noting that a caravan was still parked outside number thirty opposite as it always had been, except this model looked whiter and shinier. Alex had not seen his mum in over three months, when he had flown her out to Athens for one of his live shows. She had always wanted to see the Parthenon and was giddy with excitement as they walked around it. Since he’d come into money, Alex liked giving gifts – over the years he’d spent a fortune on art, jewellery and clothes for Melissa and bought two sports cars for Ted – but the look on his mum’s face that afternoon had been worth every last bit of the struggle it had taken to get there.

  ‘Alex, love!’ Maureen Doyle’s face lit up as she saw her son.

  ‘All right, Mum.’ He gave his mother a hug, shocked how much older, thinner, smaller she’d become, even in that short period of time. He’d made countless offers over the years to relocate her to LA, but she had insisted she was happier in Macclesfield, in her home, surrounded by people she had known for decades.

  ‘Not brought the reporters with you, then?’ she said, peering around the front door.

  ‘I’m not sure anyone at the Macc Express knows who I am, Mum.’

  ‘And where’s Melissa?’

  ‘Oh, filming,’ he said vaguely.

  It had only been three days since she had told him about the baby. Melissa had not offered to move out – Christopher had yet to tell his wife that their relationship was over and Melissa didn’t want to ‘rock the boat’ until that point. Unable to stay under the same roof as her, Alex had gone to stay with Ted for a couple of nights. It was Ted and his wife who had finally persuaded him to get as far away from LA as he could. Alex had decided not to tell his mum anything about their split. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to burden her, but in reality he was hoping Melissa would change her mind.

  ‘Well it’s lovely to see you anyway,’ said Maureen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  ‘Cool. I’ll just go and put my bag upstairs.’

  She popped her head around the kitchen door. ‘You’re staying here tonight?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Not many five-star hotels in Macc, are there?’ He smiled.

  He walked up the narrow stairwell past the bathroom. The avocado suite had gone and had been replaced by something white and slightly more modern-looking, apparently installed by nice Mr Singh from down the road. His bedroom hadn’t changed at all except for one platinum record that hung on the far wall. Maureen was much too discreet to have it on show anywhere else, but it looked just right there next to the shelf full of music trophies from Danehurst, the dusty stack of Melody Makers and the little ceramic pot full of plectrums.

  Dropping his bag on the bed, he walked to the window. Outside, he could see a man strapping his kids into the back of a slightly battered Fiat Punto. With a lurch, he realised it was ‘Mad’ Dave Kinsella, a lad he had gone to school with. They’d played in the school football team together and Dave had earned his nickname for creeping into the girls’ showers for a dare. For a moment, Alex thought about going down there, saying hello – but then what would he say? ‘All right, Dave, how are the kids getting on? Going swimming are you? To the park?’

  Here he was, one of the biggest rock stars in the world, a platinum disc on the wall of his bedroom, and yet ‘nice Mr Singh’ was the one looking out for his mum and Mad Dave was the one with the happy family life and a shiny new caravan. Here in the real world, your dreams might be smaller, but they were still dreams and they could still come true. With a wrenching gut, Alex realised that the part of his life he’d treated as an afterthought – marriage, children, stability – was the thing he had always wanted the most.

  Turning away from the window, he spotted something he hadn’t seen in years – cassette tapes, neatly lined up along the top of his chest of drawers.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, rifling through the carefully hand-written labels. The Pixies, the Breeders, Nick Drake. ‘Damn, I had good taste back then,’ he muttered. He opened a drawer and found other things, things that suddenly seemed important to him. A handful of scout badges, a paperback book that Grace Ashford had given him on that trip to Bristol, a harmonica that had belonged to his dad, a ticket stub for that fateful Verve concert where he had met Jez, Gav and Pete.

  ‘Hey, Mum!’ he shouted, putting his head over the banisters. ‘Have you got a box I can use to put some stuff in?’

  ‘There’s a shoebox on the sideboard,’ shouted back Maureen. ‘Just got letters in it. You can leave them on the side.’

  Alex bounced down the stairs in three jumps and went to the sideboard, emptying out the box. As he put the letters down, a few slid to the floor and he bent to pick them up.

  ‘Christie’s?’ he said to himself, seeing the logo on one letter. He felt his heart begin to pound.

  ‘I’ve only got fig rolls . . .’ said Maureen, walking through holding up a packet. She stopped abruptly when she saw her son holding the letter.

  ‘What is this, Mum?’ Alex said.

  ‘Just a check-up at the hospital.’ She tried to smile, but her eyes were full of pain.

  Alex had been past Christie’s Hospital dozens of times on the bus. It specialised in cancer treatment. ‘This isn’t a check-up, Mum,’ he said, looking at the letter. ‘This is asking you to report to admissions. ’

  ‘I just need some chemotherapy.’

  ‘Just some chemotherapy?’ said Alex.

  Maureen had walked back into the kitchen and began opening the biscuits with jerky movements. ‘Stupid things . . .’ she muttered.

  ‘Mum. Just stop for a moment,’ Alex said, putting his hand on hers. She dropped the packet and began shaking. He put an arm around her and gently led her to the kitchen table.

  ‘Tell me, Mum,’ he said, sitting down opposite her.

  ‘The doctors want to try the chemo first before they do the surgery. I think they want to try and shrink the tumour.’

  Tumour. His mother had a tumour.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. Not before I knew if it was serious. Everything is going so well for you and Melissa and I didn’t want to burden you. Jean and Brian were going to come with me to the hospital.’

  ‘Jean and
Brian are your next-door neighbours,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m your son.’ He clutched her hand. ‘Listen, you’re coming back to America with me. We’re going to get you the best treatment available. ’

  ‘Alex, Christie’s is one of the best cancer hospitals in the country. I’m lucky, really.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fucking martyr!’ he shouted, banging his fist on the kitchen side.

  He saw her alarm and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, his voice pleading. ‘I just want to make you better.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, love,’ she said softly. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

  He rested his head on her shoulder and began to sob, feeling ashamed and alone as she stroked his hair and held him tight.‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll get through this together.’

  We have to, thought Alex. Because she’s all I’ve got left.

  56

  April 2008

  The flight from Dubai arrived earlier than expected. Miles’ dinner with the sheikh had been cancelled due to ‘pressing state business’, so he was on the ground at City airport before 9 p.m. As his Bentley left the terminal, it was tempting to go straight to Soho. He felt he had been neglecting the Globe over the past few months. Yes, Chrissy seemed to be doing a good job, but it never did any harm to keep an eye on things, keep the staff on their toes. He imagined the look of surprise and fear on their faces as he walked in, as the barman fumbled to get his drink on the bar, as the buzz went around the club. And then he imagined all the people who would want to talk to him. ‘Miles! How are you? Now about that investment opportunity ...’ ‘Long time no see, any chance you could help me out with the planners?’ ‘Miles, you said you’d call ...’ And that was before the manager and the sommelier and the receptionist would want to talk to him about budgets and restocking and membership queries.

  Screw ’em, thought Miles, leaning forward to his driver. ‘Take me home,’ he said.

  Their house in Notting Hill was sumptous. Three rooms on the ground floor had been linked to create a sunken living-cum-entertaining space with a huge kitchen diner overlooking the garden, accessed by French doors which folded right back for summer parties. The garden, too, had been landscaped to make it a series of enclosed areas where guests could sit and drink or smoke. There was even a sunken hot tub which cast a blue-green glow up the side of the house, adding to the atmosphere.

  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.