Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 26

27

'Should I wear this, or this?' asked Chrissy, holding up a slinky black dress in one hand and a tiny scarlet one in the other. Lying across the bed of their Capital Hotel suite, Miles barely looked up from the copy of The Times The Times he had been reading. Neither dress was from their Harvey Nichols shopping trip before Christmas and both of them looked tarty. Then again, he was a long way past caring. he had been reading. Neither dress was from their Harvey Nichols shopping trip before Christmas and both of them looked tarty. Then again, he was a long way past caring.

'The black one,' he said, his eyes not straying from the article he had become engrossed in: a review of a gig Year Zero had done the night before at the Brixton Academy. Rereading the text and examining the photo of the 'hot Manchester four-piece', Miles found himself becoming very irritable. Alex b.l.o.o.d.y Doyle, making the papers before him and The Times The Times at that! He pushed himself up and stalked to the minibar, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g two bottles of Jack Daniel's and pouring them into a gla.s.s simultaneously. It was the second time this week he'd felt a stab of envy: a Christmas card from Grace he'd seen propped up on the mantelpiece at Ashford Park had had the same effect. It was an expensive embossed affair featuring a black and white photograph of Grace, Gabriel and the children. Who did she think she was, Princess Diana? It didn't seem two minutes ago that Alex was living with his mother in some horrid northern town and Grace was working as a deckhand in Australia, but that had all changed, hadn't it? The grandeur of the Christmas card and the size of the review in at that! He pushed himself up and stalked to the minibar, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g two bottles of Jack Daniel's and pouring them into a gla.s.s simultaneously. It was the second time this week he'd felt a stab of envy: a Christmas card from Grace he'd seen propped up on the mantelpiece at Ashford Park had had the same effect. It was an expensive embossed affair featuring a black and white photograph of Grace, Gabriel and the children. Who did she think she was, Princess Diana? It didn't seem two minutes ago that Alex was living with his mother in some horrid northern town and Grace was working as a deckhand in Australia, but that had all changed, hadn't it? The grandeur of the Christmas card and the size of the review in The Times The Times spelt out one thing in big capital letters: SUCCESS. His sister and his former best friend had found it, Miles hadn't. Things weren't supposed to have played out like this. He was Miles Ashford. A leader, an achiever. But honestly, what had he ever done? Burnt down a house in Oxfords.h.i.+re? spelt out one thing in big capital letters: SUCCESS. His sister and his former best friend had found it, Miles hadn't. Things weren't supposed to have played out like this. He was Miles Ashford. A leader, an achiever. But honestly, what had he ever done? Burnt down a house in Oxfords.h.i.+re?

Chrissy emerged from the bathroom in the red dress, tottering on a pair of very high black heels.

'Come on, we're late,' she said, prodding Miles in the side with her cheap clutch bag.

'No we're not. It's New Year's Eve. Nothing is going to get going until ten at the earliest.'

'By which point we won't be able to find a taxi and the tubes will be packed.'

'I'm not getting the tube tube,' said Miles with disdain.

'I forgot,' said Chrissy sarcastically. 'It's beneath you.'

'No, I just have standards,' he said, pulling on his coat.

She touched his cheek, but he flinched away. 'What is it, honey?' she asked. 'Are you still p.i.s.sed off about your dad?'

'No, I'm not.'

'Well, you've been in a bad mood since the party,' she said.'You're not still thinking about it, are you? He was just angry about the wedding. He'll come round.'

Miles was trying to put a brave face on it, but the truth was he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the party. Nor had he told Chrissy about his father's ultimatum. Annul the marriage or you're out of Ash Corp. You have until New Year to think about it. Annul the marriage or you're out of Ash Corp. You have until New Year to think about it. He still didn't know what to do. He didn't want to annul the marriage, and he felt sure that a grovelling apology and a promise to send his new wife to finis.h.i.+ng school would be an acceptable compromise. But did he want a life at Ash Corp. working as his father's lapdog? For all his bl.u.s.ter in front of his mother, right now, he had no other better alternatives. He still didn't know what to do. He didn't want to annul the marriage, and he felt sure that a grovelling apology and a promise to send his new wife to finis.h.i.+ng school would be an acceptable compromise. But did he want a life at Ash Corp. working as his father's lapdog? For all his bl.u.s.ter in front of his mother, right now, he had no other better alternatives.

'Let's not talk about this now,' he said, avoiding Chrissy's searching gaze and heading for the door. 'You're right, we'd better go or we'll be forced to get on the b.l.o.o.d.y tube.'Piers Jackson was an old friend from Danehurst now working at Saatchi's and living in a huge loft apartment in Covent Garden. The loft was full and thumping with dance music by the time Miles and Chrissy arrived, the guest list a mix of young adland, the old boys' public school network and a smattering of a.s.sorted interesting others, models, DJs, and West End hipsters.

'Milo!' cried Piers as he walked out on to the roof terrace. 'And who is this lovely young thing?' he added, drinking in Chrissy and her tiny red dress.

'This, Piers, is my wife.'

Piers did a double-take, then roared with laughter. 'Good G.o.d, Milo, you had me going there for a moment.'

Chrissy smiled sweetly and stepped forward, offering her hand. 'I'm afraid it's true,' she said in her best plummy accent. 'I'm Christine Ashford, delighted to meet you.'

Piers took her hand and, not taking his eyes from hers, kissed it. 'Well I have to say, the pleasure's all mine, Mrs Ashford,' he said lasciviously. 'Miles always did have cracking taste in women. Whatever happened to that Sasha you were s.h.a.gging at school?'

Miles shrugged, trying not to catch Chrissy's eye. 'I hear she's modelling.'

'Men only, I hope.'

'So how's the ad game?' asked Miles quickly, trying to steer him well away from past conquests.

'Fantastic, even if I do say so myself,' said Piers. 'Lot of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, of course, but the money's OK and it's a laugh. Why don't I have a word with the recruitment director at Saatchi? You're exactly the sort of person we want,' he said, pouring them both a gla.s.s of red wine. 'Could probably get you in at the junior account level.'

His cheeks flaring, Miles shook his head. That s.h.i.+t That s.h.i.+t. '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 pa.s.sed 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 alb.u.m. 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. 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 s.e.xy little s.h.a.g 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 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. m.u.f.fled 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. 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. m.u.f.fled 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 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 pa.s.sion. '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 f.u.c.king 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. n.o.body mentioned his father. And on the first of October 1993, when the Globe Club opened for business, the Evening Standard 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. 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 a.s.sets 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 alb.u.m 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' c.o.c.ktails, clinking their gla.s.ses 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 f.u.c.king 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 pus.h.i.+ng Jez to the front Jez is always going to mean b.u.ms 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 alb.u.m-'

'Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y nave, 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 c.o.ke.'

'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 c.o.c.ktail 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 p.i.s.sing 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 NME cover star tomorrow.' 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 t.i.ts.'

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

'My lovely marketing executive does have better t.i.ts. 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 h.e.l.lo?'

'No.'

'Alex. He's the big cheese over there. Schmooze. Network.'