Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 38

'No, Philip, I don't. I will have more than fifty per cent anyway. '

She reached into the folder and pulled out a Coutts banker's draft, putting it down on the table. It was made out to Miles Ashford for 800,000.

'That's everything I owe Miles, with interest,' she said simply. 'Tomorrow I'm going to exercise my option to buy back his shareholding. '

He looked at the cheque, then back at her, his eyes narrowing. 'Where did you get the money from?'

She looked away. 'It doesn't matter.'

'Really?' he said bitterly. 'I suspect it matters a great deal.'

Of course Philip would find out eventually. She knew that and she knew that he would hate her.

'I'm sorry, Phil,' she said, picking up the papers and putting them back into the folder. 'I didn't want it to end like this.'

He didn't say anything, just looked at her and shook his head. Then he walked back to the table and snapped the black velvet box shut.

'There's more to life than just money, Sasha,' he said closing his hand over the box. 'One day you'll learn that.'

'Maybe if we can just talk about this ...' began Sasha.

But Philip wasn't listening. 'I think you'd better go.'

She picked up her coat and slowly walked past him. 'Phil, I wish you'd-'

'Just go,' he said, walking into the bedroom and closing the door.

41

September 2001

Alex's life had undergone a transformation. For a start, he wasn't Alex Doyle any more. He was Al Doyle now, multi-Grammy-award-winning British songwriting superstar. In the last two years alone he had sold twenty million records, filled stadiums across the globe and his videos were on MTV and VH-1 almost on a loop.

He sat on the steps of his trailer looking out on to the shady Manhattan side street just off Times Square. They had been shooting the video for his latest single 'Moving On' through the night and they still weren't done. A runner brought him a tea and a bacon sandwich with ketchup running all over the paper plate. Alex was happy enough sitting around on a warm New York fall morning. He loved the Big Apple, especially now, with his star in the ascendant. He was invited to every party, he could get a table at any restaurant and everyone was so ambitious, so caught up in their own world, they were too busy to pay any attention to him. LA was the direct opposite. It was an industry town, a hotbed of 'look at me' self-indulgence; everyone wanted to be noticed, from the stars down to the waiters. Even though Alex had a house in Laurel Canyon, he hated it there.

A black Town Car stopped in front of the blue barricade blocking off the section of street they were shooting in. Alex recognised the small figure of David Falk stepping out of the car, accompanied by a blonde woman. He was always pleased to see Falk. It still felt like yesterday he'd had that first meeting with him at his LA headquarters. From the second he had walked into Falk's corner office, Alex had known that this man was going to change his life and he had. He had used Alex's debut solo single 'Angel Falls' as the t.i.tle track to one of the movie hits of the nineties, and instantly Al Doyle was a household name. Hit followed hit, and his transition from n.o.body to megastar had been so seamless, Alex wondered if the years of struggle with Year Zero had just been a bad dream.

'Hey, Al. How's it going?' said Falk, walking over, his hand out.

'Still standing.' He grinned, holding up his tea. 'Caffeine helps.'

His eyes were drawn to the blonde woman standing just behind David. He recognised her immediately: Melissa Jackson, one of the hottest new actresses in Hollywood; in fact he had heard that Falk's company was producing her next vehicle.

'Have you met Melissa?'

'No, no, h.e.l.lo ...' said Alex, wiping his hand on his jeans, then shaking hers. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Ketchup all over it.'

She smiled. 'Happens to me all the time.'

'Say, you going to Julia's party tonight?' said Falk.

Alex nodded. 'If this shoot ever finishes.'

'You got a date?' Falk's direct manner was legendary. He hadn't got anywhere in his business without getting straight to the point.

Alex laughed and looked at Melissa. 'Why do I feel I'm being set up?'

'Obviously neither of you kids needs to work too hard for company, but Melissa's new movie is about a failed pop singer, and ...'

'And you thought, "Hey, which losers do I know?"'

'Sorry, Alex,' said Melissa. 'I did try to tell him how cra.s.s he was being, but you know Dave ...'

Alex laughed.

'Hey, talk about me as if I'm not here, why dontcha?' said Falk.

'It would be great to pick your brains about touring and playing small dives and so on,' she continued with a shy smile. 'And you don't have to think of it as a date.'

'Ah, don't ruin it,' smiled Alex. 'This is the best offer I've had in months.'

Actually, he was only half joking. He was on tour six months out of twelve and spent most of his time with the burly men who moved the stage around; even a big star needed a little help in the romance department. Sometimes all he wanted was someone to talk to who understood his life now he felt quite sure both Emma and Grace would have ribbed him mercilessly about his entourage today: an a.s.sistant, a make-up girl, a stylist, a record company PR and a driver but he guessed Melissa would understand how mad and unreal it all felt. And it didn't hurt that she was gorgeous.

Martin, the director, waved at him. 'Al, we're ready to go again in a minute,' he called.

Alex stood up and stretched. 'Sorry, guys, no rest for the wicked.' He smiled. 'I'll see you tonight at-' He was cut short as he was almost knocked flying by the runner who had brought him his bacon sandwich. The boy was red-faced and out of breath. 'Whoa, slow down there, mate,' said Alex. 'What's the rush?'

'Haven't you heard?' said the runner. His eyes were wide and frightened. 'A plane has just hit the World Trade Center.'

'What? You're joking?' said Falk, shooting a look at Alex. 'How do you know?'

'I've just read the tickertape in Times Square. Everyone's yelling about it down there, it's chaos.'

A burly man in sungla.s.ses and an earpiece approached them swiftly from David's Town Car. Alex had met him before; he was an ex-Navy Seal who served as Falk's bodyguard and security adviser. He took Falk's arm and led him to one side, speaking urgently out of earshot. Alex watched David's expression become more grave.

'OK, you two,' said David, taking both Alex and Melissa by the arm and steering them towards the car. 'You're coming with me.'

'Where are we going?' asked Alex.

'Out of Manhattan.'

'Why?' Alex looked behind him. Everyone was crowding around the location van watching a small television.

'Come on, on, Alex,' growled Falk, tugging his arm. Alex,' growled Falk, tugging his arm.

'We can't just leave,' said Alex, looking to Melissa for support.

'He's right, David,' said the actress. 'What about all the others?'

'Just get in the freaking car,' said Falk sternly. 'They think it could be a terrorist attack. There're rumours of other planes being hijacked. The city might be under siege.'

'Oh s.h.i.+t.'

Alex felt his heart thumping. The tall buildings appeared to be crowding in around him, each one suddenly seeming to have the capability to explode on top of them at any moment. Falk pushed Alex and Melissa into the car and they sped off across Broadway towards Eighth Avenue. David leant forward to switch the car's TV screen on, flicking to a news channel. They watched in silence as the unbelievable footage was shown: shaky amateur film of a jet liner cras.h.i.+ng into a gleaming skysc.r.a.per. The news cut to a reporter standing close to the tower, holding a microphone. Behind him, they could see the chaos: people in suits running away, people in uniform running towards it. There was a weird dislocation: they were watching this on the television, but it was happening right outside. Just as they crossed Eleventh Avenue, heading for the West Side parkway, the driver had to swerve to avoid two fire trucks, their lights and sirens screaming. Alex turned to look out of the window and could see a thick column of smoke rising from the south of the island.

'Jesus, this is really happening,' he said, glancing at Melissa. She looked scared and instinctively he reached out to squeeze her hand.

'Look!' said Falk suddenly, causing Alex to spin back around. He frowned, not sure what was happening on the screen.

'Is that another one?'

The on-screen camera pulled out rapidly and they could see that a second plane had flown into the other tower.

'f.u.c.k,' whispered Alex. He wasn't sure if he knew anyone who would be so far downtown at nine o'clock in the morning. Then again, the horrors unfolding on the television were so shocking and surreal, it was impossible to think clearly about anything.

The driver pressed his fingers to his earpiece. 'Sir, I have a contact who says fighters have been scrambled,' he said, glancing into his rear-view mirror. 'There's a plane heading for Was.h.i.+ngton, maybe a couple more.'

The car was hurtling towards the George Was.h.i.+ngton Bridge at over fifty miles an hour, but they were forced to slow as they reached the on-ramp. A crush of traffic was causing a bottleneck and police vans were pulling up, officers unloading barriers.

'Get us through,' ordered Falk.

'Hold on, ladies and gents,' said the driver. They felt a b.u.mp as the car mounted a kerb, then swerved around a barrier. There was frantic beeping and a policeman jumped out waving his arms, but the driver ignored him, squeezing the big car between a truck and a minivan, losing a wing-mirror in the process. Alex could see that they had just made it on to the bridge; the barriers were right across the four lanes behind them.

'G.o.d help anyone still on there,' said David as they watched the island metropolis disappear.

Alex thought of friends living in SoHo, and Tribeca. Mike, Josh, Marty, all the crew in the van in midtown.

He was running away again. It was what he did best.The car took them upstate to the sumptuous country home of David's friend, the fas.h.i.+on designer Todd Barabosa. Within a few hours it had become a refugee camp for the super-rich and influential: all of the celebrities, powerbrokers and foreign dignitaries with the influence and connections to get them out of Manhattan had come here, spirited into the gated estate by armed drivers. Todd's staff made food and kept the coffee flowing but no one was in the mood to eat or drink. People stood in small huddles close to the huge plasma televisions, watching the terrible events unfold, some crying, others stunned into a muted disbelieving silence. Everyone in the room knew they were going nowhere; the airports were in lock-down, the bridges and tunnels in and out of Manhattan closed, and until they knew what was really happening, they were in the safest place.

Alex didn't feel safe. He felt vulnerable and isolated. Everyone seemed to have someone to call loved ones, families, connected people with information. Alex had called his mum, who burst into tears of relief when she heard his voice, but he didn't really have anyone else. He smiled at the irony. Thousands, no, millions of girls would chop off an arm to get close to him, yet there was no one out there frantically calling him, checking he was OK. Feeling hemmed in, he walked outside into the garden, a gush of balmy late-afternoon breeze ruffling his long hair.

'Alex, wait!' He turned to see Melissa running after him. 'I don't really know anyone in there. Do you mind if I tag along?'

'Not at all.'

They wandered through the luscious grounds, not talking there didn't seem to be anything to say. They took a dusty path through the mowed lawns studded with beds of foxgloves and roses, up towards a shady copse that overlooked the whole estate. From there, Alex could see the colonial house, a glinting lake and a paddock of horses grazing peacefully. No one would know that anything was wrong with the world from this distance. They sat down on the hillside and he stole a sideways glance at Melissa. She really was an incredibly s.e.xual creature: pillowy lips, high cheekbones and pale blond hair that she pulled back from her long neck. Most of all, though, he liked the way she seemed human; genuinely devastated by the events.

'You didn't know anyone in the towers?'

He shook his head.

'You live in LA, don't you?' It wasn't really a question. It was one of the strange things about being famous; people knew things about you. He was also amazed at the way other celebrities would instantly bond with you, a complicit understanding that you were part of their club. They talked vaguely about the people they knew in common, sharing silly stories and amusing anecdotes, talking of a life far beyond the tragic scenes of lower Manhattan. As the sun began to slip from the sky, Alex realised they had been there over an hour and that it was turning cold.

'I think I'm going to get back to the house,' he said.

'Stay with me just a little while longer,' she said, still staring out over the fields.

He shrugged. 'OK, cool.'

And when she rested her head on his shoulder and he pulled her close, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. On a day like this, everybody needed someone to make them feel just a little bit less vulnerable and afraid. Because for all their money and fame and acquaintances, neither of them had anyone to hold them. They were both alone.

42

January 2002

'This is so spooky,' said Olivia, grabbing her mother's hand so tightly she could feel the wedding ring dig into her flesh. Not for the first time, Grace wondered why she still wore it, even if she had switched it to her right hand.

'Actually, darling, I think it's rather beautiful,' whispered Grace. 'Like somewhere a fairy princess might get married. It's very romantic.'

On any other day, the loch-side chapel would have looked bleak and severe against the deep violet Scottish sky, the highland hills pressing in on all sides. But this evening, it looked otherworldly, illuminated by torchlight that flickered long shadows against the stone.

'Do you think Bonnie Prince Charlie came here?' asked Joseph as they clambered out of the Land Rover which had brought them from their B&B. 'We did him at school. He had a claymore sword. Can I have a sword, Mum?'

'No, darling, you can't,' said Grace, pulling the collar of her cashmere coat up around her ears and leading the children past a lone piper in full clan tartan and into the church.

'Bride or groom?' asked a handsome usher in a midnight-blue kilt.

'Bride,' she said, accepting her order of service printed on thick vellum. As they sat down, Grace discreetly leant forward to look at the groom. She had never met him, but had occasionally read about him in the society pages, thanks to his status as the eldest son of one of Scotland's richest land-owning lords.

With the triumphant flourish of Handel's 'Arrival of the Queen of Sheba', the two hundred guests all stood and turned to watch the bride make her way up the aisle, resplendent in ivory bridal couture.

It was no surprise to Grace that her old friend from Danehurst Freya Nicholls was marrying well: in a few minutes Freya would become the Countess of Kalcraig. The surprise to Grace at least was that she had accepted the invitation. In the twelve years since they had shared a house together in Bristol, Freya had barely been in touch sporadic postcards and emails and one random visit two years ago when Freya was in Ibiza to spend the weekend on a friend's yacht. But when a 'Save the Date' announcement had arrived at her Ibizan farmhouse four months earlier, Grace had felt compelled to reply. She still wasn't sure she'd made the right decision; it certainly hadn't been any fun making the seven-hour journey with two whining ten-year-olds. They had perked up since they had seen the castle, though.

'Wow, look at this place,' said Olivia as they followed the procession back from the church to the Kalcraig's family home, where the wedding breakfast was to be held.

'It's like a real palace. Is this where Countess Freya is going to live?'

'One day, I think,' said Grace. She suspected that Freya would almost certainly stay in the double-fronted townhouse in Notting Hill the couple also owned; she had never visited, but it had appeared in countless interiors magazines.

'She's beautiful, isn't she? Countess Freya, I mean,' said Olivia. 'I bet all the boys used to like her at college.'

'They did,' replied Grace. 'Including some of the boys I used to like.'