Kiss Heaven Goodbye (41 page)

For a second Alex didn’t know how to respond. He had known that their paths would cross one day, of course, and he had rehearsed what he would say a thousand times over. But now, with Miles standing right in front of him, no words would come.

‘Miles,’ he said simply, shaking his hand.

‘May I?’ asked Miles, indicating the space next to him.

‘Sure,’ said Alex, wishing he had the strength to say no.

‘This is incredible. This calls for champagne,’ Miles said, signalling to a waitress.

Alex shook his head. ‘Not for me.’

‘Ah yes, I heard you were off the sauce,’ said Miles.

‘Really?’ said Alex, slightly unsettled. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about his self-ministered withdrawal in Ireland. ‘Been keeping tabs on me?’

‘Not really,’ said Miles, giving the waitress his order. ‘But it’s amazing what gossip you pick up working in the club industry. I’m seriously thinking of starting my own scandal rag.’

‘So are you staying here?’

Miles nodded. ‘Scouting sites for a West Coast Globe Club. The whole thing has gone crazy, I’ve got a three-year waiting list from half of London wanting to become members. Difficult thing is marrying expansion with exclusivity.’

It was typical Miles, thought Alex, always boasting about his latest wheeze, telling you how well-connected and clever he was, but now the old brash arrogance had been replaced by a smooth self-assurance. Alex had kept tabs on Miles too via the papers and the occasional snippet of gossip, and he knew that the tailored suit and the Rolex had come from the success of the Globe clubs rather than his father’s generous allowance.

‘So how’re things with you? Still singing and dancing?’

Alex ignored the jibe. ‘Yes, I’ve just done a gig at the House of Blues.’

‘Well done,’ said Miles without enthusiasm. ‘So you left that band, eh? Brave decision. I hear the music scene is really taking off in London, all that Britpop shite. Hey, I think Jez Harrison is a Globe Club member, do you want me to get him blackballed?’

Alex pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t bother.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Miles, clapping him on the shoulder.‘Don’t get mad, get even and all that. Good plan coming out to the States actually; all the serious money is here. Jez would shit a brick if you made it out here.’

The thought had crossed Alex’s mind, but if he was honest, it wasn’t looking too rosy. Three knock-backs from record labels and a handful of college gigs – he was hardly Michael Jackson.

‘I haven’t actually got a recording contract yet.’

‘Oh really?’ Miles with a sideways glance. ‘Bad luck.’ He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring into the air. It was a simple gesture, but it was so familiar to Alex that suddenly he needed a drink. He reached out and grabbed the champagne flute, knocking it back in one.

‘Hey, I thought you were clean and serene,’ said Miles.

‘Just the one,’ said Alex, grimacing as the alcohol burnt its way down. Clearly his feelings for Miles were as raw as ever and it made him uncomfortable just being in the same room.

‘So how long are you in town?’

‘Just until tomorrow. I’ve got a few college gigs up the West Coast.’

‘College gigs! Balls to that,’ said Miles with disdain. ‘You know who you have to meet? Falk.’

‘
David
Falk?’ said Alex, almost choking. ‘You know him?’

David Falk was a legend in the music industry. He ran one of the biggest media companies in the world. Equally known for his amazing ear for hits and for his appetite for debauchery, he had not only made the careers of dozens of global stars, he had supposedly seduced a good few of them too. Alex was astonished that Miles was now mixing with the highest inner circle of the entertainment industry.

Miles shrugged casually. ‘Yeah, Dave’s having a party tomorrow night. Amazing house in the Hollywood Hills, even I was impressed. You should come, I think he’ll like you.’

‘Miles, I can’t. I have to be in Santa Barbara tomorrow. I have a gig.’

Miles suddenly looked serious. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he said, locking eyes with Alex. ‘Why do you think people like Jez Harrison are successful despite having no talent, while you’re out here with no record deal? Networking, Alex. It’s putting yourself out there and showing people how good you are. Jez would be there in a flash; any musician who was serious about succeeding would. It’s a music
business
, Alex, a record
deal
. You need to start sweet-talking the money men.’

He threw a fifty-dollar bill and his business card on the table.

‘Nice seeing you, Alex,’ he said, standing up. ‘Give me a call if you make the right decision.’

Then he walked away without looking back.

Alex hated it, but Miles was right. After a fretful night’s sleep, punctuated by vivid, brutal dreams, he got up early and called the number on the card. He could keep slogging away on the American version of the toilet circuit and hope that some record company scout happened to walk by, or he could cut out all the pain and uncertainty and go straight to the top. And anyway, it was just a party. He wasn’t there to talk to Miles, or renew their friendship. It was just business.

Alex remained silent and tense for most of the twisting climb up into the Hills as Miles chattered about his many successes. The Falk mansion didn’t look particularly impressive as they turned off Mulholland Drive high above the city, just a black gate and a lot of shrubbery. But as they climbed out of the car and Miles handed the keys to a valet, Alex had to stop in his tracks. The house was astounding, like a glistening silver spaceship hovering over the twinkling carpet of Los Angeles. A series of pools encircled the whole house, connected by waterfalls and bridges, and the entire ground floor opened out on to a huge entertaining deck which tonight was packed with hundreds of household names mingling and laughing with a supporting cast of beautiful scenesters.

‘Impressive, huh?’ Miles grinned. ‘Told you it was worth coming.’

Alex had been to loads of showbiz parties in his time, but this one was in another league. London might be swinging, but this place was red hot. In a huge hot tub, talking box office receipts, were two of the most powerful men in Hollywood, while in another corner, Rosalind, the supermodel was semi-naked and fellating her billionaire boyfriend in front of a small, encouraging crowd.

‘She’s an exhibitionist,’ said Miles unnecessarily.

They moved through the party, Miles shaking hands and slapping backs, until they reached the bar, staffed by topless male waiters. ‘Don’t be so nervous,’ hissed Miles. ‘It’s just a party; let’s have a good laugh. Like old times, eh?’

Alex ordered a Pepsi and watched Miles effortlessly flit from group to group, chuckling, swapping anecdotes, confident, garrulous, in control. Alex had tortured himself over the years with the question of whether his friend could actually have killed that boat boy, but watching him tonight, he did not look like a man with a burden. He looked completely at ease with himself and his environment. Did that mean anything? Probably not. Alex was sure there were people in this room whose pasts weren’t whiter than white.

‘Like those, do you?’ asked a short man with salt and pepper hair. Alex had been admiring a display of electric guitars hung along a wall like works of art.

‘What a collection,’ said Alex, gazing up.

‘The one at the end used to be John Lennon’s,’ the man said, pointing to the black and white Rickenbacker. ‘Everyone thinks Yoko’s got it, but we came to an arrangement,’ he added with a wink as Alex realised with a blush that the man was the party’s host, David Falk.

‘Alex is a musician too,’ said Miles, walking over. ‘He’s really good. Used to be in Year Zero, that British band? ’

‘I know Year Zero,’ said David to Alex. ‘A bit hit and miss, but you had potential. You were at the House of Blues the other night, weren’t you?’

Alex nodded slowly but his heart was racing.

‘I had a scout there. I hear good things. ’

‘Which is why I thought you two should meet,’ said Miles. ‘A lot of people have been showing interest, haven’t they, Al? But I told him not to sign anything until he spoke to you or at least gave you his demo.’

Miles nudged Alex, who reluctantly pulled out a cassette of some of the songs he’d written in Ireland.

Falk gave a lukewarm smile and put it in his pocket.

‘So you’ll listen to it?’ pressed Miles.

‘Boys, this is my fucking birthday party, not open mike night,’ said Falk. ‘So come on, let’s enjoy ourselves, huh?’

A slim Oriental boy, naked except for a black thong, had appeared at Falk’s side. ‘David, are you coming?’ he asked.

Falk chuckled and began to move away. ‘Going to hit the Jacuzzi. You’re welcome to join us, Alex,’ he said, looking him up and down and smiling.

Alex smiled weakly. ‘Maybe later.’

When Falk had gone, Alex let out a long breath and turned angrily to Miles. ‘That went well,’ he said sarcastically. He felt like he’d had a golden opportunity slip away.

‘Well maybe you should have gone to the Jacuzzi,’ shot back Miles.

Their eyes locked for a moment, then Alex looked away.

‘Listen, I should go,’ he said.

‘Oh come on, stop sulking,’ said Miles. ‘It wasn’t that bad. I thought he liked you.’

‘He’d like me to jump naked into his Jacuzzi, that’s what he’d like. What about the music?’

‘Alex, stop acting like a big girl,’ said Miles with irritation. ‘You just gave your demo to David Falk. People would literally kill for that opportunity. If he likes it, he’ll call you. Now don’t ever say I owe you one.’

Suddenly Alex wanted to get away from this place. He shouldn’t have come here, he knew that now. He felt soiled and shameful just being close to Miles Ashford. Miles corrupted everything he touched.

‘I have to get back to the hotel,’ said Alex.

‘Call yourself rock and roll?’ said Miles with a mocking laugh. ‘And how do you intend getting back to the Chateau?’

‘I’ll find a taxi.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘Goodbye, Miles.’

Miles was right. Again. It took Alex thirty minutes of walking through the dark before he could flag a taxi, and when he got back to the hotel he ordered a triple Jack Daniel’s which sent him into a deep, medicinal sleep until ten o’clock the next morning. The phone woke him, a shrill ring that clattered round his fragile head. He clawed for the phone and pulled the receiver under the covers.

‘Ungh? Whoizit?’ he mumbled.

‘OK, here’s what I think,’ said an unfamiliar voice down the line. ‘One minute you’re trying to be Jeff Buckley, the next minute you’re trying to show off what a brilliant experimental musician you are, and if that’s what you want you should be trying to join Philip Glass’ orchestra, not touting yourself to me.’

Alex immediately sat up in bed, stars popping in front of his eyes. ‘Mr Falk? Is that you?’ he asked incredulously.

The mogul wasn’t listening. ‘But there’re moments of fucking genius on this tape, baby. Total genius. And it doesn’t hurt you look so hot either.’

‘Wow,’ stuttered Alex. ‘Thanks . . . So you’re interested, then?’

‘I’m only going to say this once, Alex. Sign with Falk Records and I’ll sell you two hundred million records.’

‘Whoo-hoo!’ screamed Alex, trying to punch the air, but getting tangled in the sheets and landing with a crash on the floor. ‘Mr Falk? You still there?’ he said, grappling with the phone.

‘There’re lots of things we need to talk about. Management. I’m thinking about putting a band around you too, like Springsteen and the E Street Band. I know you’re talking to other labels so I want to move quickly to get you in our studio. We have a movie coming out next summer. It’s going to be hot with the sixteen to twenty-four crowd. We’ve been looking for a title track and that song on your tape, “Angel Falls”? It’s good, really good. It’s about a woman, right?’

‘Actually, a place,’ said Alex more quietly.

‘Place, woman, we can fix that,’ said Falk. ‘I’ll see you in my office, three this afternoon.’ And he clicked off.

Alex stared at the receiver in disbelief. Then he let out a whoop of delight and ran around the room doing a victory dance, finishing with a screaming dive back on to the bed. He stared at the ceiling, a big grin on his face. This afternoon he was supposed to be in Santa Barbara playing to students; instead he was going to sign a record deal with
the
biggest star-maker in the business. He thought of Miles. He thought of Angel Cay. And then he thought of nothing, as he got up, had a shower and prepared himself for the first day of his new life.

39

March 1997

Philip paced up and down the deep-pile carpet checking his watch. The suite at the Peninsula was costing the Rivera company three thousand dollars a night and that was before Sasha had transformed it into her romantic vision of a Parisian fitting room. A dozen vases of ivory lilies gave the whole room an exotic perfume, while light refreshments came in the form of iced Cristal and chocolate-dipped strawberries. In the bedroom of the suite were rails of Ben’s most exquisite gowns in a rainbow of colours together with neatly paired heels and Judith Leiber handbags to complete the look.

‘Are you sure anyone is going to come?’ he said.

‘Relax,’ said Sasha as she made last-minute adjustments to the room. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

Philip was such a worrier, thought Sasha irritably; always focusing on their cashflow, he never took the time to see the big picture. The fact was that the Beverly Hills store was due to open in April and without this afternoon of dressing-up and canapés there was a very real chance the whole company could collapse. In two days’ time, LA would be locked down for the biggest event in the city’s year, the Oscars ceremony, and they desperately needed to get the actresses and wives walking along that red carpet in Rivera gowns. They had launched the company on the red carpet three years ago with Giselle’s daring, dazzling dress and it had been a massive success, making Rivera a household name and ensuring the London store had to employ a queuing system in order to deal with the demand. But getting a dress into the Oscars would mean global exposure; the coverage was watched by thirty million people in the US alone. With the cost of hotels, flights, catering, not to mention the gowns, this afternoon was a huge risk for them, but Sasha firmly believed it was worth it.