Page 117 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘Hey, d’you wanna come to a party tonight?’ said the blonde, biting her lip playfully.

Alex laughed. It was certainly tempting, but he’d promised himself no more one-night stands, no cheap thrills in the club toilets. In fact there had been no one in the year since Emma had left him, but the attention was flattering nonetheless.

‘Ladies, it’s fantastic to meet you.’ He smiled. ‘But I’ve really got to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘My hotel. I leave fo

r Santa Barbara tomorrow.’

‘When are you coming back?’

‘Soon. I promise.’

He kissed each girl on the cheek and started walking back up Sunset, whistling. In LA, everyone went everywhere by car, but it wasn’t far to the hotel and it was a nice night to walk. A sweet, balmy breeze fluttered through the palm trees and Alex swung his guitar case happily; he felt relaxed, free and hopeful. People came out to see me! He was more excited about that than he would have been if a record executive had turned up. Because this time, Alex was making the music he wanted to make, not the music he hoped would get him a record deal.

His hotel rose like a gothic fairy-tale castle from the garish wonderland of Sunset Boulevard. The Chateau Marmont was Alex’s favourite hotel in the world, a place where you could not help but feel like a rock-and-roll star even if you were a carpet salesman from Wisconsin. He’d blown a huge chunk of his savings staying here, but Harry Cohn the hotel’s founder had summed up its magic when he said that at the Chateau Marmont you could be whoever you wanted to be. Right now, that seemed like a potent idea to hold on to.

Walking through the doors, he was confronted by the bar, fizzing with people and sound. It looked so inviting, so welcoming. It was one of the things he had really missed about giving up the booze: the warmth and social mix of pubs and bars. Fuck it, he thought. I can do this. He settled into a booth, put his guitar under the table and ordered a Virgin Bloody Mary.

To distract himself, he began doodling on a napkin, writing up his itinerary for the next fortnight: Santa Barbara, Palo Alto, San Fran, Portland, Seattle. Most of the gigs were in small bars on student campuses, plus a few interviews with college radio. Not much, but it was a start. Then he heard laughter and looked up – and froze. Miles Ashford was standing in the lobby, joking with the hotel concierge. Alex’s heart began to pound as he watched the sharp-suited figure cut through the crowd towards him. Miles did a double-take, then walked straight up and stuck out his hand.

‘Alex Doyle,’ he said, shaking his head and grinning. ‘I don’t believe it.’

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.’