Page 88 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

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 passion. ‘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 fucking 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. Nobody mentioned his father. And on the first of October 1993, when the Globe Club opened for business, the 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.

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 assets 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 album 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’ cocktails, clinking their glasses 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 fucking 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?’