‘You have a lot to gain, you mean,’ said Alex.
‘Think about it, Alex. It’s a golden opportunity to really reach your core audience. You tour all over the world, but you sell far more albums here in the States. They love you here. And it’s good for you, too. You’ve been quiet for the last eighteen months. AWOL from the industry, from your fans. And this way, you can stay in one place throughout the residency, instead of flying from country to country.’
There was a pause.
‘OK, I’ll admit that appeals to me,’ Alex said. ‘Touring is one of the things I hate the most about this job.’
‘Exactly,’ said Miles. ‘And you could build whatever kind of set you liked, be really creative with the way it’s presented. You won’t get that when you’re playing in football stadiums.’
‘What, are you thinking like a theatre in the round or something?’
Miles looked at Michael, who just shrugged.
‘Anything, the sky’s the limit on that score,’ said Miles enthusiastically, leaning over his desk.
‘I don’t know, Miles,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve just got out of rehab, I’m feeling good about myself. I’m not sure I’m ready to go out there yet.’
‘But you must have new songs you want to showcase, a new direction perhaps?’
‘Maybe,’ said Alex. ‘How long were you thinking?’
‘Seventy-five nights. Maybe more.’
‘Whaaaat!’
‘We’ll give you two hundred thousand a show.’
Alex was laughing again. ‘I don’t need money, Miles. Right now I need my sanity.’
‘You owe me, Alex.’
‘I’ll always be grateful for your help. But a seventy-five-night residency! I’ve been ill, Miles, you know that.’
‘Not ill enough to work for my sister.’
‘That’s a film score. I can do it from home.’
‘Don’t let me down, Alex,’ said Miles, his tone turning angry. ‘You’re saying no to me? After everything I’ve done for you?’
‘You know what?’ said Alex. ‘For once in my life I am saying no to you, Miles Ashford.’ There was a soft click through the speakers.
‘Alex?’ said Miles. ‘Alex?’ He looked at Michael. ‘Get him back, Marshall!’ he shouted. ‘Get the fucker back on the line!’
‘He’s gone, Miles. He said no.’
No one said no to Miles Ashford, no one. He looked out of the window at the silver tower twinkling in the sun. And roaring with frustration, he swept his arm across his desk, smashing the phone to the floor.
&n
bsp; 62
Alex pressed ‘save’ on his hard drive, feeling a familiar rush of excitement. It was the same feeling he remembered getting when he pressed ‘stop’ on his battered old tape recorder, having just committed a song to cassette. Only this time, he wasn’t sitting in that mouse-ridden house in Fallowfield; he was in his recording studio in the basement of a Georgian mews house in a quiet pocket of Highgate. And this wasn’t a song; it was his first film score – two whole hours of sweeping, soaring music that had pushed him to the limit of his abilities as a composer. The last few months he had spent working on Grace’s film had been some of the hardest he’d had to go through, constantly questioning himself, constantly pushing himself harder until he’d created something he just knew was better than anything he’d done before. More than anything else, he felt proud of himself. Six months ago, he had been shivering and puking on the floor of his room in Second Chances; now he was sober, hopeful and content to just be here, doing what he loved. With a new song, he could connect with people, he could make someone cry, he could make his fortune. But here, he felt he had turned a corner in his life. Here he had opened a new door.
He sat back in his Aeron chair. Usually at this point he would have celebrated by going to the pub and not coming back for days. He smiled. That was one reason why he liked living in Highgate: it was only a couple of miles from fashionable, happening London, but it was just far enough out. It was quieter, older, more serene. Not like the ‘Twin Hills of Temptation’, Primrose Hill and Notting Hill, where there was always someone asking him down the pub or to a party, which was where his troubles usually began.
He reached for his coat, locked his studio and headed out towards Waterlow Park; it was a lovely afternoon for a walk – cold but crisp. He thought about Grace Ashford and smiled. The documentary score had given him a renewed sense of purpose and a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. A reason to think about the future and not dwell on the past. But it was their renewed friendship which had really saved him from sliding backwards. After he left Second Chances, he’d declined Grace’s offer to stay at Toddington – there was something about Julian that aggravated him – but he had seen her at least one a week: trips to the movies, a walk around the Heath, or for brunch to discuss the documentary. He’d put any romantic thoughts to one side – jumping into another messy relationship was the last thing he needed right now – but their platonic mini-dates had really brought him back to life and he would always be in her debt for that.
He walked past the tennis courts, breathing in the air and enjoying the squeals of a group of children trying to climb a tree. At Second Chances they’d called this ‘the Technicolor Rush’, the pure pleasure of seeing the world again through clear eyes, enjoying simple things like birds and flowers for what they were. Alex knew he wasn’t completely free from that little devil on his shoulder whispering about how nice a pint would be right now, but he was learning to ignore it. It was easier when you were surrounded by grass and trees and . . . God, I’m turning into a hippy, he smiled to himself.