Kiss Heaven Goodbye

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 compl

etely 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.