Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 11
Hilary looked puzzled. 'He works with Kim? Hang on, is he the junior account executive they've just taken on?'
'Junior account executive?'
'In fact I spoke to Kim twenty minutes ago about the Elan girls we sent over. But it looks like they're going with an actress. Someone older.'
Sasha could feel the blood draining away from her face. Oh G.o.d, Oh G.o.d, she thought, she thought, that can't be true, can it? that can't be true, can it?
Hilary saw the look of dismay on her face. 'Sasha, you didn't sleep with him, did you?'
'No! Of course not!'
'Good,' said Hilary. 'I know you're too smart for that. But this is modelling and you're going to get asked. Most of the time it's not even worth thinking about.'
'I know,' said Sasha. 'I'm not stupid.'
Hilary fixed her with a long stare. 'Look, Sasha, it's good that you came in, because we need to have a talk.'
Sasha felt her stomach turn over. She had been expecting 'the talk', but not quite so soon.
'We're not really getting anywhere with the jobs, are we?' said Hilary. 'Maybe we need to start considering a few options.'
Sasha didn't reply, her voice choked by anger and fear.
'Maybe we need to turn your hair red,' said Hilary. 'It can limit you, of course, but it might give you a bit of stand-out.'
'But it's just a matter of time before ...'
Hilary wasn't listening. She gestured towards Sasha's face. 'We definitely need to fix that b.u.mp on your nose too,' she said almost conversationally. 'I know a great plastic surgeon who can do it for under two grand. If it's too expensive up front, we can think about taking it out of your fees. It heals much quicker than you'd think.'
Sasha swallowed and forced herself to take a deep breath. Hilary wasn't being nasty, she told herself; in fact she was just trying to be kind. It was a brutal business and you had to be tough to survive.
'Thanks, Hilary,' she said, standing up. 'I'll think about it.'
'Just let me know.'
Sasha gave her a weak smile and walked out of the office into the cold street. It looked like it was trying to snow. As she pa.s.sed a shop window, the mannequins, dressed in glittery red dresses like Santa's little helpers, their arms and legs grotesquely slender, seemed to be mocking her, their featureless faces saying 'Whatever made you think you could do this?'. Arctic wind lashed against her face. She pulled the collar of her jacket further up around her neck.
Maybe they're right, she thought. Maybe I'm not suited to this business. Maybe I'm not suited to this business. She looked again at the window. Or maybe it was just a matter of choosing a different path, doing a little lateral thinking. One thing was sure: Sasha Sinclair was never going to get caught out ever again. Next time she would make the right decision. She looked again at the window. Or maybe it was just a matter of choosing a different path, doing a little lateral thinking. One thing was sure: Sasha Sinclair was never going to get caught out ever again. Next time she would make the right decision.
13
February 1991
Maureen Doyle was a magician; it was the only way she could manage. Since the death of her husband Clive ten years before, leaving her nothing but empty gin bottles, she had been forced to become an expert in performing magic tricks with money and time, especially as she had to keep her son Alex in a fancy private school. Plate-spinning was her greatest party piece simultaneously managing her part-time job in the newsagent's, the cleaning shifts, the envelope-stuffing sideline she did while watching her beloved soaps, while also keeping her own Macclesfield terraced house spotless. But Maureen didn't mind; it was all for her Alex. G.o.d only knew why He had seen fit to send her such a talented son, but He had and Maureen was going to do everything in her power to make sure that talent wasn't wasted everything.
'Going out, love?' she asked, looking up from her Green Shield stamp book.
'Yeah,' mumbled Alex from the doorway of the lounge, pushing a piece of toast into his mouth, spraying crumbs over his Fred Perry T-shirt. 'I'll probably be back late.'
Maureen fought back a surge of disappointment; she had barely seen Alex all week and she had been looking forward to watching the telly with him tonight. Yes, their separate lives were partly to do with Maureen's eleven-hour working days, but there was also something else: Alex seemed to be retreating from the outside world and it worried her. Is it me? Is it me? she asked herself. She had always done her best. The house was always full of Irn Bru and biscuits; she'd bought a second-hand portable telly from the cla.s.sifieds section of the she asked herself. She had always done her best. The house was always full of Irn Bru and biscuits; she'd bought a second-hand portable telly from the cla.s.sifieds section of the Macc Express Macc Express and put it in his room. He had his own set of keys and could come home as late as he liked without being asked questions. She had even told him that he could bring any lady friends back if he wanted. But still her son seemed dreadfully, fundamentally unhappy. She stood up to face him, unsure of what to say. Maureen was not a confrontational woman and she was aware that life hadn't always been easy for Alex, but still ... and put it in his room. He had his own set of keys and could come home as late as he liked without being asked questions. She had even told him that he could bring any lady friends back if he wanted. But still her son seemed dreadfully, fundamentally unhappy. She stood up to face him, unsure of what to say. Maureen was not a confrontational woman and she was aware that life hadn't always been easy for Alex, but still ...
'What's the matter?' asked Alex, catching the look on his mother's face.
'Nothing,' she said quickly.
'Don't you want me to go out?'
'No. I'm glad,' she said. Finally she took a deep breath and forced herself to say it. 'I've just been worried about you, love, spending all this time alone.'
Before she'd even finished her sentence she knew how stupid she sounded. She knew that teenagers would rather spend their time listening to records than watching Coronation Street Coronation Street with their mothers. But his physical withdrawal upstairs sleeping all day, locking his bedroom door echoed a change in his personality that Maureen did not think was simply due to age. Looking back, the change had begun the moment he had come home from that trip to the Caribbean and announced he was going to turn down his place at the Royal Academy. Maureen had been upset, of course it was exactly why she'd worked so hard all these years, why she hadn't had a new winter coat since the mid-eighties but if Alex was going to be unhappy there, then she wouldn't force him. Secretly, she was happy to have him home. She'd missed him desperately when he was away at Danehurst, but he hadn't just withdrawn from her, he had kept away from all his friends too refusing to take phone calls from Miles Ashford and showing little interest in meeting old friends from Macclesfield. She knew she should have listened to her sister. 'You don't want him going to no posh school,' Rita had warned. 'Won't fit in properly there. Won't fit back.' Maureen was worried she had been right. with their mothers. But his physical withdrawal upstairs sleeping all day, locking his bedroom door echoed a change in his personality that Maureen did not think was simply due to age. Looking back, the change had begun the moment he had come home from that trip to the Caribbean and announced he was going to turn down his place at the Royal Academy. Maureen had been upset, of course it was exactly why she'd worked so hard all these years, why she hadn't had a new winter coat since the mid-eighties but if Alex was going to be unhappy there, then she wouldn't force him. Secretly, she was happy to have him home. She'd missed him desperately when he was away at Danehurst, but he hadn't just withdrawn from her, he had kept away from all his friends too refusing to take phone calls from Miles Ashford and showing little interest in meeting old friends from Macclesfield. She knew she should have listened to her sister. 'You don't want him going to no posh school,' Rita had warned. 'Won't fit in properly there. Won't fit back.' Maureen was worried she had been right.
'I'm fine,' said Alex defensively.
Maureen nodded sympathetically. 'But you will tell me if you've got problems?'
Alex frowned. 'Problems?'
'Oh, girl trouble ... drugs,' said Maureen, feeling unusually fl.u.s.tered.
'Don't be daft.'
'No, I was cleaning for Dr Gilmore the other day and I was telling him about it and he said that depression is very common in young men. If you're depressed, we can get help.'
'Don't worry about me, Mum,' replied Alex with the hint of a smile. 'I'm not depressed.'
'But I do worry, love. You had everything mapped out. Your place at the Academy, you were going to be a musician. And now what are you going to do?'
'I'm still going to be a musician, Mum. Just a different kind. I'm going to be a rock star, and a degree from the Royal Academy isn't going to help me with that.'
'Well why don't you get a job?'
'I have a job,' said Alex with a hint of petulance.
'Not stacking shelves in Kwik Save; a job that makes use of your music. What about Forsyths, that music shop on Deansgate?'
Alex pulled a face. 'I want to play music, Mum, not sell recorders to ten-year-olds.'
'Then do it!' she cried. 'I love you, Alex, but you have a G.o.d-given talent and you're wasting it just sitting in your bedroom. It's breaking my heart.'
They both looked at each other in shock. Maureen didn't know where that had come from; it was almost as if she were watching someone else talking.
'Sorry, love,' she stuttered. 'It's just I've been so worried. I ... I just want you to be happy.'
Alex cast his eyes to the floor. 'I know, Mum,' he said softly.
And as she closed the front door behind him, Maureen Doyle burst into tears.Alex slunk out of the house feeling horrible. He knew how hard his mother tried. He knew how much she had sacrificed to send him to Danehurst his scholarship had helped, but still there were books, instruments, extra tuition, school trips, not to mention all the other things like records and clothes a normal teenager needed when he was away from home. More than that, Alex had always felt the guilt of leaving Maureen to face life alone when she was still getting over the death of his dad. That must have been the hardest part for her. And now he had disappointed her again. She had so wanted her only son to go to the Royal Academy. 'Your father would have been so proud,' she'd told him, her eyes full of tears.
But right now, Alex was where he wanted to be. He almost laughed out loud at that. Macclesfield, the town he had spent his whole life trying to get away from, was the only place he wanted to be in the world. He looked at the grey street ahead of him, the graffiti-dashed walls of a deserted warehouse on one side, the black waters of the River Bollin on the other. To think he'd come straight here from the glistening blue waters of Angel Cay, with its crisp sheets and gentle breeze. But the very thought of the island still made Alex feel sick. He stopped on the little concrete bridge crossing the stream and leant on the railings, gazing down at the sluggish water, wishing he could turn back time. But time wasn't like that; it had an annoying habit of just marching on, leaving you sitting there wondering what happened, just like the rusty shopping trolley stranded, wheels up, under the bridge below him as the river flowed ever on.
No, Macc might not be paradise, but it was where his roots were, like it or not. And anyway, if he was to leave, where would he go? He didn't want to go to the Royal Academy to be surrounded by rich kids with their flute and violin cases he'd had enough of posh people to last him a lifetime. And he didn't want to live in London, where on any given weekend he might b.u.mp into Miles Ashford on a jolly up from Oxford.
He walked on, pa.s.sing the only curry house in town, pa.s.sing the Blue Anchor pub, which would be the scene of some ugly scuffles come chucking-out time. Still, the warm glow of the yellow plastic ship's lantern over the door did make him pause. He reckoned his schoolmates Gaz and d.i.c.ko would probably be in there, downing pint after pint and making inept pa.s.ses at Tracey the new barmaid. Maybe that was where he should be. It seemed to be enough for everyone else; why not him? He'd tried that when he'd first got back, tried hanging out with the old crowd. They'd all taken the p.i.s.s royally, of course, mocking his slightly softened accent and asking him to play them something on his 'fiddle', but there had been affection and familiarity in their ribbing and Alex had loved the way they had completely accepted him back into the fold as if he had never been away. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He had had been away; he'd had a glimpse of the possibilities of life beyond the pub and the snooker hall and the football ground. He was unwilling to look back to the past, yet too anxious to face the future; that was the bald truth. Squirming, he pulled the collar of his suede jacket a little higher. been away; he'd had a glimpse of the possibilities of life beyond the pub and the snooker hall and the football ground. He was unwilling to look back to the past, yet too anxious to face the future; that was the bald truth. Squirming, he pulled the collar of his suede jacket a little higher.
At Macclesfield station he hopped on to a train just as it was pulling out. He didn't need to check the destination; every train went to Manchester. Finding an empty carriage, he pulled open his green Millets army bag and took out a can of beer and his copy of NME NME. Cracking open the can with a hiss, he flipped to the 'Musicians Wanted' cla.s.sified adverts in the back of the paper. 'Wanted: Guitarist for Faces-type band' read the first one. 'DO U WANT 2 B FAMOUS?' He puffed out his cheeks. Yep, that I do Yep, that I do, he thought. But was 'Ziggy, 21, influences Green On Red, Theatre of Hate and Buzzc.o.c.ks' the right man to make it happen? Alex had even contacted a couple of the ads over the past few weeks. He'd got on well with a bloke called Matt who had a Stones-influenced band in Birmingham and invited him to audition the following week. Alex had said he would think about it, but knew in his heart that he still didn't want to leave home. Not yet, anyway. One day, yes. But not right now.
It was drizzling when he got into Manchester's Piccadilly station, but he walked with a bounce as he headed into the city centre. There was a buzz in Manchester, an undeniable energy fuelled by acid house, Factory Records and the endless creative melting pot of people who were relying on talent, guts and determination to make it, not connections or money or a family name. It made you feel alive just to be walking on these wet streets.
Threading his way through the grey Victorian alleyways, he pa.s.sed the Ritz and the Hacienda, ducking under a railway bridge and into The Boardwalk, a small black cave of a club where the ceilings were low and condensation dripped from the rafters. Tonight, as usual, it was full of students. Everyone was in baggy clothes flared jeans, garish T-shirts, floppy hats; they looked like children wearing adults' clothes. Tonight there was an unsigned band called Verve playing who he'd never heard of. The singer was gaunt and awkward-looking with an angular face, big lips and a long spindly body, like Mick Jagger stretched on a rack. But when he sang, he held the attention of the audience in the palm of his big hand. They were good, there was no doubt about that, and Alex felt a stab of unbearable envy. I want to be up there, doing what they are doing I want to be up there, doing what they are doing, he thought fiercely. This is what I've been looking for This is what I've been looking for. It was the first real strong, visceral emotion he had felt since he had left the island; up to now he had only felt numb or sad.
He turned and pushed his way towards the bar. He really didn't want to think about the island, not when he had been feeling so upbeat, but it kept popping into his head unbidden. It didn't help that Miles kept sending him letters. Alex had never had seen Miles as the letter-writing type, but since Angel Cay there had been regular missives, each one sending Alex into a cold sweat, dreading news of a police investigation or some threat to keep quiet. They had been perfectly innocuous and chatty, however, talking about Miles' new life in Oxford, even inviting Alex down during Hilary term, whatever that was, as if nothing had ever happened. He had no intention of taking up that particular offer.
He bought a pint of snakebite and went to stand at the back. He liked it there. He preferred to stay out of the way and watch the compet.i.tion, noting their instruments and amps, how they played a certain riff or how a song was put together.
'Good, in't he?'
Alex turned his head to see a good-looking boy with dirty blond hair that fell over his ears.
'What? Who?'
'The singer.'
'Yeah, he's good.'
'Great set so far. Lucky f.u.c.kers. If there's A and R in the audience tonight, I bet they get snapped up.'
Alex shrugged. Their songs were great, but he thought he could improve them.
In Alex's dream band, everything would be perfect. He'd spent so long planning it in his head, he just knew it would work. And all arrogance aside, he knew the songs he had written were every bit as good as Verve's; in fact, he suspected they were better.
The lad next to him smiled cynically. 'So you're in a band then?'
Alex shook his head. 'Not yet. I'm not even sure I want to. I kinda want to do my own stuff.' He wondered why he was saying all this to a complete stranger, but the truth was he needed to tell someone what he was thinking or he would explode.
'Solo stuff, eh?' said the boy, nodding to the stage. 'It'd be pretty f.u.c.king lonely up there.'
'Lonely?' frowned Alex. 'I never really looked at it that way.'
On stage, the band thundered to a halt amid cheers and whistles.
'Listen, d'you fancy going for a pint at the Briton's Protection?' asked the blond boy. 'They've got a decent jukebox and maybe a lock-in if we're lucky.'
Alex hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Why not?
The boy was called Jez and he was in his third year at Manchester Polytechnic studying graphics, although he was originally from Blackpool. Within minutes of settling into a cracked red-vinyl booth in the pub, Jez was boasting that his older brother Graham had been in a 'big' New Romantic band called Bichon Frise who had been slated to support Duran Duran before Graham had got tonsillitis and had to pull out. Alex suppressed a smile; to Jez, his brother's war stories of touring were full of glamour and adventure, but they didn't begin to touch Alex's experiences of paradise islands, ski chalets and private jets. But then that isn't real life But then that isn't real life, he reminded himself. This is. This is.
'So what d'ya play?' asked Jez finally.
'Guitar, ba.s.s, piano mainly,' said Alex nonchalantly, sipping his drink.
Jez laughed. 'Mainly? What are you? A f.u.c.king musical genius?' What are you? A f.u.c.king musical genius?'
Remembering the all-or-nothing att.i.tude of the singer earlier that night, Alex just shrugged. 'It has been said.'
Jez nodded. 'Fancy a jam with us lot?' He nodded towards the door as two more lads swaggered in, both wearing worn suede jackets like his. 'These pair are in my band, Year Zero. Alex, meet Pete and Gavin. Alex here is a musical genius,' he said with a smirk.
'Excellent,' said Pete, pushing his ginger hair out of his eyes. 'When are you joining us?'
'Am I getting sacked and I don't know about it?' asked Gavin.
'Not you, spastic. Greg. We're hardly going to fire you when you've got a car, are we?'
'Hang on, Greg's leaving the band?'
Jez looked weary and superior. 'I'm going to ask him to reconsider his career choices.' He turned to Alex. 'Greg never shows up for rehearsal. As far as I'm concerned, you're either in or you're out.'
Pete fixed Alex with a stare. 'You interested?'
'Maybe.' He shrugged, but inside he was doing cartwheels. Here was a bunch of cool-looking Manchester-based indie kids who were asking him to join their band. Yes, they could be useless, but they certainly seemed committed, which was half the battle and they had a car, too!
Alex ordered another snakebite, and as they talked about music, twelve-inches they had bought recently, brilliant gigs they'd been to, swapping secrets about musical discoveries, trying to outdo one another, he felt a little piece of him come back to life. Yes, this is where I want to be Yes, this is where I want to be, he thought. Right here. Right here.
'Come on,' said Jez, slapping the table.'Let's have another round.'
Alex looked at his watch with alarm. The last train to Macclesfield left in ten minutes; if he sprinted, he might just make it.
'I'd better get off,' he said, getting up.
'Lightweight,' jeered Gavin.
'Got to get back to Macc,' said Alex.
'Come back to ours,' said Jez. 'You can always crash on the sofa. We can't let you leave the city before you've sampled Gav's home brew.'
Alex shrugged. What did he have to get back for really?
They continued chatting and arguing about music as they caught the night bus back to the band's student house, a huge orange semi-detached Victorian villa in Fallowfield, a standard student let with swirly carpet and mismatched sagging furniture. He noticed a dark open doorway leading off the living room.
'What's going on there?' he asked. Someone had stuck dozens of cardboard egg boxes on the back of the door.
'Soundproofing, mate,' said Pete. 'The birds in the flat upstairs keep phoning our landlord. One more strike and we're out.'