Kiss Heaven Goodbye Page 11

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘In here,’ he said, holding open the door to the bathroom and leading her towards a cubicle.

  Sasha felt her heart lurch. She knew that ad agencies were awash with cocaine, but she didn’t take drugs. A lot of the other agency girls did; they said it kept the weight off. Locking the door behind them, Martin tipped some white powder on to the cistern and snorted it through a rolled-up twenty-pound note. Politely she refused his offer of a white line and, shrugging, he took hers too. Then he leant in close, his breath hot on her neck.

  ‘Show me if you can do sexy,’ he whispered.

  She met him directly in the eyes. ‘If I show you, will I get the Venus contract?’

  ‘I think we can safely say we can make this happen.’

  She felt a flicker of dread. His fingers played with the zip of his trousers until his cock and sprouts of black hair like spider’s legs sprang free. It was not a pretty sight. Then again, they never were.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Sasha. I only need a little bit of persuasion.’

  Taking a breath, she dropped to her knees on the cold ceramic floor.

  You can do this, she told herself. You’re good at this.

  She held the base of his shaft, then ran her tongue slowly, so slowly, along the sensitive underside of his cock.

  ‘Oh God,’ he moaned. ‘Yes, yes.’

  Closing her eyes, she took him whole in her mouth. He tasted sour. She thought of her small bedroom in Esher, then thought of herself on television. On the cover of Vogue. Life was full of choices, and she was making one now.

  ‘Jesus, yes,’ he groaned, pulling her head towards him until the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat. She tried not to gag.

  ‘Yesssss . . .’

  He slumped against the cubicle wall and Sasha pulled a wad of tissue from the dispenser to wipe a small white stain that had made its way on to her Ozbek top.

  ‘Oh yes,’ panted Martin. ‘You can definitely do sexy.’

  Sasha got up off her knees, looked at him, and then unlocked the door. ‘I look forward to hearing from you on Monday,’ she said and walked out into the party.

  She immediately spotted Caroline draped over a rugby-player type in a badly fitting suit.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, peeling her off the protesting beefcake.‘We’re going.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked her friend.

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ said Sasha, forcing a smile.

  Sasha woke up on the camp bed cold and stiff as usual; but this morning, there was a spring in her step and a new sense of purpose. Caroline and her flatmates had already left for work, so she jumped in the shower, then towelled herself dry as she walked through to the kitchen. She smiled to herself as she opened the fridge and took out a carton of orange juice labelled Jennifer. She was looking forward to living here, and when she did, the fridge would be full of oysters and champagne.

  Dressing quickly but carefully, she ran out into the street and – throwing caution to the wind – flagged down a cab, giving the driver the address of her agency in Covent Garden. What the hell, she thought happily, I’ll be able to afford it soon.

  She strode into the reception area. ‘Hi, Sasha Sinclair to see Hilary.’

  ‘Are you going to come in every day?’ Hilary Covington, Sasha’s booker, smiled as she walked in. ‘You can just call. And you know I’ll ring you if anything comes up.’

  ‘I had to come in today. I have news,’ said Sasha boldly. ‘I saw Martin Newsome for D&D at a party last night. He said I was fantastic and that they were going to send me to see the client, although he seemed pretty confident I was the only one they were interested in.’

  Hilary flicked through her call sheet. ‘Well I haven’t heard from him,’ she replied. ‘What was the name again?’

  ‘Martin Newsome,’ replied Sasha. ‘He works with Kim on the Benson account.’

  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 God, she thought, 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 bump 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 passed 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. 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. God 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? 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 classifieds section of the 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 . . .

  ‘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 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 flustered.

  ‘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 God-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 bump into Miles Ashford on a jolly up from Oxford.

  He walked on, passing the only curry house in town, passing 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 Dicko would probably be in there, downing pint after pint and making inept passes 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 piss 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 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. Cracking open the can with a hiss, he flipped to the ‘Musicians Wanted’ classified 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, he thought. But was ‘Ziggy, 21, influences Green On Red, Theatre of Hate and Buzzcocks’ 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 passed the Ritz and the Haçienda, 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, he thought fiercely. 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.