April 23, 2005.
As he steadied his breathing, he finished the final song of the latest album. A week of recording, two months of work for everyone—Spencer's fingers looked blistered, and Darry seemed on the verge of falling asleep; they needed rest.
—I think it's time we head to the Bahamas. —said Billy.
The band looked at him. What exactly did he mean by that?
—You want a break from all this London cold. —asked Sugar Egg.
—Actually, we all need it. What if we take a trip? I could invite a few people. —Billy replied, thinking about the necessary rest, the sea in front of them, the salty air—what a delight.
—We've got Bath nearby, the Roman town—perfect for relaxing. —Darry commented.
The band members looked at him.
—Well, I mean, I'd rather not fly, and the Bahamas are on the other side of the world. It'd be better to just unwind, hit a spa, day and night… you know, go sightseeing.
Billy laughed.
—Let's do it, let's throw a party—I'll host. —
He said it with conviction, already eager to see everyone there. He picked up the phone to call Michael Ocklars, about to suggest something small… but instead he said: make it big, go all out, I want everyone there.
According to Jerry's deal, he was entitled to four major parties a year, and this would be the first. He wanted to stir things up, to wake London from its slumber—and if that meant renting out an entire hotel, so be it. Let everyone come.
—I think it's happening. —said Spencer.
—You're coming too, Darry, right? —Billy asked.
The boy wanted to refuse, but chose not to, going against his better judgment.
***
Michael Ocklars took a deep breath. Protocol AB was in motion. With two calls, he reached out to all the major agencies, then to Billy's entire network of friends and acquaintances, then to those outside that circle, then extended it further—guests could bring two companions each. He called a London modeling agency and hired 30 models for the weekend—Billy Carson's party, complete with press, photos, and videos.
He ordered 200 bottles of whiskey, 200 bottles of champagne, 1,000 bottles of water, 1,000 sodas, and 1,000 bottles of lemonade. He hired two catering companies to prepare five thousand servings each—nutritious meals, trays of cheese, meats, chicken, fruit—for the coming weekend. Then he contacted two security teams to coordinate two full days of events and festivities. He secured a hotel in less than an hour.
He hired professional dancers for three days, three nurses, a general physician, and an event coordinator. The hotel confirmed within thirty minutes—fully booked.
Four hours in, the bill had reached two million pounds, which he planned to offset through sponsorships from Red Bull, Coca-Cola, and Warner itself, which always embraced these kinds of ventures when benefits were involved. The alcohol brands provided everything for free and assisted with logistics, keeping the total around two million pounds—but with Warner's contribution, Billy personally covered one million five hundred thousand pounds.
Rock bands confirmed their attendance. There would even be live performances: Radiohead, The Strokes, Oasis, Amy Winehouse, David Bowie, The Libertines—it was complete madness. The lineup, the celebrities saying yes, from legends to rising stars, beautiful women everywhere—on the other side, one of those legendary parties that would make people tremble.
London went wild in a single day, overflowing in every surrounding area. Michael Ocklars negotiated with two beer and wine companies to distribute free alcohol in the streets to anyone celebrating. He coordinated with the city and brought in more police—100 officers—to extend permits and ensure order. Citizens were compensated for the disruption or invited to spend a weekend in London instead.
Huge sums were spent on flowers, fireworks, and colored lights. Bars were filled, and a whole infrastructure emerged to sustain the celebration across London and its outskirts.
Buses adjusted their routes and extended hours. A small camping area was even opened for those who wanted to stay.
…
—Damn, Billy, the news is going crazy. —said Jack Sauce, who had received calls from people talking about the London party.
Everyone was stunned at the idea of turning it into a live spectacle, captured in a single image.
In less than twelve hours, Jack had received fifty calls, and his voicemail was overflowing. His thumbs ached from replying.
—I think we're full. —Billy laughed.— The hotel only has 200 rooms, and they're already gone. The entire English acting circle is coming, and that's a real headache. A lot of them are seriously problematic.
He could already picture it: broken rooms, people in the hallways, artwork removed and locked away for safety, everything unfolding in a haze of chaos and fleeting ideas.
—Damn, I don't think I've ever seen anything like this. —Jack whispered.
Now he understood just how dangerous Billy's New Year's party had been—the kind of event people would remember with fear and awe. Publicity was always a good thing… but this had spiraled out of control. London's voices roared in every direction, calls pouring in, igniting the engines of anticipation.
—Will the models be there? —Jack asked.
They were the kind of models Jack considered perfect tens—beautiful women who lived on runways, indulging in refined tastes, commanding attention from behind the cold doors of high society.
—I th-think so… I'm not entirely sure what's happening. —Billy replied.
All his friends were invited—even those with complicated relationships. It didn't matter if things came to light during the party; all he cared about was having fun, without anyone worrying about anything.
A shout into the air, a new revelation, a new way to laugh—that's what ran through Jack's mind. He knew he had to rest for the madness ahead. Billy wouldn't stop on Friday—he'd go on through Saturday and Sunday, maybe until midnight when everything finally ended. And even then, he'd only stop because he had to.
And that… was a celebration worth living.