Richard Hightower, one of the world’s richest businessmen, is notorious for throwing the ultimate Party. Decadent, luxurious, permissive and transgressive, Hightower’s entertainments are the hottest tickets in town. If you take a twist of Jay Gatsby, an inch of JG Ballard and a shot of Margaret Attwood and mix it in a cocktail of cold hard cash, that’s the kind of sensory swallow you experience at a Hightower happening.

For this Party, he constructs his most extravagant connivance in honour of his 118th birthday with food and wine imparted by Dicky’s personal chef and sommelier for his mother of all last suppers.

Hightower’s duration owes nothing to ‘good living lifestyle’ and everything to high-quality cosmetic surgery and black market organ transplants.

Truth is, he looks 40. 

Problem is, all the connective tissue that holds together the bits and pieces stolen from other people’s bodies is giving out. Dicky is dying.

Personalised parties have never been Dicky’s forte.

He always invites people he doesn’t know. And this time he has invited them into his own apartment where the ghosts of his life are a vivid presence for all to encounter.

His most intimate relationships, his greatest fear, his most tragic loss, the memory that itches but never materialises, his occasional quietude, the momentum that’s dragged his soul through three centuries, these all sit down to dinner with him and his stranger-guests, uninvited but inevitable, always available but never quite tangible.

Richard Hightower’s life is the dissonance of the Western Empire and his birthday party a symbol of its majesty and decline.

Inspired by the luxury sensibility of Peppers Soul, one of Gold Coast’s most prestigious hotel addresses, High Tower Hotelling is part wake, part grande bouffe, part end-of-days cataclysm, and all party with a capital P.