Читать книгу The Fame Factor - Polly Courtney - Страница 13

Zoë closed her eyes and let her head roll back on the velvet seat, imagining she was somewhere else. The sweeping string section built to a climax with a piercing blast of high-pitched brass and in her mind, the heroine held up the prize in her hands, victorious. Classical music always sounded like a soundtrack to her.

She opened her eyes again as the volume dropped to a pizzicato murmur, watching the polo-necked conductor as his arms jerked up and down like those of a Thunderbird puppet. The music was incredible, she couldn’t deny that. But it didn’t seem like something to be admired in its own right. There was no stage presence – no element of performance.

‘Bravo!’ yelled her father through the clamorous applause. He and thousands of others clearly disagreed with Zoë’s judgement. ‘Splendid!’

Presumably deciding that the thunderous ovation was not quite sufficient for an encore, the conductor disappeared from the stage, only to return seconds later with a camp flourish to take another set of bows.

‘Magnificent,’ muttered Zoë’s father, nodding approvingly as they started to shuffle along the row.

Zoë looked at Tamsin and smiled. Their annual winter concert was nominally a treat for the whole family, paid for by their parents in lieu of Christmas presents, but the appreciation was always somewhat one-sided.

‘Shall we go for a drink?’

Zoë nodded, catching her sister’s eye again. Clearly the glass of wine in the pleasant café overlooking the Thames was their mother’s favourite part of the evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy concerts or that she was overly fond of wine; she just couldn’t relate to classical music. Debussy and Wagner hadn’t featured on the Croydon council estate where she had grown up.

‘It’s such a pity you don’t play anymore,’ said their father, handing his daughters their glasses of wine. ‘You were both so talented.’

As a barrister, Rupert Kidd, QC was an expert in extracting the response he wanted. Zoë had discovered long ago that her father, though now in his fifties and approaching retirement, found her no match in an argument. She had developed a mechanism to suppress her instinct to rise to the bait.

‘Tamsin still sings,’ their mother pointed out. ‘You’re still a member of the Inns of Court Choir, aren’t you, darling?’

Zoë looked at her sister, torn between vindication and irritation. It wasn’t jealousy that she felt; more just the sting of injustice. Tam, in their parents’ eyes, could do no wrong.

‘But the orchestra…’ Their father wore a pained expression, which landed, predictably, on Zoë. ‘It’s such a tremendous thing to be involved with. Didn’t you enjoy being part of the first violin section?’

‘Of course I enjoyed it,’ she began, glancing at her sister, who was looking intently into her wine. Zoë knew where this was leading. It was a trick question. If she replied negatively, she would be implying that all those evenings spent practising for her violin exams and – more to the point – all the time and money her parents had lavished on her musical education had been for nothing. And that wasn’t the case. She had enjoyed playing the violin and she knew that her classical training was, in part, what made her the singer-songwriter that she was today. But if she said yes, she would face more questions about why she didn’t still play the violin, why she insisted on chasing her silly dreams with Dirty Money. She didn’t want to go there tonight.

‘But not enough to stick with it,’ finished her father.

Zoë took another gulp, willing herself to remain calm – to swim away from the bait. ‘I…’

She fought to explain herself in a way that somehow avoided the subject of the band. ‘It didn’t feel right, just playing the dots on the page.’

Her father frowned at her, looking mildly amused. ‘You would have preferred to play something other than the dots on the page?’

Zoë hesitated, wishing she could fashion an argument as quickly as her father. She knew what she meant. Watching the violinists tonight, their identical movements dictated by the flick of the conductor’s wrist, had reminded her why she’d given it all up. They were like foot soldiers in an army, following rules and taking instructions – never thinking for themselves. Zoë didn’t want to be part of an army. She wanted to fight her own battles.

‘I’d rather have a chance to express myself,’ she said, realising that she was sailing dangerously close to the wind. ‘But I guess Tam still enjoys her music. Tam, d’you do concerts with the Inns of Court Choir?’

Without hesitation, Tamsin took up the mantle, sharing news of upcoming performances and swiftly moving on to the subject of her bumbling choirmaster and then the Inns of Court dog, Monty. That was why she made a good barrister, thought Zoë as she sank into her glass of wine with a grateful smile.

Conversation meandered through Tamsin’s court cases, then on to Zoë’s work, at which point people’s eyes started glazing over. Try as her parents might, they couldn’t show genuine interest in the inner workings of Chase Waterman Plc., no matter how pleased they were that she’d taken the role. There really was nothing to get excited about when it came to balance sheets and write-downs.

Zoë’s father emptied the last few droplets of wine from the bottle as his wife rummaged in her handbag.

‘There you go,’ she said, handing Zoë a small plastic parcel.

Zoë unwrapped it and smiled. The label on the jam jar had faded, but the contents were still intact. There were probably over two hundred plectrums in total, collected by the members of Dirty Money throughout their university years. They came from all over: Gigs, friends, festivals…Some were freebies, some had been bought, some borrowed and never returned. Zoë turned the jar round in her hand, feeling suddenly emotional as the memories came hurtling back.

‘Have you got my…’ Zoë glanced under the table and then looked at her mum, frowning. ‘Guitar?’

An awkward glance passed between her parents.

‘Mum?’

‘Well…no. I’m afraid we gave it to the charity shop.’

‘Wh—’ Zoë couldn’t speak. She looked at her mother, then her father, then down at the table. This was no oversight on her parents’ part. They hadn’t accidentally put the guitar in the wrong pile. Zoë had explicitly asked them to keep it aside. They had thought about this and acted with the sole purpose of proving a point.

‘We assumed you wouldn’t mind,’ said her father, raising his eyebrows as though nothing was amiss.

‘You hadn’t used it in years,’ her mother added.

Zoë could feel her breathing quicken. She felt angry and hurt and sad all at once.

‘I loved that guitar!’ she cried, unable to keep the wobble from her voice.

‘Yes, um…’ Her father looked around the restaurant. ‘Don’t make a fuss, now.’

‘You haven’t even seen it in years,’ her mother went on.

Zoë’s chest was heaving, her bottom lip quivering ominously.

‘That’s not the point,’ she managed, as the pressure built up behind her eyes.

They all knew what the point was. It wasn’t anything to do with how much or how little she used that guitar. The point was one they’d been avoiding for years – the point that her parents refused to accept her for who she really was.

They saw her in a particular light – the light in which they wanted to see their daughter. They saw the successful young professional, a high-flying financier. They turned a blind eye to the traits they didn’t like – or worse, tried to stamp them out. They detested her dogged resolve to take an alternative path. That was the point here, although Zoë couldn’t say it because tears were choking her throat.

‘You’re getting all het up over nothing,’ chided her mother, pushing a tissue in front of her.

Zoë blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes, determined to regain her composure – to not let them win.

‘I wanted to keep that guitar,’ she explained, her voice strengthening with every word. ‘The band’s going well.’ She sniffed. ‘I know you don’t like that idea, but it’s the truth. And you know…One day, I might want to look back and say, that was the first guitar I ever played.’

Her parents exchanged a dubious look but said nothing. Their doubt spurred Zoë on.

‘We’ve got a new manager – a proper one. He’s from the States and he looks after a lot of top acts over there.’

‘Well, that’s good news.’ Her father smiled primly.

Zoë’s blood started to heat up again. She knew what her father was doing. He was playing along, saying all the things that a supportive parent would say, but not meaning any of it. His words were hollow. This was his way, and it frustrated the hell out of her.

‘How many acts does he manage?’ asked her mother.

Zoë bit her lip. The sudden display of interest in her band was pathetic. It was all false. She wanted to scream and walk out on them, but she knew that they’d claim that as a victory so she stayed put.

‘Lots,’ she replied, preparing to recall some big-name Blast Management acts.

Her father started doing up the buttons on his coat, his expression clearly designed to imply concern about her response.

‘What?’ demanded Zoë. ‘What’s that look for?’ She knew, deep down, that she should have just said her goodbyes, kissed her parents and thanked them for a lovely night.

‘Well, I suppose some of his acts must become successful…’

A nasty feeling crept over Zoë, not just because her parents were playing games with her – implying that Louis took on hundreds of artists, of which only a handful got anywhere near the charts – but because she knew that they were probably right. Dirty Money was just one of thousands, maybe millions, of bands in the world that were fighting for attention from the masses. Even Louis Castle couldn’t guarantee any sort of success.

For a moment, Zoë stood there, clutching the jar of plectrums and trying to formulate a smart response. Then she realised that nothing she could think of would outwit her father, so she gave up and forced herself to smile through the tears.

‘Great concert tonight,’ she said, kissing her dad on the cheek.

If he was surprised at the turnaround, he didn’t show it. ‘Lovely to see you too.’

Zoë hugged her mother, who gave her a guilty, awkward smile, then turned to her sister and buried her face in Tam’s collar. She knew that Tam was on her side, even though she didn’t fully understand what Zoë was trying to achieve. She knew what it was to be wrongly convicted.

Before the tears could well up again, Zoë raised a hand and stepped out onto the South Bank, walking quickly, the cold wind bringing fresh tears to her eyes. She loved her parents, she really did. They were the sort of parents who had always tried to be ‘right behind you, whatever you choose to do’. But they weren’t. They couldn’t help it. They were right behind Tamsin, because she was in the right place, but ever since Zoë had stepped out of line, they had resolutely failed to follow.

Her father’s last dig was still ringing in her ears. He knew her so well; he knew exactly how to piss her off. He was a professional when it came to messing with people’s minds – especially hers. Only a few hours after getting off the phone to Kate and agreeing to sign Louis’s contract as soon as possible, here she was, doubting her whole future with the band.

The orange glow of the Houses of Parliament shone back off the surface of the Thames, Big Ben’s face shining like a lighthouse at one end. Zoë stopped and pulled out her phone. There was something her father didn’t know about her. All the years of playing in Dirty Money had created something inside her that even Rupert Kidd, QC wasn’t aware of: her resilience. He was underestimating her.

It was late, but Zoë didn’t care. In another industry, like auditing, nobody would call their manager at ten fifteen on a Wednesday night. But this was the music business. And this was important.

‘Yeah?’

Clearly Louis hadn’t added her number to his phone, thought Zoë, feeling slightly embarrassed as the thumping background beat pounded into her earpiece. Maybe Louis was busy signing another act. She hesitated for a second, then cast her doubts aside.

‘Louis, it’s Zoë. From Dirty Money.’

‘Hiiiiii!’ he yelled. ‘How’s it goin’?’ There was a grunting noise that implied Louis was levering his body into an upright position.

‘Not bad. Um…’ Zoë faltered again, wondering whether this was in fact an entirely inappropriate thing to do. Then for a second time, she forced herself to go on. ‘I just wanted to ask. How many acts have you got on your books?’

A loud ‘phhhhhh’ came down the line, temporarily drowning out the ambient hum. ‘I guess, twenny? Maybe thirdy? I don’t count them very often.’ He laughed. ‘Gin please, no ice,’ he yelled.

‘And how many of your artists are signed to labels?’

‘Sung to Mabel? Who’s Mabel?’

‘How many of your acts are signed. You know,’ she said, speaking loudly and slowly. ‘Signed to a label.’

‘Oh! Jeez. I dunno…about half, at the moment? A little more, maybe.’ A rustling noise drowned everything out. ‘Just a splash of tonic, thanks.’

Zoë nodded to herself, feeling a weight lift inside her. Half. That was a decent proportion. She wished she’d had such a statistic ten minutes ago.

‘Why d’you ask?’ cried the man, above the din. ‘Not getting cold feet on me, are ya?’ He laughed again.

‘No,’ Zoë replied. ‘’Course not. Just wondered.’

‘Well, that’s just as well,’ said the manager, after a slurping noise and a smack of his lips. ‘Because I got you lined up for making a demo track with Clive Berry next week!’

‘Clive Berry?’ Zoë repeated. She must have misheard. Clive Berry was a name. She had read about him in Q and the NME. He wasn’t up there with Mark Ronson but he was definitely known in the industry. She had a feeling he’d produced the early tracks of bands like Suede and Placebo in the nineties.

‘Clive Berry, yeah.’

‘Cool,’ she said, dumbstruck.

‘Saturday,’ he said, with another slurp. ‘I’ll bring the management contracts with me then, yeah?’

Zoë mumbled something, lost for words.

‘See you there at nine a.m. Saturday, bright and early!’ he yelled as the background noise swelled. ‘It’s Soho Studios, just off Tottenham Court Road.’

‘Cool,’ she said again, but she had a feeling Louis was no longer listening.