Читать книгу The Fame Factor - Polly Courtney - Страница 16

The phone rang for the second time in as many minutes.

‘It’s Brian again.’

Zoë’s typing became even more frantic.

‘The email still hasn’t come through.’

‘Uh…Really? That’s weird.’

She scanned the main paragraph, trying to stem her internal panic. In fact, there was nothing weird about the situation at all. It was simply that Zoë had failed to complete the audit in time and was now shifting the blame onto the mysterious workings of the client email server.

‘You did cc me this time, didn’t you?’

‘Yep,’ she replied, quickly typing Brian’s name in the cc box. She hadn’t wanted to lie, but the client had called her this morning and launched into a long story about firewall issues at their end and it had slowly dawned on Zoë that they were assuming she’d sent the audit the previous week, and…well, it had just seemed simpler not to make the correction.

Brian grunted. ‘Very strange. I’ll get onto IT.’

‘No,’ she said quickly, knowing that even the cretins employed by the Chase Waterman IT department would spot that no email had been sent from her machine. ‘I’ll do it. I think it might be something to do with my computer anyway.’ She checked the message one last time and pressed Send. ‘Oh, it seems to be doing something now.’

‘I’ll leave it with you,’ he barked.

Zoë slumped back in her seat and let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t like disappointing clients, but it seemed to be happening more and more these days. Perhaps it was because of her workload. Nobody else seemed to have so many projects on the go at once – or at least, nobody else seemed to struggle with the volume of work. But then…She leaned forward again and squinted to check that the email had been sent. Nobody else spent hours every week taking calls from promoters, liaising with venues, updating websites or slipping out to write songs. Nobody else came in to work with a raging headache, their eyes bloodshot from the late nights in sweat-filled bars.

Maybe it wasn’t possible to combine the two careers, Zoë conceded. Not that the band was a career, exactly. She didn’t know the exact definition, but she had a feeling that ‘career’ had something to do with making money. So far, if you added everything up over the years, Dirty Money had probably lost them a few thousand pounds.

Her mobile phone started buzzing its way along the desk, flashing Unknown number. She snatched it up, preparing to explain to the client, yet again, that the email was on its way.

‘Hiiiiii.’

‘Louis?’ she checked. This was surely the call they’d been waiting for.

‘Yeah! How you doin’? What’re you up to?’

Zoë pushed back her chair and sloped off towards the lift lobby. Good news or bad news, this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in front of her colleagues.

‘I’m…I’m at work,’ she replied, not entirely sure whether Louis expected an answer or whether it was simply one of those rhetorical Americanisms.

‘Oh yeah.’ Either Louis hadn’t wanted an answer or he had simply forgotten that most people, at half past eleven on a Wednesday morning, were at work. ‘Where’s that then?’

‘Near Liverpool Street.’ Zoë stepped backwards as a pair of suited men strode out of the lifts, resisting her urge to scream for an update on the Universal meeting.

‘Great! I’m in Shoreditch. Not far at all. Can you meet me in half an hour?’

‘Wh—’ Zoë faltered. She wanted to know now, not in half an hour. Why couldn’t he just tell her by phone? And how on earth was she going to round up the others at such short notice? Kate would be stuck in some important meeting about pension funds, Shannon was probably sweet-talking some media client over an early lunch and Ellie needed at least twenty-four hours to get anywhere. ‘I can try and get everyone along,’ she offered half-heartedly.

‘No, just you for now.’ Louis cleared his throat.

‘R-right,’ she replied hesitantly. If Louis had bad news then she didn’t see why it was her job to deliver it to the rest of the band. She wasn’t a spokesperson.

‘Meet you in The Bathhouse at noon?’ It was an instruction, not a question.

Zoë dropped the phone from her ear to check the time. As she took a breath to respond, she realised that the line was dead.

The following twenty-five minutes were not very productive. She couldn’t concentrate on intangible assets when there were so many questions vying for attention in her head. Why did he want to meet her alone? What did he have to say that couldn’t have been said on the phone? Was it bad news? Had Zoë’s phone call the other night somehow damaged their relationship with the manager? Was he going to cancel their contract? Zoë stopped pretending to work and walked out. Honestly, she was getting like Kate with her worrying. There was no point in fretting over things that hadn’t even happened.

From the outside, The Bathhouse looked like a miniature Russian church, complete with coloured tiles, dome roof and painted dovecote. Inside, it was a hip, candlelit wine bar with carpeted walls and sparsely-placed chandeliers. Zoë entered with caution, alarm bells ringing. Was it normal for managers to meet with their acts in such dark venues? She barely knew Louis Castle. Perhaps it was all a sham – perhaps he wasn’t the Louis Castle she’d read about on the internet.

A waiter ushered her over to the alcove nearest the grand piano, where Louis could be seen, reclined in an armchair, his large, chunky hands clasped around a tumbler of amber liquid. Zoë’s anxieties began to lift. It was obvious that for the manager, there was nothing unusual about this at all. Whereas auditing conversations were conducted under the harsh strip lights of seventh-floor meeting rooms with small cups of water, in the world of rock and roll, candles, sofas and whisky were still par for the course.

‘Hiiiiii!’ He was smiling as he heaved himself out of the seat, which Zoë took as a good sign. ‘What can I getcha?’

Zoë tried to relax. Even in her paranoid state, it seemed unlikely to her that a manager would summon his act at half an hour’s notice just to buy them a drink and then drop them from his list. ‘An orange juice, please.’

Louis drew his head back in disdain, clearly waiting for her real answer.

‘I’m working,’ she explained.

He waved a hand. ‘We’re all working, honey.’

Zoë shook her head, grinning faintly as she slid into the leather seat opposite. To her knowledge, only one person had ever turned up at the Chase Waterman offices drunk. And he’d been a lapsed alcoholic in the throes of a nervous breakdown. Even at Christmas, people stayed sober. There was no way Zoë would risk even a sip of alcohol, knowing what her nosy neighbour was like. Unless…unless Louis’s news was big enough to eliminate the need for the sensible career in auditing altogether – which, Zoë knew, was unlikely.

After a couple more attempts, Louis relented and allowed the waiter to take her abstemious order.

‘So! I got some news for ya.’

Zoë leaned forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. ‘Yeah?’ she said as innocuously as she could.

‘Two pieces of news, actually.’

Zoë nodded, incapable of unclenching her fists.

‘The first is about Blast Management.’

She nodded again. His expression was infuriatingly neutral.

‘I didn’t tell you before, but, well…I’ve sold the company to Universal.’

Zoë’s jaw dropped. She wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but she knew it was big. Universal had acquired Blast Management…So…So, now what? Was this Louis’s way of saying he was walking out on them?

‘Don’t worry, I’ll still be running the shop,’ he said quickly, clearly sensing her concern. ‘It’s actually a part-sale. I get to keep fifty-one per cent and I’m contractually obliged to stay in charge – at least for five years.’ He grinned smugly.

‘Oh, good.’ Zoë was still trying to work things out. He wasn’t leaving the firm, but now Blast was part of Universal, which meant…what, exactly? Other than the fact that Louis Castle was probably a multimillionaire, if he hadn’t been already.

‘This is good news for you,’ he affirmed. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

Zoë managed a smile, feeling ignorant and small. She reached for the juice that had appeared on the table.

‘It means that Blast kinda has a permanent foot in the door of some of Universal’s labels. Island, Polydor, Vicinity…I mean, it’s not like we couldn’t have gotten into conversation with them before, but, you know, their doors are kinda propped open now. And in return, they get first pick of the artists we manage.’

‘Wow.’ Zoë didn’t understand exactly how the propped-open-door model worked, but she sensed that on balance, the acquisition was a good thing for Dirty Money.

‘Which brings me onto—’

‘Hold on,’ said Zoë, spotting the potential pitfall in the arrangement. ‘Does that mean that Blast can only sign artists to Universal labels now?’

‘No, we can go elsewhere once Universal has had its pick. They just get first dibs. But…’ A grin spread across Louis’s face. ‘As it happens, you don’t need to worry about that. Not after my meeting with Vicinity last week.’

Zoë stared, holding her breath. She needed to hear it in plain English before she could allow herself to get excited.

‘Do you mean…Vicinity want to sign Dirty Money?’ She could barely control her voice.

‘Well, not exactly,’ he replied, looking briefly uncomfortable. ‘I’ve had a few meetings now, with Edgar and Jenson and that…Basically, they really liked the band, but…well, it doesn’t quite fit with what they’re looking for right now.’

‘Oh.’ Zoë looked down at the table. She felt deflated. And confused. Louis had led her up this path – building her hopes, dropping hints, flashing that giant smile of his…

‘See,’ Louis swilled a sip of whisky around in his mouth and then finally swallowed. ‘There’s trends in the music industry. Hot things come and go. A few years ago, two lads from Manchester came down in their dirty T-shirts and suddenly indie was big – everyone wanted to sign hairy guys with guitars. The labels don’t wanna miss the next “wave”.’

Zoë nodded impatiently. She was no hairy guy, guitar or otherwise.

‘This year, bands just ain’t hot.’

‘So…’

‘Honey, they wanna sign you.’

Zoë frowned. It was the way he emphasised the last word that worried her.

‘They’re looking for a female solo act,’ he explained, confirming her suspicions. ‘A real singer. A Florence. An Amy. A Lady Gaga, you know? They’re all about girls with big attitude as well as a big voice.’ His piggy face poked out from inside all the chins, blinking and grinning at Zoë.

This was absurd. Zoë couldn’t sign to a label without the others. She was part of a band. They came as a four. This was like trying to sell a car on the basis of only one of its cylinders. It just couldn’t happen.

‘Jeez, Zoë…’ Louis swallowed a mouthful of whisky and planted the glass on the table. ‘I was kinda expecting a bit more enthusiasm!’

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, trying to fend off his indignation while she straightened her thoughts.

‘This is Vicinity we’re talking about. Universal. You know?’

Yes, Zoë knew. She knew exactly how big a deal this was, which was why she felt so low. It was a massive thing to turn down.

Zoë had never considered the idea of standing on a stage without the others. She didn’t know whether she even could. In principle, perhaps it was possible. They were her songs; it was always Zoë on vocals. But in reality…

‘How would I sing without them?’

It was a stupid question. She knew as soon as the words left her lips that she needn’t have asked it.

‘You’ve heard of session musicians?’

He was being sarcastic now – presumably miffed that Zoë hadn’t jumped at the proposition.

‘But what’s wrong with Kate and Ellie and Shannon?’ she pressed.

Louis raised his eyes heavenward and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Because Kate and Ellie and Shannon would make it a band, and a band is not what the label is looking for.’

It was Zoë’s turn to sigh. This wasn’t how things worked. At least, it wasn’t how she’d imagined things worked. Based on everything she had read online, every story she’d heard on the grapevine, artists got signed on the basis of who they were. Louis was implying that the record companies just conjured up a series of typecast moulds and then asked the managers to fill them.

‘What about other labels?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, isn’t there a chance one of the Sony labels might go for Dirty Money? Or Warner, or…’ She trailed off under Louis’s withering gaze.

‘Honey,’ he said, as though she were four years old. ‘When you got a deal on the table, you don’t go pissing around with the competition.’

Zoë nodded, feeling like a cornered animal. There had to be a way of making things work for the band. She tried one last tack.

‘Don’t you…I mean, Blast…Doesn’t Blast represent Dirty Money?’

Louis nodded slowly, his face dipping in and out of his fatty neck. ‘Of which Zoë Kidd is a part. I represent the interests of the band members. So when I hear that a label wants to sign one of those members, I kinda wanna make it work.’

His tone suggested that Louis was running out of patience.

‘What happens if I say no?’ she asked quietly.

He was shaking his head now, looking at her as though she was mad. ‘Then they find someone else,’ he replied, loudly and slowly.

Zoë gulped. She couldn’t believe it was this mercenary, this…premeditated.

‘So, are you in?’

Louis raised an eyebrow, trying to smile despite his evident frustration.

Inhaling deeply and letting out a slow, shaky breath, Zoë met his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

Suddenly, she had to get out of this dark, cosy place. She had to breathe. To think. She stood up and gave a brief, awkward wave goodbye. The sound of Louis’s empty glass slamming down on the table echoed around the empty bar as she climbed the stairs.

‘Don’t think for too long!’ yelled the manager. ‘Plenny of wannabes out there!’