Читать книгу The Fame Factor - Polly Courtney - Страница 17

‘We’re Dirty Money, and you’ve been amazing!’ yelled Zoë.

There was a whoop from the front of the hall, where Crazy Jeff could be seen bobbing around, arms waving. Then a deathly quiet fell on the room. Zoë stood, her features set in a broad smile, silently willing Shannon to bring them in for the final song.

The crowd had not been amazing. In fact, nothing about tonight had been amazing. In terms of reception, the gig ranked somewhere alongside the one they had played in the geriatric hospital five years ago. They had played well, but the audience, made up mainly of self-conscious art students and young fashionistas, just hadn’t warmed to them. Perhaps the Hoxton crew never actually warmed to anything; they were just too cool.

She should have known that tonight would be a disaster. Not just because of the huge decision that hung over her like a black thundercloud, a cloud she was struggling to keep from the girls, but because the promoter was a renowned money-grabbing bastard. He had done exactly what money-grabbing bastards always do and put on a mixture of funk, electro-pop, rock and a trio of Ukrainian keyboard players in the hope that more genres would attract more punters. Zoë wished she had turned it down.

Ellie played them out with an impressive solo that was wasted on the pouting crowd and, to the sound of muted clapping, Zoë led the girls offstage.

‘Fockin’ hell, that was hard work.’ Shannon barged her way into their dressing room – a cubicle no larger than a public toilet and not dissimilar in terms of smell. ‘What’s wrong with these people? It’s like they’ve had broomsticks shoved up their arses or something.’

Ellie laughed quietly. ‘I think one of them did actually have a broomstick.’

‘There was definitely one dressed as a tree.’ Kate nodded as she started quickly packing away her guitar.

‘We should’ve thought,’ muttered Shannon. ‘We’re playing in the most pretentious district in London. We should’ve planned it better.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Zoë frowned, not feeling like getting drawn in but unable to see how preparation would have helped.

‘Well, look at us!’ Shannon waved a dismissive hand over her body. ‘We look like freaks!’

Even Zoë managed a laugh. Hoxton was the only place in the world where you felt like a freak for wearing jeans. One female member of the audience tonight had been dressed in a kneelength foil wrap, of the type that runners get given at the end of a marathon.

‘No,’ Kate said earnestly. ‘We shouldn’t change our image just because of who we’re playing to.’

Zoë sensed that the bassist was looking to her for support. Ordinarily, she would have given it. She was, as ever, speaking sense. But today, Zoë kept her head bowed and started rummaging randomly in her guitar case. She couldn’t bring herself to discuss what they should or shouldn’t do to improve Dirty Money’s chances of success – not when she knew that their manager was waiting for her to sign off on their demise.

‘I didn’t mean – ugh!’ Shannon cried out as she stepped, mid-shoe-change, in a puddle of brown liquid on the floor. ‘This place sucks.’

Shannon was right. The place sucked. As did most of the venues they played. There was a reasonable probability, she knew, that Dirty Money would be forced to continue playing gigs like this, in clubs where the floors stank of piss, the promoters were short-sighted gits and the crowds didn’t know your name. It was quite possible that the girls would never break free from the grubby London music scene, that they’d still be here with their zimmer frames in fifty years’ time, still trying to make it onto the international circuit.

They never talked about it, but they all knew the truth: it was possible that their dreams would eventually fizzle. Yet despite the odds, they kept plugging away. And up until two days ago, Zoë had never stopped to doubt it. But now Louis’s proposition was taunting her, goading her away from the path they were on.

‘Quick drink?’ asked Shannon, holding her sodden sock at arm’s length and slipping her bare foot into the shoe.

‘I said I’d meet Sam.’ Ellie pulled an apologetic face.

‘Sorry,’ Kate mumbled sheepishly, pulling on her coat. ‘Gotta go.’

‘I can’t.’ Zoë dipped her head as the drummer’s attention turned to her. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place – away from the gig, away from the girls. Away from everything that reminded her of the decision she had to make.

‘What?’ Shannon threw her hands in the air. ‘Why not?’

‘I…’ Zoë could feel the drummer’s eyes upon her. She tried to think of a bullet-proof reason. ‘James…’

‘James can wait. So can Sam,’ she said, glaring at Ellie. ‘Lord knows, he makes people wait long enough.’ Shannon stormed over and grabbed Ellie’s jacket. ‘Come on. We’re going for a pint. I need to tell you about the Irish TV thing. Kate?’

Kate was pulling faces into a small makeup mirror. A smirk crept across Shannon’s face.

‘Hang on…’ She peered at the bassist. ‘D’you have a date?’

Kate swung her guitar onto her back and headed down the corridor, avoiding the question.

Shannon gave chase, leaving Zoë to lock the flimsy door. By the time she caught up with them, Kate’s cheeks were glowing and squeals were coming from both Ellie and Shannon.

‘Your boss?!’ shrieked Shannon. ‘Oh my God!’

‘Stop it!’ Kate glared at the drummer as they slipped through the back entrance into the noisy club. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

‘You shouldn’t have a problem spotting him,’ Ellie remarked, as a girl in a floor-length nightie and full Indian headdress walked past. ‘Can’t be many actuaries in here.’

It was true. Within seconds, they had identified the suave man in the pinstriped suit at the end of the bar. He was finishing a Corona and pretending to be busy on his BlackBerry.

Under strict instructions to leave them alone, Shannon, Ellie and Zoë hung back while the misfits left to find another late-night bar.

‘Cute,’ remarked Shannon, approvingly.

‘Mmm.’ Ellie nodded, with less conviction.

Shannon rounded on Zoë as they elbowed their way to the bar. ‘What’s up with you today?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve hardly said a word all night.’

Zoë shrugged. ‘Headache,’ she said, pointing up at the nearest speaker.

Shannon pulled her head back and squinted at her. ‘You’ve not had a headache in six and a half years.’

Zoë managed a little smile. This was the problem; the girls knew her too well.

‘Is everything okay with James now?’ asked Ellie, presumably referring to a conversation they’d had the previous week about the missed Valentine’s date.

‘Well,’ Zoë gnawed on her lip, wondering whether it was unethical to do this. It was, she decided, but she couldn’t think of another option. ‘It’s still not great, no.’

Ellie tutted supportively. Shannon leaned over and yelled their drinks order at the barmaid, then turned to Zoë, eyebrows raised. It was apparent that more details were required.

‘We’re just…I dunno. It’s partly my fault for spending so much time with the band.’ She felt awful for doing this. ‘He just doesn’t seem to understand.’

Shannon pushed their drinks over. ‘Men, eh.’

Ellie gave a wry smile. ‘Poor you.’

Zoë sipped the head off her pint, relieved to see a lanky figure lollop through the crowds and appear at Ellie’s side.

Zoë raised a hand as Sam caught her eye, watching with a mixture of adoration and envy as he slipped a hand around Ellie’s waist, whispering something into her hair and kissing her on the forehead. Their relationship was as beautiful now as it had been six years ago. They still fitted perfectly together – physically, intellectually and spiritually. They wanted the same things from life – the same things they had always wanted. Zoë couldn’t help wondering whether she and James still fitted perfectly together.

‘So.’ Shannon elbowed her in the ribs. ‘Kate’s seeing her boss, eh?’ Zoë nodded half-heartedly, concerned for their bassist’s relationship – which, based on track record, would be over in a fortnight – but quietly pleased to be back on neutral territory. Being a blue-eyed blonde, Kate had a habit of finding herself brash, chiselled men who, for the first few dates, were ‘the perfect match’. Inevitably, as the charmer discovered that Kate wasn’t trophy wife material, things turned sour and the city slicker would leave her for a six-foot Barbie, further crushing Kate’s self-esteem. ‘Why does she do it?’ asked Shannon. ‘Get with all those toss-pots, I mean.’

It wasn’t a new question. The subject of Kate’s doomed relationships had reared its head many times before.

‘It’s a confidence thing,’ said Zoë, finding herself getting drawn in.

‘Is it?’

Zoë sighed. ‘I think so. She doesn’t realise that she’s pretty and funny and talented and all the rest of it, and she gets flattered into it because she doesn’t realise she could do better. Then the tosspots use up all their flirtatious lines on the first few dates and the relationship fizzles. Obviously, they don’t want to be the ones getting dumped, so they get in there first.’

Shannon looked at Zoë across the rim of her pint glass. ‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I think you might be right.’

They sat for a while, thinking, drinking, immersed in the techno beat.

‘Anyway!’ cried Shannon, springing to life again and reaching for Ellie’s sleeve. ‘The TV thing!’

Zoë gulped her mouthful of beer, overwhelmed by a fresh wave of guilt.