The Fame Factor

A couple of heads turned. Zoë rolled her eyes in an attempt to discredit his cry.

‘You’re in a girl-band!’ Eric laughed, peering at the screen and noting the name. ‘Dirty Money? Kinky, eh. What d’you sing? Are you like the Spice Girls? “Spice Up Your Life…”’

He continued to squawk, thrusting his shoulders left and right. ‘“Who Do You Think You Are…” Which one are you? Posh? Sporty?’

Eric was not to know this, but for a serious musician, there was nothing more insulting than being called a boy- or girl-band. There were key differences between the likes of U2 and, say, Westlife, the principle one being that U2 was comprised of people who could play instruments and sing, whereas most of the boy-band magic happened in the recording studio with session musicians and a fancy mixing desk. Being likened to a member of the Spice Girls was, for Zoë, a little bit like Michelangelo being called a plasterer.

‘We’re not a girl-band,’ she spat, closing the browser and angrily shutting everything down. It felt as though a fuse had snapped inside her.

Eric let out a low oooh, gliding back to his desk and muttering something about Scary Spice under his breath.

Zoë marched over to the nearest recycling station and tugged it towards her desk, aware of several pairs of eyes nervously tracking her movements. In one swift action, she swept all the paperwork into the bin and then kicked it back into the gangway. She didn’t care what her colleagues thought. They were a bunch of ladder-climbing executives whose idea of exciting was wearing a brightly-coloured Donald Duck tie to work. She would show them, one day. She’d show them what it was to succeed.

‘A glass of wine,’ she said firmly. ‘A large one.’

‘Good day?’ asked her sister, grinning as she paid for the drinks.

They were perched on high, space-age stools, surrounded by well-cut suits and polished brogues in one of the many identical bars around St Paul’s. Unfortunately for Zoë and Tamsin, their places of work were at opposite ends of the Square Mile, a district that accounted for more than ten per cent of the capital’s GDP and a good proportion of its spending too – as was evident by the hundred-pound round that was going on beside them.

‘It wasn’t the best,’ Zoë admitted, her mouth already watering as she drew the large, dewy glass towards her.

She didn’t feel as furious as she had half an hour ago. The walk had done her good. Listening to angry music always calmed her down.

‘Anything in particular?’

Zoë took her first sip. She thought about telling Tam about the incident with Eric and the MySpace page, but decided against it. On reflection, her reaction to the little imp’s taunting seemed a little melodramatic. ‘Just the usual.’

A collective cheer rose up from the men on their right and the girls shifted sideways on their stools. Padded shoulders jostling for space at the bar, the young men assembled themselves in front of a long line of pints, each one accompanied by a double shot of a viscous, brown liquid.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ Tamsin remarked, rolling her eyes.

Zoë wasn’t sure whether her sister was referring to the city boys or her attitude towards her career. Tam had never really understood Zoë’s take on life. She was sweet and supportive, always there for her little sister, but the fact remained, she couldn’t see why anyone would want more than a stable, well-paying job and a flat with a well-equipped kitchen.

‘It was in here that I first met Jonathan,’ Tam went on, clearing up the doubt. Zoë smiled at the thought of her sweet, sensible sister falling prey to the slick young predators in here tonight.

‘Did he look something like that?’ she asked, nodding towards the beer-drinkers, who were wandering the bar, bleary-eyed, wearing the shot glasses on their heads like small Russian hats.

‘They all look like that when they get together,’ Tam said, shaking her head. ‘Herd instinct.’

Zoë laughed. ‘Speaking of herds, how is life in the “second six” at the Inn?’

Tamsin took a large sip with closed eyes. ‘Fairly similar to the first six, to be honest. I still get mistaken for the secretary, still get told off for walking on the wrong bit of grass, still get no respect from anyone else in the courtroom.’

‘Oh dear.’ Zoë cringed, thanking fate yet again for her abysmal A-level grades. The Inns of Court actually made Chase Waterman seem like a dynamic, forward-thinking place to work.

‘I guess things have improved a little,’ Tamsin conceded. ‘I was invited to the Spring Croquet Tournament the other day, and I’m actually on my feet in the courtroom.’

‘Wow. Really?’ Zoë raised her eyebrows, feeling a rush of pride tinged with just a small hint of envy – about the courtroom, not the croquet. Whilst she knew she could never sit in those stuffy wooden halls, wearing that wig and ridiculous gown, it would still be an incredible thing to know that your words, in some cases, made the difference between freedom and imprisonment.

‘Well, yes…Although typically, when the judge acquits our defendant he makes it very clear that he’s acquitting him for reasons other than those outlined in my defence. I don’t think they like the idea of a woman having influence at the bar.’

Zoë smiled. ‘It’s like being a musician. A few weeks ago I got ordered to leave the backstage area because it was “artists only”. I tried to explain that I was the artist, but this guy was having none of it. He thought I was some dolled-up groupie.’

Tamsin smiled. ‘How are things with the band?’

Zoë shrugged. It was the same every time someone asked. She always wanted to break some news, tell them that Dirty Money had been signed, that they were releasing an album, supporting some well-known act…But there was never any news. Not proper news, anyway.

‘We approached a few labels a while ago, but haven’t heard back. Oh—’ Zoë smiled sardonically, realising that there was in fact some news – bad news. ‘And our manager walked out on us.’

‘Jake?’

Zoë nodded.

‘He wasn’t much good anyway, was he?’

‘Well, no…’ Zoë sighed. ‘It’s the booking agent we’ll miss, really. But hey, we’ve had some interest from someone else – some American dude.’

Tamsin drew her head back, looking impressed. ‘Sounds promising.’

‘We’ll see.’ Zoë smiled. Her sister was trying to show an interest. She always did. She really wanted to help, but the truth was, she had never grasped her little sister’s obsession with the band. She knew what it was to be driven; that was an attribute they shared. But she couldn’t grasp the idea of public endorsement, of eminence…of fame. There. She had used the dirty word. Zoë wanted more than the monthly salary and the well-equipped kitchen. She wanted recognition for the music she made.

Was that so wrong? Was it bad, her desire to see positive reviews in the NME? To fill an arena with fans? To hear people scream the lyrics to her songs? Her family seemed to think so. Rock music was not an acceptable pursuit in the Kidd family. Classical music was another matter. Had Zoë continued with violin lessons, practising her arpeggios and working her way through the ranks of the county youth orchestra, then they’d be proud. Had it been Mozart and Haydn blasting from her bedroom throughout her teenage years instead of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, then they might talk about her achievements. But perhaps it was better that they remained silent. In the words of one seventies pop duo, some things were better left unsaid.

‘Hey,’ Zoë looked at her sister, remembering something. ‘Did you know Dad nearly played rugby for England?’

Tamsin spluttered, eventually swallowing her mouthful of wine and frowning. ‘What?’

‘Back in the eighties. He got accepted onto the squad. I think he turned it down for a place in chambers.’

‘I didn’t know, no.’ Tamsin’s brow remained furrowed. ‘That doesn’t surprise me, though. I knew he was good. I guess he just didn’t want to take the risk. How did you find that out, anyway?’

‘I heard him talk about it at your…’ Zoë faltered. ‘Your dinner thing.’ She hadn’t meant to bring that up.

‘Oh yeah. What happened to you that night? I couldn’t find you during drinks.’

Zoë hesitated, not sure whether to tell her sister the truth. Tamsin knew how important the band was to her. She would understand about the rehearsal and the gig and the demo DVD…But the question was: would she see it as more important than her own celebratory dinner? Was it more important than the dinner that signified Tamsin’s coming of age in the legal world?

‘I…’ Zoë tried to decide. She kept getting close to coming out with the truth, then chickening out. ‘I…’

She was rescued by the sound of her phone. Quickly, she pulled it out of her bag.

‘Hiiiiii,’ came an unfamiliar, nasal drawl. ‘Is that one of the lovely young ladies from Dirty Money?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, quickly lowering the wine glass from her lips and trying to shield the mouthpiece from the noise. ‘This is Zoë.’

‘Zoë, hiiiiii,’ said the man. He sounded like a crank caller – possibly a fan from one of their less salubrious gigs. ‘This is Louis Castle.’

Zoë’s grip tightened on the phone. She could feel her heart rate quicken inside her chest. This was the man who managed Tepid Foot Hold’s career. The man who had helped Toby Fox win an Ivor Novello.

‘Hi!’ she squeaked breathlessly.

‘Just thought I’d drop you a line, y’know, t’say hi. I gat your demo DVD.’

‘Right.’ Zoë swallowed.

‘And I kinda like it. Or at least, I like the music. The DVD’s not gonna win any awards, is it?’

‘No. Um…Right.’ Zoë couldn’t speak properly. She wanted to apologise for the poor quality of the recording, to explain that they were a lot better in the flesh than the footage implied…But her mind was swamped by the single question: did he like the music enough?

‘So, I’m thinkin’,’ said the man, ‘if you girls are up for it, we should meet up. Chat a little. Talk about a management contract.’

There was a pause, and Zoë realised she was nodding into the phone. ‘Right,’ she muttered, shell-shocked. Then she pulled herself together. ‘Yes, great. Let’s!’

Tamsin was looking at her strangely when she got off the phone.

‘Is everything all right?’

Zoë forced herself to take a breath, then exhaled, slowly. ‘I think,’ she said eventually, to her baffled-looking sister. ‘I think Louis Castle might want to take us on.’

7

‘Beer for you…Beer for me…Whisky for Ellie, if she ever turns up…’ Shannon slid the drinks across the table. ‘Why’re you on orange juice, Kate? What’s up? It’s not right to celebrate without a proper drink.’

Zoë took her pint and shifted sideways, beginning to realise the scale of the task ahead. It was becoming apparent that their drummer’s feet had long since left the ground and it was going to be all they could do to keep her at the current altitude, let alone bring her back down.

‘Strictly speaking,’ she said, saving Kate from her explanation, ‘we’re not celebrating. There’s nothing to celebrate yet.’

Shannon let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Oh, party-pooper! We’re just about to get taken on by the guy who put Tepid Foot Hold on the global rock map – who, by the way, have just had their latest album go platinum. That’s reason to celebrate, if you ask me!’

Kate glanced anxiously at Zoë. ‘We haven’t even met the guy yet.’

‘I have,’ Shannon retorted.

‘Yeah, after about twelve beers at the end of a long night.’ Kate started manically stirring her orange juice. ‘We haven’t. He hasn’t met us. He might not like us.’

‘Of course he likes us!’ cried Shannon, lowering her pint with such panache that the head sloshed all over the table. ‘I mean…Why wouldn’t he?’ On seeing the other girls’ gazes drift upwards, Shannon looked round. ‘Oh, hi!’ She pushed the whisky towards Ellie as she drifted over.

Zoë sipped her beer as their drummer prattled on about other artists she intended to meet when they were up there with the biggest bands in the world.

‘…the latest single by The Cheats. Have you heard it? It’s gorgeous. I’m totally in love with the lead singer.’ Shannon tipped back some beer. ‘You know, Niall King?’ she prompted, looking around briefly but not waiting for a response. ‘He’s Irish. Has the most amazing voice. Honestly, you have to hear him sing. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we got signed by the same label?’

Zoë exchanged another worried look with Kate. This was getting ridiculous. They hadn’t even got a manager yet.

‘I wonder which label they’re on…Ooh!’ Shannon suddenly ducked under the table, emerging with her phone.

The others sipped their drinks while Shannon alternately fiddled and swore at her handset.

‘No word from the labels, then?’ Kate asked quietly.

‘Not yet.’

Zoë felt guilty. She knew that the second word was superfluous. Their dirty money campaign had clearly failed. If any of the label reps had been remotely interested, they would have called by now. The bastards. They’d probably pocketed the money and thrown the CD in the bin, along with all the others. Or worse…Zoë thought unhappily about the other prospect: they had listened to the CD and rejected it.

Sitting here now, waiting and hoping to get taken on by Louis hot-shot Castle, Zoë was beginning to realise that their little stunt might have actually set them back. If the heads of the labels had already turned them down, then no amount of schmoozing on Louis Castle’s part would convince them to change their minds.

‘Listen,’ said Zoë, deciding to put the whole expensive operation behind them. ‘I think, when we meet this guy, we should show him what we’re all about.’

‘Definitely,’ agreed Shannon, looking up from her phone.

Zoë wondered whether she actually knew what she meant. ‘He’s seen us on stage,’ she said, ‘and he knows our music, but he doesn’t know us. He doesn’t know what we’re capable of between gigs.’

Shannon was nodding, her brow creased in earnest.

‘Our promotional capabilities,’ Zoë explained. ‘The way we can generate a buzz. The massive fan base we’ve built up.’

To say ‘we’ was generous, thought Zoë, given that she always did most of the work, but it was important that they felt like a team.

‘Yeah!’ Shannon agreed. ‘We should show him what we can do!’

Kate winced. ‘Please, not the Brent Cross gig…Don’t tell him about that.’

Zoë baulked at the thought. A few months ago, they had been asked to perform a few songs during late-night shopping in the run-up to Christmas. It was the sort of gig they’d usually turn down, but the fee had been good and the promoter had guilt-tripped them into playing by telling them about all the orphans around the world who would benefit from the proceeds.

Their music had proved surprisingly popular with the shoppers and during their break, Shannon and Zoë had hatched a plan to make their final song especially memorable. At the time, it had seemed like a fantastic idea for Zoë to take the escalator to the next floor of the shopping centre, grab hold of one of the decorations that hung in the atrium and sing the next song whilst swinging, Tarzan-style, across the stage in front of the other musicians.

The decoration had supported her for long enough to attract the attention of most of the onlookers and a couple of burly but fast-moving security guards, at which point Zoë had plummeted to the stage via Shannon’s drum kit, her landing amplified by her radio microphone. Surprisingly, they hadn’t been asked back to Brent Cross Shopping Centre.

‘Maybe not that one,’ Zoë conceded. ‘But Manchester,’ she said, referring to a gig that she still maintained had come about as a result of an administrative error. They’d been supporting one of the biggest indie acts in the Northwest and the promoter had referred to them all night as ‘Thirsty Money’, but they didn’t need to explain that. ‘And Chiana.’

Chiana was a live music venue in Soho whose owner Shannon had somehow talked into letting them play. When it had transpired that a couple of minor celebrities were drinking there, Zoë had managed to engineer a photo that revealed not just the inebriated celebrities but the whole of the Dirty Money setup, complete with promotional backdrop, which, following a mysterious ‘leak’, had appeared in one of the trashy free newspapers the following day.

‘It’ll all help, won’t it?’

‘Um…’ It was Kate. ‘Can we make sure we only tell him about the good stuff?’

‘Don’t be so—’

Shannon trailed off. A man was swaggering across the bar towards them, dressed in a giant, red and brown flecked shirt that must have been made to measure – possibly out of a set of Persian curtains. His garish, gold-buckled belt was only visible from the girls’ low vantage point, due to the flabby overhang.

‘Hiiiiii,’ he called in a manner that Zoë recognised instantly from the telephone call. He had the type of face that had probably once been handsome: perfect white teeth and an overly warm smile, but it was difficult to tell with all the chins. ‘How are my adorable rock goddesses?’ He opened his hands to them like a preacher addressing a congregation.

Zoë couldn’t help glancing at Kate, who stared back at her, wide-eyed.

‘Good!’ cried Shannon, when it became apparent that nobody else was going to reply.

‘Good? Good! So, what can I get y’all?’

The ordering process took some time, mainly because every time one of the girls said the word ‘bottle’, the American would repeat it four or five times in various accents, then pretend to forget what the bottle was to contain.

‘Not funny,’ muttered Kate, as Louis Castle retreated to the bar, relaying the whole conversation to the barman in a booming voice.

‘Give him a chance!’ hissed Shannon.

‘At least he’s not trying to flirt,’ Ellie pointed out. They all cringed at the reminder of their old manager’s sleazy ways.

‘I gat you a double,’ he said, pushing a bucket-sized tumbler of Jack Daniels towards Ellie. ‘And here’s a vaardka for you, in case that OJ needs spicin’ up.’

The girls took their drinks and watched the enormous man arrange himself at the table, siphoning off nearly half of his pint with his first sip.

‘So,’ he said, looking at each one in turn, his eyes glistening behind the rolls of fat. ‘Are you ready for the big time?’

‘Yeah!’ replied Shannon immediately.

‘Mmm,’ added Ellie, presumably because Shannon had pinched her under the table.

‘Are you ready to make it?’

Zoë closed her eyes. Perhaps these lines worked on artists in Los Angeles or wherever he came from, but they really didn’t wash with her. ‘Have you got any ideas about labels?’ she asked.

Louis looked at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Woah!’ He looked around at the other girls, grinning manically. ‘You’re quick outta the blocks! I only just sat down!’ He pointed to his half-finished pint. ‘Gimme a chance!’

Shannon laughed along with him, prompting Ellie to do the same.

Zoë forced a smile too. ‘Sorry. It’s just…We’ve been together for a while now and—’

‘Hey,’ he interrupted. ‘I know. You’ve been around a few years, hoping to get signed and now you just wanna grab that deal and run, huh? Yeah. I’ve seen that before.’

Reluctantly, Zoë nodded along with him. She had been about to explain that their manager had promised great things and never delivered, and that they didn’t want to end up in the same situation again, but Louis Castle had already moved on.

Zoë sat back and let the conversation flow around her. The manager quickly got onto the subject of his stable of successful acts in the States and his plans for replicating such success over here. Ellie and Shannon lapped it up, gasping and cooing and clapping their hands like small children. Kate, like Zoë, was doing her best to look convinced.

‘When you say, “package us up”,’ the bassist ventured, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

Louis turned to her, grinning enigmatically from behind his many chins. ‘I’ll tell you…over the next drink!’

Once again, he returned with a bumper round.

‘So,’ the large man began, returning to his seat and sinking into his next pint. ‘What I mean, is make you “sellable”.’ He drew quotation marks in the air. ‘Like a brand. We need to make it obvious what you stand for.’

‘You mean, like our image?’ asked Shannon. ‘What we wear and that?’

‘Exaaaaactly,’ Louis replied. ‘And that includes getting you out of those old hooded tops and jeans!’

Shannon laughed. Zoë and Kate glanced at one another.

‘Don’t you think,’ Zoë said carefully, not wanting to offend the man, ‘that the image thing is only really important for manufactured pop music? Boy-bands, girl-bands…’

He smiled at her pityingly. ‘Honey, all acts have an image.’

‘But…’ she persevered. She wanted to explain herself. ‘I can see why the teeny-bop artists have a certain look…They have to appeal on the looks front, because there’s nothing more to them. But say…Coldplay? Razorlight? U2? It’s all about the music for them, isn’t it?’

The four faces flicked round to Louis.

‘Zoë,’ he replied, still wearing the sympathetic smile. ‘It’s all about the image, whatever the act. Why d’you think Brandon Flowers wears those cute little military jackets? Now, nobody’s telling me he’s not talented!’

Zoë nodded, annoyed that the manager had found an exception to the rule. As the conversation moved on to the subject of touring and festivals and broadcasting rights, Zoë started to consider the possibility that Louis might be right. If he really had pushed so many acts into the American limelight, if he really had nurtured a band like Tepid Foot Hold from small-town act through to global superstardom, he had to know a thing or two about the music business, didn’t he?

It was a few drinks later, all courtesy of the prospective manager, when the subject of representation finally came up.

‘So, you think you’re ready to jump on board?’ asked Louis, smiling like a fat schoolboy.

‘Yes!’ cried Shannon and Ellie, who, by this point, looked ready to jump into bed with the man.

Even Kate had mellowed a little, Zoë noticed, watching her try not to smile at the manager’s dubious charm.

He was like a holiday brochure, thought Zoë: slick, enticing and full of promise. But then, she thought, watching her drummer crash her glass against his and throw back her drink, he was a man whose job it was to place artists with record labels. His job was to ‘sell the package’. Perhaps being like a brochure was no bad thing.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking across at Kate.

Eventually, the bass guitarist nodded.

‘Great!’ roared Louis, reaching out and grabbing one of Shannon’s hands and one of Zoë’s. ‘That is fantastic news.’

After a period of mutual congratulation, they rose to their feet and stumbled out.

‘I’ll get a contract over to you this week,’ he said, crushing each girl’s hand in turn. ‘Then we can talk about recording a few of your tracks properly.’

‘Plopper – properly?’ Zoë was more drunk than she’d thought.

‘Yeah, you know. With a producer.’

‘We already have a producer!’ cried Shannon, presumably referring to the creepy architect who had wormed his way into her affections, wooing her with descriptions of his in-home recording suite and persuading the girls to use him to produce their demo CD.

‘What, Sleazebag Simon?’ asked Kate, grimacing.

The CD had turned out all right in the end, but Shannon had clearly blocked from her mind the memories of what she’d had to do in order to retrieve the disc from Sleazebag’s house.

‘Sleazebag Simon, eh?’ Louis chuckled. ‘You won’t be needing him any more. You’re in another league now, ladies!’

Staggering across the road like a malcoordinated, eight-legged animal, the girls relived some of the cheesier moments of the night, all scepticism somehow having dissolved and been replaced with childlike excitement.