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.’
‘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?’
