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.
