of record labels, he wasn’t showing them the real Dirty Money.
He was doing what he thought was best for the band, of course. He only made money if they made money – Louis took twenty per cent of whatever they got; that was the agreement – but Zoë felt he was making a mistake. She was worried that he would turn them into another homogeneous, straight-off-the-conveyor-belt pop act. They were better than that.
She sighed, just as the phone buzzed again in her hands.
Wow! Have u heard
CD? It rocks! + I had
gr8 idea 4 celeb
endorsement: I can
get us on Irish TV
with a star! Shan x
Her frown melted into a smile. Shannon always had a great idea. You couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. Zoë wondered how the tracks actually sounded. Deep down, she had been half-expecting something like this. Louis Castle didn’t consult his unsigned protégés when it came to dealing with big-time labels. He called the shots. And maybe, given what he had achieved in America, the girls should just put their trust in his judgement.
After several attempts to catch James’s attention, she made contact with his sleepy blue eyes. He and the others around him had reached the hitting-wine-glasses-with-forks stage of the evening, which suggested that it might be time to go.
‘Bus?’ suggested Zoë as they wandered into the damp, night air.
James grinned hazily at her, trying to focus. ‘Little…black bus?’
Zoë smiled. When James got drunk, he turned into a chilled-out caricature of himself. He became more…well, more like the old James. He always maintained a grip on reality, just a skewwhiff version of reality. So when he pushed open the door of their flat and found, behind it, a small brown parcel marked SOHO STUDIOS, he seemed to know exactly what it was.
‘D’you think this is for you?’ he asked, holding the package just out of Zoë’s reach.
‘James, please…’ She grabbed at his long, muscular arm, stepping on a pile of junk mail and skidding to the floor.
‘You want this?’ he goaded, waving the brown box around as she crawled onto all fours.
Using the parcel, he led her onto the sofa where she collapsed on top of him, dizzy and panting.
‘Will you put it on?’ Zoë pleaded, as James unwrapped the disc, at arm’s length. The note enclosed, which he eventually relinquished, was written in neat, female handwriting – presumably belonging to Louis’s PA.
Hope you like. Will be meeting the Universal boys this week. Fingers crossed.
Louis
James reached back and switched on the hi-fi system. Stretching, he inserted the CD, raised an eyebrow seductively at Zoë and, with excruciating slowness, moved his finger across to the Play button.
Zoë sat up, straddling her boyfriend and starting to undo the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to hear the tracks but she also wanted a piece of James. His eyes were filled with mischief and she could feel his hand – the hand that wasn’t controlling the stereo – working its way up her thigh.
The introduction to ‘Delirious’ started blasting out of the numerous speakers and she suddenly stopped. She could feel the colour drain from her cheeks.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, feeling instantly sober.
Fleetingly, she wondered why he’d put that track first, when ‘Sensible Lies’ was so much better, but there were bigger things to worry about.
It was like being punched in the stomach. She couldn’t think about anything – couldn’t articulate a response. All she could do was listen to this…this sound that was filling the lounge.
‘It’s fucking disco,’ she spat, when the song got into its groove.
If James replied, she didn’t hear him. Her ears were focusing on the clinical beat. She waited for Ellie’s chords to come in, then the vocals. It was unrecognisable. Like listening to somebody else’s music.
‘Fuck!’ she yelled, as her own voice sang back at her above the sanitised riff. She wanted to cry. ‘What’ve they done?!’
The song finished and, transfixed, Zoë waited mutely to hear the next butchered track.
‘Zoë?’
Zoë listened to the mutilated rendition of ‘Sensible Lies’.
‘Zoë,’ James said again, propping himself up on the sofa and pulling her firmly towards him.
‘What?’ she asked, distracted by a cheesy key-change that had been inserted just before the second chorus. It was unbelievable what they’d done.
‘I said, this is amazing.’
Zoë looked at him and frowned. They both seemed to have sobered up now but James wasn’t making any sense. ‘What, amazingly bad?’
‘No,’ he said, pushing himself up on the sofa so that she was sitting in his lap. ‘Listen to it.’
In silence, they listened to the instrumental that preceded the final verse – ordinarily, Zoë’s favourite part of the song.
‘Seriously,’ said James, wrapping his arms round her waist and squeezing her against his body. ‘Imagine you’ve never heard of this band.’
Zoë closed her eyes in anguish, letting her head roll back on James’s shoulder. She had never heard of this band. It wasn’t hers. This was not the sound of Dirty Money.
Enveloped in James’s arms, swaying gently to the unfamiliar music, Zoë tried to force herself to hear it afresh. She heard the pulsing beat and the harmonies and the catchy tune…
The song finished and the final track came on. ‘Run Boy Run’ was one of their most uplifting numbers. Zoë tilted her face upwards to tell James that he was right, that she was too obsessed with the band, that she was sorry for sometimes neglecting her commitment to him, that she really was grateful for his unwavering support. But she didn’t get a chance, as James’s lips were pressing against hers.
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
