Another swig. ‘Like your efforts are going to propel Dirty Money into the global spotlight!’
Kate flashed a look of aggression that didn’t quite mask the pain in her eyes. Shannon’s remark was unfair. Kate did a huge amount to help promote the band; she just didn’t make a lot of noise doing it. However, for the promotion in question, it was fair to say that the bassist had played no part.
It was hardly surprising that Kate disapproved of their latest ploy for attracting the attention of major labels. She had never been one for taking risks – especially when money was involved. Ever prudent, the bassist liked to stay well within her safety zone. Shannon, however, had never been inside a safety zone.
The plan, executed by Zoë, as usual, was to send copies of their demo CD to the heads of the key record labels, along with photocopies of the review that had appeared – in microscopic proportions – in Mojo the previous month. The controversial part of the operation was the inclusion of a used ten-pound note (a fiver for indie labels) in each mailshot, representing ‘dirty money’.
Shannon’s thinking was that no self-respecting label manager would dare pocket money from an unsigned band and that nobody would bother to post the cash back to them. Which meant that the recipients would feel obliged to at least play their CD – and that was the critical hurdle; most promo packs went straight into the recycling bin.
The promotion, which had set them back nearly three hundred pounds in tenners and fivers, had gone out eight days ago. Zoë kept telling herself that no news was probably good news. Kate clearly wasn’t so sure.
It was the fourth member of the group who eventually curtailed the row.
‘There’s not a lot we can do about it, anyway,’ Ellie muttered quietly from behind her wavy locks as she strummed her unamplified guitar. ‘Let’s just see what happens.’
Shannon looked over, drew a breath to respond, and then shut her mouth.
Zoë smiled. It was typical of Ellie to suggest that they do nothing, that they put their faith in fate. That was her mantra for life. See what happens. It wasn’t apathy; it was more of an unwavering belief that good things would come to them in the end. Ellie wasn’t one for setting herself ambitious targets.
Glancing across at Kate, Zoë felt her smile fading. The bassist Kate was staring at the floor, unblinking, expressionless. She was clearly upset, but Zoë suspected that it wasn’t down to the argument. Kate was well versed in dealing with Shannon; she could hold her own in a row. Apart from anything else, Kate had the advantage of being right, most of the time. No, the pursed lips and watery blue eyes could mean only one thing: She had been dumped. Again. Zoë laid down her guitar and crossed the room, catching her eye. Then the door burst open.
‘Evening all!’ cried the short, wiry man with spiky ginger hair. It was Jake, their overzealous and underachieving manager. ‘How’s me girls?’
Zoë switched on a mechanical smile and allowed their eyes to meet. ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Ready to rock the joint?’
She grunted. Jake Gordon-Spencer was one of those people who lived in blissful ignorance of the irritating effect he had on others. His accent, which had been cultivated through years of expensive schooling and then years of half-hearted rebellion at Daddy’s expense, was presumably supposed to appeal to the geezers of the industry. In fact, it had the opposite effect; Jake was known as The Mockney Dickhead across the London scene. However, he had one saving grace: his cousin, Dan, who came as part of the package and who was one of the city’s best booking agents. Without Dan, Dirty Money would never have made it this far. He was diligent, well connected and commercially savvy. He was also unfathomably loyal to his cousin.
‘Record number of fans ‘ere to see you,’ Jake reported as they trooped along the damp corridor towards the stage. ‘All my hard work paying off…’ He tilted his head to one side, like a market stall holder clinching a deal.
Zoë glanced at him, wondering whether the manager really was deluded enough to believe that he had been responsible for the audience numbers tonight. She had gone round with a clipboard, collecting email addresses at their last umpteen gigs. She was the reason they had twelve thousand friends on MySpace, the reason they’d been nominated for the Indie Awards tonight.
The girls assembled themselves in the wings while the compère rallied the crowds. Zoë leaned forwards, catching a glimpse of the curly blond locks of their most loyal fan, Crazy Jeff, just in front of the stage. Whooping and catcalling, his skinny arms were flailing like wind turbines in a gale. Jake had been right. Tonight was a record for the band. There were probably four or five hundred bodies crammed into the sweaty pit, a good proportion of them rooting for Dirty Money. With a bit of luck, thought Zoë, they’d have this award in the bag.
‘It was only seventy-five pounds each,’ Shannon whispered loudly.
‘They’re loud, they’re dirty, they’re sexy…’
‘Seventy-five pounds we could’ve spent elsewhere,’ Kate hissed back.
Zoë glared at each of them in turn. Now was not the time to be bickering. They needed to focus. They needed to win an award tonight.
‘…our final act of the night, please welcome…Dirty Money!’
Zoë kicked off her office shoes and dumped her bag on the doormat. The mouthwatering smell of roast chicken was wafting through the flat.
‘Hey,’ James called out, holding out a glass of red wine, like a carrot for a donkey.
Zoë smiled, kissing him and then sipping the wine as she tugged playfully at her boyfriend’s untucked shirt.
‘Good day?’ he asked.
She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of wine and not bothering to reply. Good days at Chase Waterman were few and far between. ‘How was the trip?’
James shrugged and stooped down in front of the oven, peering through the layer of grime to see what was going on inside. ‘So-so.’
He never complained. Zoë couldn’t remember a single time in the three years since they’d graduated that he’d really had to let off steam. James worked in the marketing department of one of the UK’s leading home insurers. His work was mundane, often involving last-minute assignments, late nights and tedious trips to the Norfolk headquarters, but he never seemed to have cause for the explosive rants to which Zoë was prone.
‘Another ten minutes, I reckon.’ He nodded in the direction of the lounge, grabbing both drinks as he went.
It was impressive, how easily James seemed to have made the transition from student to young professional. Six years ago, he’d been the tall, lanky stranger with the piercing blue eyes and dirty blond, messy hair, loitering at the back of the sticky-floored hangout where Dirty Money had first performed, drinking pints with all the other Goldsmiths undergrads. It was his scruffy, rebellious streak that had drawn her to him. He was as devoted now as he had been then – work permitting. But now, with his military crop and slick Moss Bros suit, he looked like a different man.
‘So.’
