always tricky explaining realities to Shannon. In many ways, it was great that she was so up for anything. It made a welcome change from the attitude of most of the people Zoë dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Shannon never saw problems, only ideas. Masses and masses of ideas. The hard part, for Zoë and the rest of the band, was bringing her back down to earth.
Their rehearsal studio, which was actually the front room of the West London flat that Shannon shared with three or four other girls (it fluctuated), was just large enough for the drum kit, three small amps and four people standing, as long as Zoë half-perched on the armchair and Kate stooped inside the upturned sofa. Sometimes, when the girls scraped together enough funds or they had an important gig coming up, they’d book a slot in the Shoreditch studio but most of the time, they made do with the drummer’s lounge.
Flattening herself against the wall to let Ellie pass, Zoë thought about how she was going to broach the subject of their Indie Awards fiasco.
‘Great, we’re all here!’ cried Shannon, ‘Let me tell you my news!’ She thumped the bass drum with the newly-purchased pedal.
‘Hold on.’ Zoë held up her hand. ‘I just want to say…’ She bit her lower lip, not wanting to come across like a bossy headmistress. The truth was, though, she was the boss. If she didn’t say it, nobody would. ‘We really messed up, the other night. And now, because of that, we don’t have a—’
‘Who cares? We don’t need—’
‘One sec,’ Zoë pleaded. ‘We don’t have a manager, we don’t have a booking agent, we didn’t win the award and I think it’s safe to say we won’t be asked back to the Camden House for a while. I think we need to start—’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ yelled Shannon. ‘We don’t need Jake or Dan any more!’
‘What?’ Zoë asked cautiously.
‘Well…’ Shannon bowed her head and performed a drum roll that seemed to go on forever. Zoë watched, willing it to stop. ‘We have a new manager!’
The three girls looked at Shannon, who beamed back at them triumphantly and whacked the cymbal for effect.
‘Who?’ asked Kate.
‘Aha.’ Shannon carefully balanced her drumsticks on the rim of the snare, her movements deliberate and slow. She rubbed her hands together, like a magician warming up for a trick. Zoë sighed impatiently. Finally, the drummer looked up. ‘The guy I met in the bar, after the awards night. He’s called Louis Castle. Ring any bells?’
Three faces looked back at her blankly.
‘Okay,’ Shannon shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s not that big over here. But he’s from LA and he’s managed bands like The Anglers and Domino Scene and…and Tepid Foot Hold!’
Zoë glanced at Kate’s face, then at Ellie’s. There were no signs of recognition on either. ‘Tepid Foot Hold?’ She frowned. ‘Sounds like the name of an IKEA flat-pack.’
Shannon growled. ‘They’re big in America. Massive.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, this guy has his own management company and he wants to manage us! He’ll sort us out with a booking agent and everything. I mean, seriously. He was talking about stadium gigs!’
Zoë exchanged a quick, apprehensive look with their bassist. Kate’s expression said it all.
‘Well, don’t all thank me at once!’ Shannon cried loudly. ‘I’ve only gone and put us one step closer to world domination!’
Zoë tried her best to look enthusiastic. The problem was, they’d been here before. Shannon was always making Useful Acquaintances. She seemed to have a natural magnetism for lonely, lecherous males who – either by calculation or misunderstanding – ended up in her address book when it was perfectly clear to everyone else that they simply wanted to get in her pants.
‘Oh, and I forgot the best bit!’ Shannon’s eyes were wild. ‘His company, Blast Management, has some sort of connection with Universal. Universal!’
Zoë’s ears pricked up. She glanced at Kate.
As a general rule, Kate’s expression served as a good sanity check. She was naturally cautious – to the extent that she chopped up her old credit cards and scattered the pieces in different dustbins around the country – and as such, tended to stand in the way of Shannon’s more ludicrous schemes. Kate was still looking sceptical.
‘Not…BMI?’ asked Ellie, smiling dreamily. ‘Maybe he’s going out with an air steward.’
Shannon tossed her long, black ponytail over her shoulder.
‘Look, I’m telling you, this guy is a hot-shot manager from LA. He’s seen us perform a few times and he loved our set at the awards.’
‘Did he love the bit when you threw the bass pedal at Kate?’ asked Zoë. ‘Or when all the lights went out?’
‘Shut up!’ cried Shannon, her accent full strength. ‘If you don’t want a manager, then fine. But if you ask me, this is our big chance. And to be honest, we haven’t got a lot to lose right now.’
‘Okay,’ said Zoë, thinking for a moment. ‘You’re right. How did you leave it with this guy?’
Shannon cleared her throat melodramatically. ‘He wants to see our demo DVD.’
‘Our what?’ chimed Zoë and Kate in unison.
‘I know. He said it needs to be visual.’
Zoë pulled a face, wondering what ‘visual’ meant, and whether Shannon might have got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Not like that,’ the drummer clarified. ‘And don’t worry, I know a guy who’ll do it.’
Zoë looked at the others and laughed. Shannon always knew a guy. Whatever the challenge, there was always a man from Shannon’s past who would fit the bill.
‘Can your guy come and film our next gig?’
Shannon smiled coyly. ‘I’m sure he could be persuaded.’
Zoë rolled her eyes and switched on Ellie’s amp, nodding for her to play. After a quick tweak of strings, they were ready.
‘Shall we?’ said Shannon, holding her sticks in midair, ready to launch into their first song.
Over the years, the band had built up a repertoire of about thirty decent songs. Two albums’ worth and five extra songs, to be precise. Not that any had been officially released. The tracks, having been recorded in a studio belonging to a sleazy millionaire acquaintance of Shannon’s, had been uploaded to various places on the internet, but never released. It was a deliberate move. The girls had considered the idea of self-releasing – burning the tracks to CD and flogging them to friends and fans – but had rejected it on the grounds that no proper label would want to release a rehash of an album that had photocopied sleeves and handwritten inserts. Dirty Money were waiting for the real thing.
Most of the tracks on their first unreleased album were either cheeky reflections on events or incidents in their lives, like ‘Run Boy Run’, a song about
