The Fame Factor

The four faces flicked round to Louis.

‘Zoë,’ he replied, still wearing the sympathetic smile. ‘It’s all about the image, whatever the act. Why d’you think Brandon Flowers wears those cute little military jackets? Now, nobody’s telling me he’s not talented!’

Zoë nodded, annoyed that the manager had found an exception to the rule. As the conversation moved on to the subject of touring and festivals and broadcasting rights, Zoë started to consider the possibility that Louis might be right. If he really had pushed so many acts into the American limelight, if he really had nurtured a band like Tepid Foot Hold from small-town act through to global superstardom, he had to know a thing or two about the music business, didn’t he?

It was a few drinks later, all courtesy of the prospective manager, when the subject of representation finally came up.

‘So, you think you’re ready to jump on board?’ asked Louis, smiling like a fat schoolboy.

‘Yes!’ cried Shannon and Ellie, who, by this point, looked ready to jump into bed with the man.

Even Kate had mellowed a little, Zoë noticed, watching her try not to smile at the manager’s dubious charm.

He was like a holiday brochure, thought Zoë: slick, enticing and full of promise. But then, she thought, watching her drummer crash her glass against his and throw back her drink, he was a man whose job it was to place artists with record labels. His job was to ‘sell the package’. Perhaps being like a brochure was no bad thing.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking across at Kate.

Eventually, the bass guitarist nodded.

‘Great!’ roared Louis, reaching out and grabbing one of Shannon’s hands and one of Zoë’s. ‘That is fantastic news.’

After a period of mutual congratulation, they rose to their feet and stumbled out.

‘I’ll get a contract over to you this week,’ he said, crushing each girl’s hand in turn. ‘Then we can talk about recording a few of your tracks properly.’

‘Plopper – properly?’ Zoë was more drunk than she’d thought.

‘Yeah, you know. With a producer.’

‘We already have a producer!’ cried Shannon, presumably referring to the creepy architect who had wormed his way into her affections, wooing her with descriptions of his in-home recording suite and persuading the girls to use him to produce their demo CD.

‘What, Sleazebag Simon?’ asked Kate, grimacing.

The CD had turned out all right in the end, but Shannon had clearly blocked from her mind the memories of what she’d had to do in order to retrieve the disc from Sleazebag’s house.

‘Sleazebag Simon, eh?’ Louis chuckled. ‘You won’t be needing him any more. You’re in another league now, ladies!’

Staggering across the road like a malcoordinated, eight-legged animal, the girls relived some of the cheesier moments of the night, all scepticism somehow having dissolved and been replaced with childlike excitement.

‘We’re heading for the big time!’

‘Big time!’

‘We’re on the fast train to success!’

Suddenly, Shannon broke loose from the pack.

‘Louis!’ she called, waving her arms above her head as though she was drowning. ‘I forgot to ask!’

In the bleary distance, Louis tilted his head to one side, his breath forming clouds around his face.

‘Can you get us signed to Polydor?’ she yelled.

‘Why’s that then?’ he replied.

‘It’s my destiny!’ Shannon shrieked. ‘I’ve got to meet Niall King from The Cheats!’

It was almost possible, from where they stood, to see Louis’s eyes roll in their sockets. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he called, raising a hand, turning on his heel and walking off.

8 (#ulink_b32ad2a1-e903-503e-8f40-490b6d379ec9)

Zoë closed her eyes and let her head roll back on the velvet seat, imagining she was somewhere else. The sweeping string section built to a climax with a piercing blast of high-pitched brass and in her mind, the heroine held up the prize in her hands, victorious. Classical music always sounded like a soundtrack to her.

She opened her eyes again as the volume dropped to a pizzicato murmur, watching the polo-necked conductor as his arms jerked up and down like those of a Thunderbird puppet. The music was incredible, she couldn’t deny that. But it didn’t seem like something to be admired in its own right. There was no stage presence – no element of performance.

‘Bravo!’ yelled her father through the clamorous applause. He and thousands of others clearly disagreed with Zoë’s judgement. ‘Splendid!’

Presumably deciding that the thunderous ovation was not quite sufficient for an encore, the conductor disappeared from the stage, only to return seconds later with a camp flourish to take another set of bows.

‘Magnificent,’ muttered Zoë’s father, nodding approvingly as they started to shuffle along the row.

Zoë looked at Tamsin and smiled. Their annual winter concert was nominally a treat for the whole family, paid for by their parents in lieu of Christmas presents, but the appreciation was always somewhat one-sided.

‘Shall we go for a drink?’

Zoë nodded, catching her sister’s eye again. Clearly the glass of wine in the pleasant café overlooking the Thames was their mother’s favourite part of the evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy concerts or that she was overly fond of wine; she just couldn’t relate to classical music. Debussy and Wagner hadn’t featured on the Croydon council estate where she had grown up.

‘It’s such a pity you don’t play anymore,’ said their father, handing his daughters their glasses of wine. ‘You were both so talented.’

As a barrister, Rupert Kidd, QC was an expert in extracting the response he wanted. Zoë had discovered long ago that her father, though now in his fifties and approaching retirement, found her no match in an argument. She had developed a mechanism to suppress her instinct to rise to the bait.

‘Tamsin still sings,’ their mother pointed out. ‘You’re still a member of the Inns of Court Choir, aren’t you, darling?’

Zoë looked at her sister, torn between vindication and irritation. It wasn’t jealousy that she felt; more just the sting of injustice. Tam, in their parents’ eyes, could do no wrong.

‘But the orchestra…’ Their father wore a pained expression, which landed, predictably, on Zoë. ‘It’s such a tremendous thing to be involved with. Didn’t you enjoy being part of the first violin section?’

‘Of course I enjoyed it,’ she began, glancing at her sister, who was looking intently into her wine. Zoë knew where this was leading. It was a trick question. If she replied negatively, she would be implying that all those evenings spent practising for her violin exams and – more to the point – all the time and money her parents had lavished on her musical education had been for nothing. And that wasn’t the case. She had enjoyed playing the violin and she knew that her classical training was, in part, what made her the singer-songwriter that she was today. But if she said yes, she would face more questions about why she didn’t still play the violin, why she insisted on chasing her silly dreams with Dirty Money. She didn’t want to go there tonight.

‘But not enough to stick with it,’ finished her father.

Zoë took another gulp, willing herself to remain calm – to swim away from the bait. ‘I…’

She fought to explain herself in a way that somehow avoided the subject of the band. ‘It didn’t feel right, just playing the dots on the page.’

Her father frowned at her, looking mildly amused. ‘You would have preferred to play something other than the dots on the page?’

Zoë hesitated, wishing she could fashion an argument as quickly as her father. She knew what she meant. Watching the violinists tonight, their identical movements dictated by the flick of the conductor’s wrist, had reminded her why she’d given it all up. They were like foot soldiers in an army, following rules and taking instructions – never thinking for themselves. Zoë didn’t want to be part of an army. She wanted to fight her own battles.