The Fame Factor

‘I’d rather have a chance to express myself,’ she said, realising that she was sailing dangerously close to the wind. ‘But I guess Tam still enjoys her music. Tam, d’you do concerts with the Inns of Court Choir?’

Without hesitation, Tamsin took up the mantle, sharing news of upcoming performances and swiftly moving on to the subject of her bumbling choirmaster and then the Inns of Court dog, Monty. That was why she made a good barrister, thought Zoë as she sank into her glass of wine with a grateful smile.

Conversation meandered through Tamsin’s court cases, then on to Zoë’s work, at which point people’s eyes started glazing over. Try as her parents might, they couldn’t show genuine interest in the inner workings of Chase Waterman Plc., no matter how pleased they were that she’d taken the role. There really was nothing to get excited about when it came to balance sheets and write-downs.

Zoë’s father emptied the last few droplets of wine from the bottle as his wife rummaged in her handbag.

‘There you go,’ she said, handing Zoë a small plastic parcel.

Zoë unwrapped it and smiled. The label on the jam jar had faded, but the contents were still intact. There were probably over two hundred plectrums in total, collected by the members of Dirty Money throughout their university years. They came from all over: Gigs, friends, festivals…Some were freebies, some had been bought, some borrowed and never returned. Zoë turned the jar round in her hand, feeling suddenly emotional as the memories came hurtling back.

‘Have you got my…’ Zoë glanced under the table and then looked at her mum, frowning. ‘Guitar?’

An awkward glance passed between her parents.

‘Mum?’

‘Well…no. I’m afraid we gave it to the charity shop.’

‘Wh—’ Zoë couldn’t speak. She looked at her mother, then her father, then down at the table. This was no oversight on her parents’ part. They hadn’t accidentally put the guitar in the wrong pile. Zoë had explicitly asked them to keep it aside. They had thought about this and acted with the sole purpose of proving a point.

‘We assumed you wouldn’t mind,’ said her father, raising his eyebrows as though nothing was amiss.

‘You hadn’t used it in years,’ her mother added.

Zoë could feel her breathing quicken. She felt angry and hurt and sad all at once.

‘I loved that guitar!’ she cried, unable to keep the wobble from her voice.

‘Yes, um…’ Her father looked around the restaurant. ‘Don’t make a fuss, now.’

‘You haven’t even seen it in years,’ her mother went on.

Zoë’s chest was heaving, her bottom lip quivering ominously.

‘That’s not the point,’ she managed, as the pressure built up behind her eyes.

They all knew what the point was. It wasn’t anything to do with how much or how little she used that guitar. The point was one they’d been avoiding for years – the point that her parents refused to accept her for who she really was.

They saw her in a particular light – the light in which they wanted to see their daughter. They saw the successful young professional, a high-flying financier. They turned a blind eye to the traits they didn’t like – or worse, tried to stamp them out. They detested her dogged resolve to take an alternative path. That was the point here, although Zoë couldn’t say it because tears were choking her throat.

‘You’re getting all het up over nothing,’ chided her mother, pushing a tissue in front of her.

Zoë blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes, determined to regain her composure – to not let them win.

‘I wanted to keep that guitar,’ she explained, her voice strengthening 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?’