The Fame Factor

Zoë had never considered the idea of standing on a stage without the others. She didn’t know whether she even could. In principle, perhaps it was possible. They were her songs; it was always Zoë on vocals. But in reality…

‘How would I sing without them?’

It was a stupid question. She knew as soon as the words left her lips that she needn’t have asked it.

‘You’ve heard of session musicians?’

He was being sarcastic now – presumably miffed that Zoë hadn’t jumped at the proposition.

‘But what’s wrong with Kate and Ellie and Shannon?’ she pressed.

Louis raised his eyes heavenward and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Because Kate and Ellie and Shannon would make it a band, and a band is not what the label is looking for.’

It was Zoë’s turn to sigh. This wasn’t how things worked. At least, it wasn’t how she’d imagined things worked. Based on everything she had read online, every story she’d heard on the grapevine, artists got signed on the basis of who they were. Louis was implying that the record companies just conjured up a series of typecast moulds and then asked the managers to fill them.

‘What about other labels?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, isn’t there a chance one of the Sony labels might go for Dirty Money? Or Warner, or…’ She trailed off under Louis’s withering gaze.

‘Honey,’ he said, as though she were four years old. ‘When you got a deal on the table, you don’t go pissing around with the competition.’

Zoë nodded, feeling like a cornered animal. There had to be a way of making things work for the band. She tried one last tack.

‘Don’t you…I mean, Blast…Doesn’t Blast represent Dirty Money?’

Louis nodded slowly, his face dipping in and out of his fatty neck. ‘Of which Zoë Kidd is a part. I represent the interests of the band members. So when I hear that a label wants to sign one of those members, I kinda wanna make it work.’

His tone suggested that Louis was running out of patience.

‘What happens if I say no?’ she asked quietly.

He was shaking his head now, looking at her as though she was mad. ‘Then they find someone else,’ he replied, loudly and slowly.

Zoë gulped. She couldn’t believe it was this mercenary, this…premeditated.

‘So, are you in?’

Louis raised an eyebrow, trying to smile despite his evident frustration.

Inhaling deeply and letting out a slow, shaky breath, Zoë met his gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

Suddenly, she had to get out of this dark, cosy place. She had to breathe. To think. She stood up and gave a brief, awkward wave goodbye. The sound of Louis’s empty glass slamming down on the table echoed around the empty bar as she climbed the stairs.

‘Don’t think for too long!’ yelled the manager. ‘Plenny of wannabes out there!’

12 (#ulink_2459e2aa-eac7-542a-abf8-33e72f8506d1)

‘We’re Dirty Money, and you’ve been amazing!’ yelled Zoë.

There was a whoop from the front of the hall, where Crazy Jeff could be seen bobbing around, arms waving. Then a deathly quiet fell on the room. Zoë stood, her features set in a broad smile, silently willing Shannon to bring them in for the final song.

The crowd had not been amazing. In fact, nothing about tonight had been amazing. In terms of reception, the gig ranked somewhere alongside the one they had played in the geriatric hospital five years ago. They had played well, but the audience, made up mainly of self-conscious art students and young fashionistas, just hadn’t warmed to them. Perhaps the Hoxton crew never actually warmed to anything; they were just too cool.

She should have known that tonight would be a disaster. Not just because of the huge decision that hung over her like a black thundercloud, a cloud she was struggling to keep from the girls, but because the promoter was a renowned money-grabbing bastard. He had done exactly what money-grabbing bastards always do and put on a mixture of funk, electro-pop, rock and a trio of Ukrainian keyboard players in the hope that more genres would attract more punters. Zoë wished she had turned it down.

Ellie played them out with an impressive solo that was wasted on the pouting crowd and, to the sound of muted clapping, Zoë led the girls offstage.

‘Fockin’ hell, that was hard work.’ Shannon barged her way into their dressing room – a cubicle no larger than a public toilet and not dissimilar in terms of smell. ‘What’s wrong with these people? It’s like they’ve had broomsticks shoved up their arses or something.’

Ellie laughed quietly. ‘I think one of them did actually have a broomstick.’

‘There was definitely one dressed as a tree.’ Kate nodded as she started quickly packing away her guitar.

‘We should’ve thought,’ muttered Shannon. ‘We’re playing in the most pretentious district in London. We should’ve planned it better.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Zoë frowned, not feeling like getting drawn in but unable to see how preparation would have helped.

‘Well, look at us!’ Shannon waved a dismissive hand over her body. ‘We look like freaks!’

Even Zoë managed a laugh. Hoxton was the only place in the world where you felt like a freak for wearing jeans. One female member of the audience tonight had been dressed in a kneelength foil wrap, of the type that runners get given at the end of a marathon.

‘No,’ Kate said earnestly. ‘We shouldn’t change our image just because of who we’re playing to.’

Zoë sensed that the bassist was looking to her for support. Ordinarily, she would have given it. She was, as ever, speaking sense. But today, Zoë kept her head bowed and started rummaging randomly in her guitar case. She couldn’t bring herself to discuss what they should or shouldn’t do to improve Dirty Money’s chances of success – not when she knew that their manager was waiting for her to sign off on their demise.

‘I didn’t mean – ugh!’ Shannon cried out as she stepped, mid-shoe-change, in a puddle of brown liquid on the floor. ‘This place sucks.’

Shannon was right. The place sucked. As did most of the venues they played. There was a reasonable probability, she knew, that Dirty Money would be forced to continue playing gigs like this, in clubs where the floors stank of piss, the promoters were short-sighted gits and the crowds didn’t know your name. It was quite possible that the girls would never break free from the grubby London music scene, that they’d still be here with their zimmer frames in fifty years’ time, still trying to make it onto the international circuit.

They never talked about it, but they all knew the truth: it was possible that their dreams would eventually fizzle. Yet despite the odds, they kept plugging away. And up until two days ago, Zoë had never stopped to doubt it. But now Louis’s proposition was taunting her, goading her away from the path they were on.

‘Quick drink?’ asked Shannon, holding her sodden sock at arm’s length and slipping her bare foot into the shoe.

‘I said I’d meet Sam.’ Ellie pulled an apologetic face.

‘Sorry,’ Kate mumbled sheepishly, pulling on her coat. ‘Gotta go.’

‘I can’t.’ Zoë dipped her head as the drummer’s attention turned to her. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place – away from the gig, away from the girls. Away from everything that reminded her of the decision she had to make.

‘What?’ Shannon threw her hands in the air. ‘Why not?’

‘I…’ Zoë could feel the drummer’s eyes upon her. She tried to think of a bullet-proof reason. ‘James…’

‘James can wait. So can Sam,’ she said, glaring at Ellie. ‘Lord knows, he makes people wait long enough.’ Shannon stormed over and grabbed Ellie’s jacket. ‘Come on. We’re going for a pint. I need to tell you about the Irish TV thing. Kate?’

Kate was pulling faces into a small makeup mirror. A smirk crept across Shannon’s face.