The Fame Factor

Ellie’s world was filled with a select group of people, namely Zoë, Shannon, Kate and Sam. She only welcomed those privileged few, not caring what anybody else heard or didn’t hear. Zoë, on the other hand, felt claustrophobic in that world; she needed an outlet. Having created the music, she had to share it. The more people it reached, the quicker it flowed from her and the better she felt.

Zoë knew she had changed since the early days. She couldn’t pretend that the dainty office shoes and starched suit jacket were the only consequences of her lifestyle. Her choice of career path had had an impact on who she was and she resented that impact. She didn’t like having to answer to Brian, having to fit in with the other po-faced clones, having to skulk around pretending to run errands…She didn’t like living a lie. But at the same time, she knew that the changes had made her stronger.

Every day, the resentment inside Zoë piled up a little more. The day job, her parents and even some of her closest friends seemed to be doing their utmost to bring her in line. But Zoë was determined to escape. And the exit route, which seemed to be looking clearer every time she gazed at it, was the success of the band.

‘Awesome,’ she said, as they found themselves back on the chorus. ‘That works. We’ll try that next week.’

‘Let’s.’ Ellie nodded, still playing. She got so wrapped up in the music; sometimes it was hard to pull her out.

Zoë looked at the clock on the wall and felt something plummet inside her. ‘Shit! Is that right?’

Ellie glanced at her bare wrist as though half-hoping to find a watch there. ‘Um…’

‘Bollocks,’ Zoë muttered, having found her phone and confirmed that the time was indeed nearly half-past two.

She rammed her guitar into its case, yanked her coat on and stuffed her notebook and pencil into one of the pockets. Ellie watched her with a perplexed expression.

‘Gotta go!’ Zoë said, flinging herself at her friend in a hasty farewell gesture. ‘See ya!’

Ellie was shaking her head as she leapt towards the door. ‘Honestly, Zoë…You’ll give yourself a hernia.’

Zoë laughed and rushed out.

Brian was standing at her desk when she got back, rubbing a palm over the top of his shiny head.

‘Ah, there you are.’ He caught her eye, glancing down at her heaving chest and the guitar-shaped coat in her hand.

Zoë eased herself into her seat and waited for the inevitable reprimand. Her boss looked very serious.

‘I’ve been looking through your British Trust figures,’ he said, placing a print-out of her summary on the desk and wheezing a little. ‘Now, what do you see here?’

Zoë frowned. ‘Er, my summary?’

He pointed a stubby finger at the revenue line. ‘Here,’ he said, looking at her.

‘Um…Four million, one hundred and sixty-two thousand, two hundred and eighty-five pounds, fifty-five pence?’

Brian cleared his throat. ‘Anything…strike you as odd?’

Zoë shrugged as politely as she could. ‘Is it a prime number?’

Brian closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. ‘It ends in five, Zoë, so no.’

She nodded slowly, pretending to give a shit. There was nothing odd about the figure, as far as she could tell, but then Brian had evidently spent longer thinking about the matter than she had.

Finally, he enlightened her.

‘Decimal points, Zoë! Pennies! We don’t need two d.p. in the summary, do we?’

Decimal points, she thought, pointing a trigger-finger at her boss and faking a smile as he started to bang on about RAP and obvious mistakes. Decimal points. This was what her life had come to.

5 (#ulink_e4ffe822-aaa3-5974-b956-6694e247a80f)

‘Okay, so red for record, black for stop, and this slider thing does the zoom. Got it.’

‘No, you don’t need to press the black at all. Just use the red for record, then it’s the same button for stop.’

Zoë glanced warily at Shannon as they ran her friend through the controls one more time. It didn’t bode well.

‘Drinks, girls?’ the towering landlord called out from behind the bar.

At six foot ten, Eamonn Gallagher was, according to some websites, officially a giant. After thirty years’ serving pints in a bar of normal proportions, he had developed a permanent stoop, which, along with the gout-inflicted limp and the gnarled fingers, scarred from too many closing-time brawls, gave quite a fearsome first impression. But the girls were long past first impressions. Shannon’s local had become something of a second home in the last year and they all knew Eamonn on first-pint-on-the-house terms.

‘Can you get me a coupla beers?’ yelled Shannon, above the din. The place was noisier than usual, thanks to a large group of half-naked Antipodeans celebrating Australia Day in the corner.

Zoë wasn’t sure it was wise to ply the cameraman with drink before he’d even worked out how to operate the device, but there was nothing she could do. Sometimes, no matter how terrifying it seemed, she just had to put her trust in Shannon.

‘Nothing for you, Zola?’ called the landlord as she passed the bar. He always called her that, after Zola Budd, the Olympic athlete from the eighties. He claimed that Zoë rushed around at the rate of the record-breaking runner.

‘No, thanks!’ Living up to her name, she pushed through the crowds to the backstage door. They were due on stage in twenty minutes.

Gigs at The Mad Cow were different from all the others. At most gigs, the girls were performing for a reason: because their manager wanted them to, because a certain A&R rep was supposed to be turning up, because the promoter was well-connected…Every stage was a potential stepping stone onto a bigger and higher one. But The Mad Cow was no stepping stone. They played here for one reason. Well, two if you counted the free drinks.

Six years ago – for reasons most likely associated with Shannon’s plunging cleavage – the landlord had granted them a Saturday night slot, when the band had been barely more than four girls with instruments and a few ideas for songs. They had played out of time, forgotten their set list, stood around discussing what to play next…It had been too soon for them to perform in public. But Eamonn had allowed them to see out the set and since then, Dirty Money had gone from strength to strength, outgrowing pub gigs like The Mad Cow. They were at a level where they could play every night if they wanted, anywhere on the London circuit – with the recent exception of the Camden House. Now a slick, well-oiled rock machine, they turned down many of the gigs they were offered – but never The Mad Cow.

‘So,’ said Zoë, squeezing through the narrow door of the closet that served as their dressing room. Kate was sitting on the upturned mop bucket, tuning her bass. ‘Are we playing “Out of Air”?’

Kate shrugged anxiously. She raised the instrument to her ear and repeatedly plucked at her E-string. ‘New songs are always a bit of a gamble…’

Zoë needn’t have asked; she already knew how Kate felt. Kate was all about preparation, rehearsal and control. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy spontaneity; she got a kick out of being on stage just like everyone else. She just liked to prepare for the kick. She wanted every performance to be perfect.

‘I think we should do it,’ Zoë declared.

Kate nodded blankly. ‘Okay.’

Zoë squatted down next to the upturned bucket. ‘What’s up? Is it what’s-his-face?’

‘Tarquin?’ Kate turned her head, finally making eye contact. ‘No, I’m totally over him.’

Zoë tried not to baulk at the name. Really, it was no wonder she’d been having problems. ‘So what is it?’

Kate exhaled shakily. ‘It’s work. My boss.’ She looked into Zoë’s eyes. ‘Oh, it’s everything.’

Zoë shifted her weight, her knees beginning to ache. Kate was training to become an actuary. Nobody knew exactly what that meant, except that it was something to do with measuring risk – something Kate was ideally suited to – and that the qualification process culminated in a series of mind-blowingly difficult exams that only about twenty per cent of applicants passed. The only other thing Zoë knew about the profession was that it ranked even higher than auditing in the tedium stakes, which was saying something.

‘Is the revision getting you down?’

Kate looked up at her through wisps of fine blonde hair. ‘No, it’s not that.’ She smiled ironically. ‘In fact, that’s the only thing that’s going well. I’m good at exams. It’s the job I can’t do.’