It was the sort of gig they’d usually turn down, but the fee had been good and the promoter had guilt-tripped them into playing by telling them about all the orphans around the world who would benefit from the proceeds.
Their music had proved surprisingly popular with the shoppers and during their break, Shannon and Zoë had hatched a plan to make their final song especially memorable. At the time, it had seemed like a fantastic idea for Zoë to take the escalator to the next floor of the shopping centre, grab hold of one of the decorations that hung in the atrium and sing the next song whilst swinging, Tarzan-style, across the stage in front of the other musicians.
The decoration had supported her for long enough to attract the attention of most of the onlookers and a couple of burly but fast-moving security guards, at which point Zoë had plummeted to the stage via Shannon’s drum kit, her landing amplified by her radio microphone. Surprisingly, they hadn’t been asked back to Brent Cross Shopping Centre.
‘Maybe not that one,’ Zoë conceded. ‘But Manchester,’ she said, referring to a gig that she still maintained had come about as a result of an administrative error. They’d been supporting one of the biggest indie acts in the Northwest and the promoter had referred to them all night as ‘Thirsty Money’, but they didn’t need to explain that. ‘And Chiana.’
Chiana was a live music venue in Soho whose owner Shannon had somehow talked into letting them play. When it had transpired that a couple of minor celebrities were drinking there, Zoë had managed to engineer a photo that revealed not just the inebriated celebrities but the whole of the Dirty Money setup, complete with promotional backdrop, which, following a mysterious ‘leak’, had appeared in one of the trashy free newspapers the following day.
‘It’ll all help, won’t it?’
‘Um…’ It was Kate. ‘Can we make sure we only tell him about the good stuff?’
‘Don’t be so—’
Shannon trailed off. A man was swaggering across the bar towards them, dressed in a giant, red and brown flecked shirt that must have been made to measure – possibly out of a set of Persian curtains. His garish, gold-buckled belt was only visible from the girls’ low vantage point, due to the flabby overhang.
‘Hiiiiii,’ he called in a manner that Zoë recognised instantly from the telephone call. He had the type of face that had probably once been handsome: perfect white teeth and an overly warm smile, but it was difficult to tell with all the chins. ‘How are my adorable rock goddesses?’ He opened his hands to them like a preacher addressing a congregation.
Zoë couldn’t help glancing at Kate, who stared back at her, wide-eyed.
‘Good!’ cried Shannon, when it became apparent that nobody else was going to reply.
‘Good? Good! So, what can I get y’all?’
The ordering process took some time, mainly because every time one of the girls said the word ‘bottle’, the American would repeat it four or five times in various accents, then pretend to forget what the bottle was to contain.
‘Not funny,’ muttered Kate, as Louis Castle retreated to the bar, relaying the whole conversation to the barman in a booming voice.
‘Give him a chance!’ hissed Shannon.
‘At least he’s not trying to flirt,’ Ellie pointed out. They all cringed at the reminder of their old manager’s sleazy ways.
‘I gat you a double,’ he said, pushing a bucket-sized tumbler of Jack Daniels towards Ellie. ‘And here’s a vaardka for you, in case that OJ needs spicin’ up.’
The girls took their drinks and watched the enormous man arrange himself at the table, siphoning off nearly half of his pint with his first sip.
‘So,’ he said, looking at each one in turn, his eyes glistening behind the rolls of fat. ‘Are you ready for the big time?’
‘Yeah!’ replied Shannon immediately.
‘Mmm,’ added Ellie, presumably because Shannon had pinched her under the table.
‘Are you ready to make it?’
Zoë closed her eyes. Perhaps these lines worked on artists in Los Angeles or wherever he came from, but they really didn’t wash with her. ‘Have you got any ideas about labels?’ she asked.
Louis looked at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Woah!’ He looked around at the other girls, grinning manically. ‘You’re quick outta the blocks! I only just sat down!’ He pointed to his half-finished pint. ‘Gimme a chance!’
Shannon laughed along with him, prompting Ellie to do the same.
Zoë forced a smile too. ‘Sorry. It’s just…We’ve been together for a while now and—’
‘Hey,’ he interrupted. ‘I know. You’ve been around a few years, hoping to get signed and now you just wanna grab that deal and run, huh? Yeah. I’ve seen that before.’
Reluctantly, Zoë nodded along with him. She had been about to explain that their manager had promised great things and never delivered, and that they didn’t want to end up in the same situation again, but Louis Castle had already moved on.
Zoë sat back and let the conversation flow around her. The manager quickly got onto the subject of his stable of successful acts in the States and his plans for replicating such success over here. Ellie and Shannon lapped it up, gasping and cooing and clapping their hands like small children. Kate, like Zoë, was doing her best to look convinced.
‘When you say, “package us up”,’ the bassist ventured, ‘what exactly do you mean?’
Louis turned to her, grinning enigmatically from behind his many chins. ‘I’ll tell you…over the next drink!’
Once again, he returned with a bumper round.
‘So,’ the large man began, returning to his seat and sinking into his next pint. ‘What I mean, is make you “sellable”.’ He drew quotation marks in the air. ‘Like a brand. We need to make it obvious what you stand for.’
‘You mean, like our image?’ asked Shannon. ‘What we wear and that?’
‘Exaaaaactly,’ Louis replied. ‘And that includes getting you out of those old hooded tops and jeans!’
Shannon laughed. Zoë and Kate glanced at one another.
‘Don’t you think,’ Zoë said carefully, not wanting to offend the man, ‘that the image thing is only really important for manufactured pop music? Boy-bands, girl-bands…’
He smiled at her pityingly. ‘Honey, all acts have an image.’
‘But…’ she persevered. She wanted to explain herself. ‘I can see why the teeny-bop artists have a certain look…They have to appeal on the looks front, because there’s nothing more to them. But say…Coldplay? Razorlight? U2? It’s all about the music for them, isn’t it?’
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