her breath. She needed to hear it in plain English before she could allow herself to get excited.
‘Do you mean…Vicinity want to sign Dirty Money?’ She could barely control her voice.
‘Well, not exactly,’ he replied, looking briefly uncomfortable. ‘I’ve had a few meetings now, with Edgar and Jenson and that…Basically, they really liked the band, but…well, it doesn’t quite fit with what they’re looking for right now.’
‘Oh.’ Zoë looked down at the table. She felt deflated. And confused. Louis had led her up this path – building her hopes, dropping hints, flashing that giant smile of his…
‘See,’ Louis swilled a sip of whisky around in his mouth and then finally swallowed. ‘There’s trends in the music industry. Hot things come and go. A few years ago, two lads from Manchester came down in their dirty T-shirts and suddenly indie was big – everyone wanted to sign hairy guys with guitars. The labels don’t wanna miss the next “wave”.’
Zoë nodded impatiently. She was no hairy guy, guitar or otherwise.
‘This year, bands just ain’t hot.’
‘So…’
‘Honey, they wanna sign you.’
Zoë frowned. It was the way he emphasised the last word that worried her.
‘They’re looking for a female solo act,’ he explained, confirming her suspicions. ‘A real singer. A Florence. An Amy. A Lady Gaga, you know? They’re all about girls with big attitude as well as a big voice.’ His piggy face poked out from inside all the chins, blinking and grinning at Zoë.
This was absurd. Zoë couldn’t sign to a label without the others. She was part of a band. They came as a four. This was like trying to sell a car on the basis of only one of its cylinders. It just couldn’t happen.
‘Jeez, Zoë…’ Louis swallowed a mouthful of whisky and planted the glass on the table. ‘I was kinda expecting a bit more enthusiasm!’
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, trying to fend off his indignation while she straightened her thoughts.
‘This is Vicinity we’re talking about. Universal. You know?’
Yes, Zoë knew. She knew exactly how big a deal this was, which was why she felt so low. It was a massive thing to turn down.
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!’
‘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