first track. Back in the day, all you needed was a bit of talent, an attitude and a lucky break. If you happened to be playing in the right place at the right time, you’d get picked up by a manager, who, over a couple of lines of coke and a hooker, would sweettalk some A&R rep into taking you on. Then, assuming you had enough decent songs inside you to fill a couple of albums, you were made.
Not any more. These days, there were more acts to go around. The internet was awash with talent. There were literally millions of artists pumping out tracks – something for everyone. Even the fan bases of the mainstream acts were carved up into smaller pieces. The days of bands like the Beatles, whose appeal reached from brickies to housewives, were long gone. As a lowly unsigned act, Dirty Money had to shout as loud as it could to stand a chance.
Settling for Cook Me Famous, a programme about deluded nobodies trying to batter and fry their way into the history books, James kicked off his shoes and drew his own laptop towards him. Zoë knew he was trying to make a point, sitting beside her and mirroring her exact posture, but the MySpace page was a priority, and nobody else was going to update it.
Thanks for asking, she typed. We actually have a gig in N London in 2 weeks’ time – check out our schedule! DM x
Hi M, yes we do play private gigs – for a fee! Let us know what you’re thinking and we’ll get back to you. DM x
It was a laborious way of reaching out to fans, but it was the only way. Zoë removed the usual smattering of lewd postings about bizarre sexual fantasies involving the members of Dirty Money and their instruments, scanning the page for other requests. As she did so, an email alert appeared in the corner of her monitor.
Dear lead singer,
I just wanted to tell you how much I admire the way you work that stage. I would be truly honoured if you could spare some time to spend with me at some point in the next few weeks to celebrate my appreciation of your work.
Your adoring fan x
Zoë smiled.
Dear Adoring Fan, she typed.
Thank you for your kind words. It’s always nice to hear from admirers. In terms of spending time together, what were you thinking?
Zoë
She flicked back to the website and checked through the outstanding messages. There was always a slew of requests for dates – most directed at Shannon or Kate, some both at once. Ellie attracted a different type of guy altogether: the black leather, pierced flesh, greasy hair variety – mostly guitarists themselves. Zoë looked again at the bottom of her screen where the alert had reappeared.
Dear Zoë,
Thank you for the quick response. I was thinking along the lines of dinner. Might you have an evening spare for me to take you out? Around Valentine’s Day, perhaps?
Adoring Fan x
Zoë leaned forward and tapped out her response, feeling a shiver of excitement at the prospect of a proper date.
Saturday 11th then?
A moment later, James turned to her, eyes twinkling. ‘Sure you can spare me the time?’
Zoë smiled. ‘For my Valentine, of course.’
‘It’s hardly a ban,’ scoffed the ruddy-faced man to her right. ‘All the coppers round our way are too busy galloping after hounds to make any arrests!’
He hooted at the apparent irony, prompting a ripple of false laughter along the table. The woman who had brought up the subject of fox-hunting looked at her lap, blushing.
Zoë was regretting her late arrival. Had she arrived at the Inns of Court at six-thirty, as stipulated by the glossy, gold-edged invitation, she would at least have been able to sit with her parents. Not that she’d usually relish the prospect of their company, but this evening it would have been preferable to that of the slackjawed buffoon.
Zoë leaned sideways as an array of colourful vegetables and finely cut veal appeared in front of her, trying to blot out the drone on her right. The hall looked like the inside of one of King Henry VIII’s castles: dark oak panelling, carved buttresses and glinting chandeliers on chains that stretched all the way from the raftered ceiling down to the long, wooden tables along which they sat.
Up on High Table, as it was apparently known, her sister sat, chatting away, her curly hair splaying out over the fur-lined gown that seemed to be compulsory attire for all of the part-qualified barristers. Even some of the guests were wearing gowns, she noted, including the pompous cretin she was sitting next to. It was another world. A world she could have inhabited herself, had things turned out differently, and now, more than ever, she felt glad that they hadn’t.
Zoë let the man talk, nodding when the moment seemed right. People like this, she thought, were evolutionary anomalies. They were so focused on themselves and their own activities that they should, by rights, have become extinct years ago – eaten by a bear whilst regaling others with their tales of bravery. But somehow, they lived on to tell their dreary tales.
Zoë watched as her sister surreptitiously slid her profiteroles onto a neighbour’s plate, glancing about as if worried that somebody might be watching. Their eyes met briefly and Tamsin cast her a guilty smile. Zoë winked back, thinking about all the times she had flouted laws and bent rules in the last few weeks.
A month ago, she and Shannon had had the brilliant idea of performing a gig wearing hard hats, on a stage decorated like a road works site: traffic signs, cones, flashing orange lamps…Of course, they had planned to return everything after use. It was only when Shannon appeared on the night with the pièce de résistance – a large set of temporary traffic lights – that the promoter had put his foot down and threatened to report the girls to the police. It seemed obvious, thinking about moments like this, that Zoë wasn’t destined to follow in her sister’s footsteps.
They were similar, in many ways. They had the same drive, the same sense of determination and resilience. They were both bright, hard-working and ambitious, but they were motivated by different things.
For Tamsin, it had always been about following the path but walking it quicker and better than everyone else on it. She had excelled at school, acing her exams and easily overcoming hurdle after hurdle. That was how she had ended up here, a trainee barrister at one of London’s most prestigious chambers.
Zoë had never cared about following the path. For her, the further she got from the path, the better. She knew, having lived in Tamsin’s shadow for twenty-four years, that she was the outlier. She understood that her parents couldn’t understand her way of thinking. That was why she compromised. She had gained a degree – albeit not the one her parents would have liked – and she had found herself a respectable job. But inside, she knew she could never be satisfied by her traditional middle-class existence.
‘And what about you?’ asked the man, poking his pitted nose in Zoë’s face. ‘What do you do?’
Zoë straightened up and looked at the man. ‘I’m at Chase Waterman.’
‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘You’re a bean counter!’
‘Well,’ Zoë averted her eyes. She wanted to defend her role at the UK’s largest independent auditing firm, but she couldn’t think of anything positive to say about it.
‘Didn’t you fancy your chances in law?’ He tugged proudly at the navy gown that engulfed his ample frame.
‘Something like that,’ Zoë replied, deciding that now was not the time to admit that she’d failed to make the grades for her first choice of degree. Looking down the table, she watched as her father became embroiled in a debate with a man in a green tweed jacket.
‘You’d be surprised,’ her father was saying. ‘Misconduct has existed in top-level