‘Let me guess: he wants more coverage in the magazine for his crappy boy band.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn’t done. ‘That wasn’t cool, Mike. You shouldn’t have taken a meeting with him. You know you can’t meddle in editorial.’ I was standing over his desk; its green leather top was pockmarked by ink and scratches.
‘I thought, under the circumstances, I’d make an exception.’
‘What possible reason could—’
‘He’s just been appointed Marcie Tyler’s PR.’
‘Oh. Shit.’
This was some sort of cosmic joke. Ha ha, universe – good one.
Mike was looking at me with suspicion. He had twenty-five years on me and had served with the SAS in the Falklands. He knew a thing or two about interrogation and could elicit a straight answer out of anybody simply by raising an eyebrow.
He was arching his left one now. ‘Anything I should know, Zoë?’
‘We had a bit of a disagreement last night.’
‘What happened?’
I was surprised Nick hadn’t told him – or maybe he had and Mike wanted my side of the story.
‘He thought I was rude to Jonny Delaney from Hands Down.’
‘And were you?’
‘We had a frank and robust exchange of ideas.’
Mike shook his head, but the expected telling-off didn’t come. ‘And you think it might affect our chances with Marcie?’
I nodded.
He picked up a fountain pen and absently balanced it across the pad of his index finger. Even gravity bent to his will. The tortoiseshell pen started to list to one side, but with a flash of his military-sharp reflexes, he flicked his wrist and righted it. ‘He seemed quite amenable to me. In fact, he said Marcie is considering giving her first interview in almost ten years, and he thinks we’d be a good fit.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘Good? We’d be a brilliant fit!’ I was already picturing the four-page spread: arty shots of Marcie in a run-down country house. Her wild hair black against crumbling Bath stone . . .
‘—in exchange for something.’
I hit pause on the movie in my head. ‘In exchange for what?’
Mike smiled tightly.
I groaned. Nick’s lecture on bartering made sense now. ‘He wants us to redo the Hands Down review? I told him—’
Mike let the pen drop onto his desk. ‘A feature – double-page, plus the cover.’
I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘I see. And is he also going to tell us what font to use?’
‘You saw what happened to sales with just one review of Hands Down. Why chase Marcie, who’s practically a ghost?’
‘Because Re:Sound has never been about boy bands. Can’t you see the irony of it? Hands Down want our credibility to rub off on them, but every time we feature them they leach it away. I can’t stand back and watch the magazine I’ve loved since I was thirteen turn into a celebrity rag.’
‘I sympathise, Zoë, but there’s more at stake than just our credibility. We’re talking about the survival of the magazine. I’m doing everything I can to keep the Octagon board happy, but if circulation doesn’t hit their targets, they’ll pull the plug.’
The words made my breath catch in my throat.
‘They’ve threatened to close us down?’
He nodded.
I’d known this was coming, of course, but had tried not to think about it. I’d prayed that the magazine’s reputation would be enough to keep Octagon off our backs a bit longer. But now the nightmare threat of closure was a sudden and glaring reality.
‘I’ve told them we’ve got a major scoop in the pipeline, in time for the September issue, but we need to go back to them with increased ad sales and proof of increased circulation figures before the board meets in two months’ time.’
‘No pressure then, Mike.’
I tried not to let the enormity of what he was saying derail me. Concentrate on the next step forward – getting the Marcie interview.
‘What was Nick like with you, by the way?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone light.
‘Seemed like a perfectly nice chap,’ said Mike.
I mentally rolled my eyes. Nick Jones was high-handed, rude and arrogant. Nice was not the adjective that immediately sprang to mind.
‘Where did he come from, anyway?’ I said. ‘Why have I never heard of him?’
‘He’s been doing wonders for Pinnacle’s artists in South America. Speaks Spanish like a native. French and Italian, too, I’m told. He’s trilingual.’
‘Of course he is,’ I muttered.
Mike frowned. ‘Except, when you add English, that’s four languages. What’s the word for that?’
‘Tosser.’
He smiled.
‘It sounds like he moves around a lot,’ I said, brightening. ‘Maybe he won’t be in London long.’
‘Play nice with him, Zoë, you don’t have the luxury of time.’
*
I left Mike’s office with his last words ringing in my ears. If the magazine closed, it wouldn’t be just me out of a job, it would be the whole team. They’d proved their loyalty by sticking by me, even when nothing in this godforsaken office worked properly – printers that constantly jammed, taps that dripped incessantly. How could I go back and tell them that their sacrifices had been for nothing?
I was gripped by a fear that cemented my feet to the nylon carpet. I steadied myself against the wall next to a dusty yucca plant, then sank to the floor. Its waxy green leaves had been here longer than me. I remembered seeing it on my first day ten years ago, when I’d started as a junior writer. I’d turned down a job at a national paper that paid almost twice as much. But my love affair with Re:Sound meant more than money. I’d once walked out on a blind date mid-meal when he’d scrunched up his thick eyebrows in disgust, and opined that writing about music was rather low-brow. As I left I’d ‘accidentally’ knocked the table, toppling a glass of wine into his very rare Argentinian steak. Better low-brow than monobrow, I’d wanted to tell him.
My relationship with Re:Sound had been the longest of my adult life. I’d been with it longer than any boyfriend.
It had been constant and loyal to me, and now it was my turn to be loyal to it. I needed to fight for what it stood for. Twelve editors had sat in my chair before me and I could feel the weight of all of them on my shoulders. I was number thirteen.
Lucky me.
Back at my desk, I shoved a pile of proofs and two empty Coke cans out of the way and jogged the mouse to wake up my computer. I needed to learn more about my enemy.
Typing ‘Nick Jones’ into Google was useless. I got over a million hits because it was such a common name. Adding ‘Pinnacle Artists’ threw up loads of false hits, too, because there were loads of ‘Nicks’ and ‘Joneses’ associated with the company. Facebook and Twitter were dead ends – pages of Nick Joneses scrolled down my screen. The only definitive information was a two-paragraph profile on the Pinnacle website, which was out of date because it listed his base as Mexico City and the artists he shepherded were Latin ones I’d never heard of. No mention of Hands Down or Marcie Tyler. The only useful snippet was that he’d been with the company a little over ten years.
I closed the browser, annoyed to have wasted my time. Forget Nick Jones; I needed to concentrate on getting to Marcie without him.
*
An hour later I was at the White Horse with Dawn Reynolds – Patrick’s number two, who was now running Armstrong Associates as a subsidiary of Pinnacle Artists. She’d grown up a mile from me in Ealing, but was five years older. When Pat had introduced us six years ago, we’d immediately bonded over a shared love of gumshoe detective novels. Summer or winter, Dawn wore black, never having quite outgrown her passion for The Cure.
As we munched our Caesar salads, I asked her what she knew about Marcie’s new team.
‘Well, I secretly hoped that Marcie would come back to us now that Patrick’s stepped down,’ said Dawn. ‘We’re the best of
both worlds – a boutique company with the clout of a bigger corporation behind us. But Marcie wants to carry on managing herself and just use Pinnacle for bits and pieces to control her publicity.’
‘I’m sorry, Dawn. I guess we were both pinning our hopes on her.’
She forked a lettuce leaf and crouton and dipped it into the pot of extra Caesar sauce she always ordered. ‘We make a right pair.’
I watched her chew, but my own appetite had vanished. ‘What do you know about Nick Jones?’
‘Not much,’ she admitted.
‘So how on earth did he get the Marcie gig?’
Dawn arched an eyebrow. ‘I guess he sweet-talked her.’
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘Marcie is flesh and blood like the rest of us, and he looks like a young Rock Hudson, down to that cleft in his chin – who wouldn’t want him around?’
Me, for one. ‘Marcie wouldn’t be that shallow.’
‘I can’t see any other reason for it. Marcie hasn’t bothered with a publicist for years.’
Dawn had suddenly given me an idea. ‘Is there any way I can talk to Marcie directly – woman to woman?’
She frowned. ‘You know she hates talking to the press. And her home is like a bunker – she never goes out without tight security, and is rarely photographed with friends or family. She doesn’t seem to let anyone in.’
‘Surely she must get lonely?’
‘From what I’ve heard, she’s a loner, really. She’s never been married, never had kids. But that’s always been her choice. She’s dedicated to her music.’
We chatted some more, then said our goodbyes, manoeuvring around the punters smoking by the pub door.
‘See you in the gym on Tuesday?’ It was the only day I regularly went, and having a gym buddy was probably the main reason for it.
‘I’m sorry, Zoë, I can’t. End-of-term piano recital – I promised to take the kids.’ She suddenly froze.
‘It’s okay, Dawn. I believe you. No need to look so guilty!’
‘I’ve just remembered. I heard from a contact in Pinnacle that Marcie wants to take piano lessons.’
‘You’re not suggesting I pose as a piano tutor, are you?’ I laughed. ‘It’s a bit Inspector Clouseau.’
She swatted my arm. ‘No, she’s buying a concert grand – my contact’s organised a private shopping trip for her to the Steinway shop in Marylebone. She cancelled the first one he booked for her, but then rearranged it. It’s coming up, I think. I’ll check.’
This was promising. The shopping trip would no doubt be private, but surely I could wangle my way in. When else would I get the chance to approach Marcie in a semi-public place? And this way, I wouldn’t have to go through Nick.
*
I was in a much better mood when I got back to my desk after lunch. If Dawn’s tip about Marcie worked out, then I might be able to pitch an interview to her in person. If she really was intending to give someone an exclusive, Re:Sound was the obvious choice for her. And that way meant we wouldn’t have to give in to Nick Jones’s demands and sully the magazine with a double-page spread of Hands bloody Down.
The thought made me so chirpy that I even attempted to answer my logjam of emails. I would have got through them all if the phone hadn’t kept interrupting me.
One particularly annoying call came from a publicist complaining that we’d called her client ‘English’.
‘He’s Welsh,’ she huffed.
I told her I’d look into it and got off the phone as fast as possible.
‘Gav,’ I called, craning my neck over my screen. ‘You described the lead singer of Stepping Stones as English.’
‘Is that against the law?’
‘He’s Welsh.’
‘Bollocks. He sounds English when you speak to him.’
‘Always use British. It’ll save us a lot of hassle.’
Lucy looked up from her screen. ‘Typical Gavin, always denigrating the Welsh.’
Gavin swivelled round in his chair. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not anti-Welsh.’
‘Yes you are. What about that birthday card you bought me last year? It had a cartoon sheep on it, and as a proud Welshwoman, I was offended.’
‘You’re from Leamington Spa,’ said Gavin. ‘You’re about as Welsh as Lenny Kravitz.’
‘My nan’s half Welsh.’
‘I didn’t know,’ muttered Gavin. ‘And anyway, you said you liked that card.’
‘That was before I realised you were a racist.’
‘I’m not a racist!’ He stood suddenly. ‘I’m going out for a coffee.’
‘A white one, no doubt,’ shouted Lucy to his retreating back. Gav halted in his tracks, his shoulders tensing.
‘She’s joking, Gav,’ I said, laughing.
He shrugged and left.
I turned back to Lucy, who was quietly giggling into her keyboard. ‘Gav makes it too easy.’
‘Go gentle on him, Luce,’ I said. ‘He’s more sensitive that you might think.’
She snorted. ‘Gav, sensitive? Do me a favour.’
Gavin might have looked like a hard man – shaved head, beefy build and earring through one eyebrow – but he’d lost his mother at a young age and had been devastated when his grandmother passed away a couple of years ago. Lucy hadn’t started with us yet, but I remember more than one evening staying in the office late with him, letting him sob quietly because his live-in girlfriend thought it outrageous that a twenty-seven-year-old man might visibly mourn the death of a grandparent. Needless to say, that relationship hadn’t lasted, and he’d been single ever since. Gav never talked about girls, but recently I’d noticed that he held himself differently around Lucy – his shoulders seemed to un-hunch and his back straightened.
Or maybe he’d just watched a YouTube video about posture.
Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon passed without name-calling or mickey-taking, then at 3 p.m. I got a text from Dawn that made me jump out of my skin:
It’s your lucky day – Marcie will be at the Steinway shop tonight at 6.30!
Holy shit. I had a chance with Marcie today? I was about to announce it to the team, but stopped myself. Dawn had sent a second text, warning me that the shop was to close early and that Marcie would be travelling with security. How on earth was I going to get even remotely close to her?
My phone rang – unknown caller – but I grabbed it on the second ring in case it was Marcie-related.
‘Zoë Frixos,’ I answered.
‘I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.’
Something stopped me putting the phone down, something familiar in the vowels. ‘You’re through to Re:Sound. Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ came the male voice. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Zoë Frixiepants.’
It had been a long time since anyone had called me that. And there was only one person who ever did.
‘. . . Simon?’
‘How the hell are you, Zoë?’
A warmth oozed through me that had nothing to do with the stuffy office. ‘I’m really well, Si. Zak tells me you’re coming to London.’
‘He’s right – I landed this morning.’
‘That’s brilliant! Where are you staying?’
‘At The Halson in Soho. I’m there now.’
‘That’s round the corner from my office.’
‘I know.’ There was a pause and I could hear muffled voices in the background. ‘I’m in the bar and I’ve just seen a knickerbocker glory a foot high. Wanna play hooky and share one with me?’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
Air-conditioning and ice-cream sounded like bliss. I swallowed. Was the extra saliva due to the prospect of ice-cream or Simon?
‘I’ll order extra whipped cream . . .’ came his voice, low and tempting.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
4
Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover
I hung up. Christ on a stick. Fi
rst Marcie and now this? Someone was smiling down on me. I looked around the office to see if anyone had noticed that their editor was hyperventilating. They were all crowded around Ayisha, our digital editor, who was playing a video of a sleeping puppy whose ears were being blown about by a desk fan. I forgave all her non-work-related surfing because traffic to our site had skyrocketed since she’d taken over three months ago, when her previous role as my assistant had been made redundant by Octagon. Last month, she’d managed to make a story we’d run about festival food go viral – we’d even had a write-up in the Telegraph.
Instead of heading straight out, I detoured to the toilets. After checking the cubicles were empty, I rang my best mate Georgia. She’d listened to me talking about Simon endlessly at uni, and was the only person who knew I’d carried a torch for him.
‘Fuuuuuck!’ was Georgia’s reaction after I’d filled her in. ‘Simon fucking Baxter. No fucking way.’
Since the birth of her twins ten months ago, Georgia had stopped swearing at home and now made up for it by swearing all day at work. I’m not sure how happy her law firm was with the arrangement, but seeing as her billables had gone up, I suspected they were fine with it.
‘That was sort of my reaction, too,’ I told her.
‘When are you meeting him?’
I checked my watch. ‘In about five minutes.’
‘What are you doing wasting time talking to me, then? Get a bloody move on!’
Things were always so black and white for Georgia: you liked someone, you told them, they liked you back – wham! You got married – albeit several years later. That’s what had happened with her and Dean. They’d got fresh at the freshers’ ball and had been together ever since.
We said our goodbyes and I hung up. I’d been pacing up and down, but now stopped to assess myself in the mirror. I’ve never been one for preening, especially at work, but I wanted to make sure I looked presentable.
The black cargo pants and white V-neck T-shirt I was happy with. My hair, less so. I hadn’t had time to wash it this morning, so instead I’d piled it on top of my head with a crocodile clip. Stray strands had fallen onto my shoulders, and the ends sprouted over the clip like the top of a pineapple. On a good day I’d consider it windswept and insouciant; on a bad one, messy and neglected.
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 3
