Career Girls (13 page)

The kind ofstuffthat got arena seats ripped up.

Music that caused riots.

‘So where did you see this act?’ he asked impassively, staring sternly at little Rowena Gordon, sitting fidgeting in her chair like she was up before God at the Day of Judgment.

‘At a working men’s club in Sheffield,’ Rowena admitted. ‘They’re really young, Josh. And they look really good.’

‘Music sells music, kid,’ Oberman growled. ‘Remember that.’

She nodded hastily, but couldn’t help adding. ‘And they moved really well live.., hardly anyone was there but they still played their guts out… ‘

‘Where are they playing next?’ Oberman asked casually. ‘At the Retford Porterhouse,’ Rowena told him. She leant forward on her seat. ‘Josh, you’ve got to come and see them. Please.’

She groped for something he would understand. ‘Look, they’ll sell records in America,’ she tried. ‘I’m just sure of it.’

Josh Oberman raised an eyebrow. He’d grown up on the Brooklyn Heights, his career had spanned three continents, and for the past fifteen years he’d ruled the British record industry with a rod of beat-up platinum discs. In.all that

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time he’d found exactly three European bands who’d had substantial success in America. Now there was a pretty little English rosebud sitting in his office, telling him she was sure

this unknown act of hers would break in America.

The trouble was, he agreed with her.

‘Listen to me, kid,’ he growled. ‘It’s seven years since I’ve been to a fleapit rock concert. So you’d better be right about this, because I’ve got six companies to run here.’

Rowena took a deep breath. So she was gambling her career. So what? If she couldn’t get these boys signed, she was in the wrong industry.

Tm right, Josh,’ she insisted. ‘If you don’t agree, I’ll quit.’

Oberman pretended to think about it. ‘OK, Gordon. You have yourself a deal. I will neglect all the needs of the

Musica group of companies in the UK and go see-‘ ‘Atomic Mass.’

‘Atomic’Mass, right. And you should pray that they’re good. Come pick me up tomorrow night, and don’t bother to bring your car. We’ll take a limo.’

What an incredible-looking girl, Oberman thought as he watched Rowena leave his office. All legs and hair and pouty lips.

He wished he was young enough to wish he could fuck

her.

Rowena could hardly make it through Wednesday, she was so excited. And nervous. And hopeful. And scared.

If Josh didn’t like them, that was the end of it. Forget about music. Forget about dropp!ng out. It would be back to the drawing board, and a nice safe life asa lawyer or something.

But if he did like them She hardly dared think about it.

As soon as the time on her computer flashed 6.30, Rowena logged out, stood up and almost ran out of A&R to the president’s office. She’d taken great care with her appear99

ance this morning; black jeans, a tight black body to emphasize her minute waist, fashionable workmen’s boots and a black leather jacket. A sexy look. A tough-girl look. She hoped she seemed like someone who knew a talented rock band when she heard one.

‘Goddamn, what the hell are you wearing?’ Oberman demanded, thinking how hot she looked. The long blonde hair shimmering down her back was almost obscenely golden against the black leather.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Rowena sked, practically drag

ging her boss out to the lifts.

‘You look like you’re gonna mug me,’ the old man grumbled, leading her towards his car.

Rowena took a step back. Of course, she was hardly unused to luxury. And she realized that the presidents of

record companies don’t drive Renault 5s. But this was something else. A liveried chauffeur holding open the back-seat door on a long, gleaming black monster that looked like it had driven straight out of a Jackie Collins novel.

‘Well, what are you gaping at?’ Oberman demanded, secretly amused. The kid was half brilliant and half totally naive. ‘Get in and quit wasting time. They’re only the support act. You want me to miss them, or what?’

‘No, no, sir,’ Rowena said hastily, slipping into the back

seat with a refined movement. Josh noticed that, too. So she was used to chauffeurs. Although she’d been dirt poor when he found her, and she was earning a pittance right now. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said in Wonderland.

He clambered in next to her and told his driver where to

go, and the limo pulled smoothly out of the car park and

melted into the early evening traffic.

Rowena glanced at her watch.

‘Don’t worry, kid, we’ll get there,’ Oberman said. ‘Lewis

is a good driver. Knows all the short cuts. Right, Roger?’

‘Right, Mr Oberman,’ the chauffeur answered briskly in

a soft Welsh accent.

Rowena paid no attention. She was trying not to stare at

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the incredible array of equipment in Oberman’s car. Two phones. A fax machine. A television. A CD-player on a stack system. Discreet Surround Sound speakers built into the camel leather. An IBM computer and a drinks cabinet.

‘The swimming pool’s out back,’ Oberman added dryly, and chuckled when she spun round. ‘I do a lot of work in the car,’ he explained. ‘Works out cheaper than a second office.’

She nodded, trying not to feel that she was way, way out of her depth. What was she thinking of, dragging her boss out to a tiny, sweaty club in the provinces? That was her job, not his!

‘OK,’ Oberman said briskly. ‘Tell me everything you remember about the first time yousaw these guys play.’

The limo pulled up in a grimy street a couple of hours later. The summer evening sky was black with rain, and by the time she’d’shown him across the road to the club they were both soaked to the skin. She stumbled into the entrance, drenched, and gave their names to the doorman, who insisted on making Oberman wait outside in the downpour while he laboriously searched the guest list. Rowena’s heart sank. She could see that this gig was packed out with kids, no place for an old man to have to stand listening to a new act. And he was bound to be in a filthy mood at the weather and the delay.

‘Yeah, all right,’ the doorman yelled. ‘Oberman, Joshua. ‘E can go in.’

‘Thank you,’ Rowena yelled back, pulling her president inside.

‘No readmittance,’ the doormn added sourly. Oberman’s face was murderous.

Rowena swallowed hard and pushed through the open doors, grabbing her boss’s hand and forcing a way through the slamming crowd, so they had somewhere to stand. It was tough going. She was used to metal crowds, but she was still a girl. And acting as a bodyguard for an old man was a tough gig. At least he’s tall, Rowena though

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gratefully, craning to see Atomic kicking up a storm on the tiny stage.

Josh Oberman watched the band in silence, a huge grin on his weatherbeaten face. He was pleased that Gordon couldn’t see him. He didn’t want to let her know how delighted he was with her.

In front of him, a bunch of five kids looking as though they were barely out of school were tearing up the little hothouse of a club as though the world would end tomorrow. Jesus, Oberman thought, the drummer looks like he’s never fucking shaved. The songs were original and new an.d had an insistent beat, clever harmonies and a crashing bass. The front rows were a mass of flailing bodies, teenage boys slamming into one another, slick with sweat and rebellion.

They had passion. They had music. They had youth.

And, Joshua Zachary Oberman told himself when the house lights came up, they had a record deal.

‘Come with me,’ he said to Rowena. ‘We’re going badkstage.’

Knowing better than to ask him to wait a few minutes, Rowena followed her boss round to the side; picking her way across puddles of beer and crushed styrofoam cups and flyers. The security guards spoke briefly to Josh, then ushered the two of them into a minute dressing room, where Atomic Mass, drenched in sweat and towelling off, looked at them questioningly.

‘Hi, I’m Joshua Oberman, president of Musica Records,’ Josh said.

Two cans of beer halted simultaneously in mid-air. Oberman shoved Rowena forward, noting the appreciative glances the lads shot her. ‘And this is Rovcena Gordon, an A&R girl who works for me. She thinks we should give you” a record deal. And so do I.’

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In the sweltering heat of the Westside offices on Seventh

Avenue, the phone rang on Topaz’s desk.

‘Rossi,’ she said briskly.

‘Topaz?’ crackled the voice at the other end.

‘Rupert?’ shrieked Topaz, delighted. ‘Rupe! How are you? Give me your number, I’ll call you right back.’

‘It’s OK, I’m at the Union,’ said Rupert, with the airy disregard of someone not paying the phone bill.

‘How’sit going down there?’ she asked. The comparative peace and quiet of college seemed very attractive right now.

‘l made editor,’ said Rupert. ‘.James Robertson’s President for Michaelmas Term; and Rod Clayton made another great speech.’

‘Rod’s great, I wish I’d been there,’ sighed Topaz. Rod Clayton’s speeches made her laugh till her stomach hurt. She glanced down at her piece on the demise of the Mets; no matter how hard she reworked it, it wouldn’t come right. Much like the Mets, in fact. Topaz was a big Mets fan and she wasn’t having history’s best day

‘Anyway, I didn’t call you about that,’ Rupert went on. ‘I called about Rowena.’

Topaz froze. ‘What about Rowena? .she asked casually. ‘Didn’t you hear? You must’ve heard,’ said Rupert incredulously. ‘First she just disappeared from sight for months. Then it turns out she’s got a job at Musica Records, right, and she barges into the president’s office or something and told him he was a prat. Apparently things like that get you big brownie points in the music business. Anyway he goes to see this brilliant band she’d found and offers them

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a deal on the spot! So now he thinks Rowena’s a genius, and he’s making her AR or something - that means she gets to sign acts… ‘

Topaz Rossi had suddenly become oblivious to the flashing phone lights and deadlines and spewing fax machines and all the office chaos. She at still as a statue. Rowena’s success was a white-hot knife in her heart.

‘Everyone at Oxford’s taking bets on which of you guys is going to make it first,’ Rupert went on. ‘Someone faxed your Westside expos6 of that bastard David Levine to Cherwel! - we led on it! It was unbelievable, Topaz, even for you.

‘Thanks, Rupe,’ said Topaz mechanically. ‘It’s going OK here. ‘

Then it dawned on her that this would get back to IRowena. ‘In fact, I’m probably going to get a syndication deal,’ she added quickly. ‘I got creative control, I report direct to Nathan-he’s the editor-and Westsidejust gave me my own column. ‘

‘Bloody hell, Topaz!’ said Rupert, astonished.

‘I’ve even bought a little apartment,’ said Topaz, ‘so if yoh’re ever in New York … it’s on Clarkson Street in the Village … ‘

‘In the Village?’ spluttered Rupert. ‘Are you rich, too?’ Tm getting by,’ said Topaz. Choke on it, Rowena.

Nathan Rosen passed her office, flashing her a ‘rescue me’ look. A tall, thin, blonde woman in a fur coat was propelling him towards his own, one hand on his shoulder ostentatiously flashing a gold Rolex.

‘Who is that?’ hissed Elise to Topaz.

‘No idea,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘Ask Jason.’ Elise buzzed Jason Richman.

‘Don’t you guys recognize her?’ Jason asked. ‘That’s Marissa Matthews.’

‘The gossip columnist?’ demanded Elise in a strangled screech. Marissa Matthews’ bitchy chronicles of New York

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high society made her the highest-read journalist in America. ‘His ex-wife,’Jason added.

‘His what?’ gasped both women.

‘Nathan was married?’ asked Elise, who’d been at Westside two years.

‘For seven years,’ Jason said. ‘He doesn’t talk about his private life.’

‘Jesus! You can say that again!’ muttered Elise, twisting her own wedding ring.

Topaz was shocked at the wave of jealousy surging through her. Nathan Rosen was going to be hers. He’d resisted all her advances so far, but he’d see reason. They were having dinner this eveuing to talk about the column, and she had high hopes even for tonight.

‘I’m getting him out of this,’ she said to Elise, jumping out of her chair and striding across the floor to the editor’s office.

‘TopazRossi’s on the warpath,’ said one of the features subs to a secretary, catching sight of her face.

‘So what else is new?’

‘Baby!’ Topaz purred, throwing open the editor’s door. ‘What time are we meeting up tonight? Oh, hi,’ she added warmly to Marissa. ‘I’m Topaz Rossi. I see you:ve met nay boyfriend, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced!

Nathan, you’re such a forgetful boy.’ She gave Marissa a dazzling smile. Rosen suppressed a wild desire to laugh.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t think yon’re met nay ex-wife, Marissa Matthews. Marissa, this is nay girlfriend Topaz Rossi, a rising star at Westside,’ h said.pleasantly.

Marissa stared at her with a look that would have lowered the temperature at the North Pole as Topaz sauntered over to Nathan and ran her hand affectionately over the seat of his pants.

‘Nathan and I were together for a very lbng time,’ she informed Topaz acidly.

‘Oh well! Shit happens, huh?’ said Topaz, with a cheerf[,1

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smile. ‘Still, every cloud has a silver liniug,’ she added maliciously, standiug on tiptoe to kiss Nathan’s cheek, which she did slowly and luxuriantly, touching his rough skiu with the hidden tip of her tongue.

Rosen felt flames of lust lick up and down his body. Marissa’s thin lips pursed in disapproval. What a fmlmouthed little Italian tramp! ‘I must be going, Nathan,’ she snapped.

‘Let’s do lunch!’ called Topaz after her retreating back, letting go of Nathau’s hand reluctalitly.

Rosen smiled at her, wouderiug how loug he could hold out. She was just a child, damn it, and she worked for him. He absolutely must not take advantage of a young girl’s crush.