Career Girls (38 page)

‘Why should I be concerned with you, Ms Rossi?’ she replied, emphasizing the American prefix. ‘You mean less than nothing to me. You’re just a journalist, and your efforts to stop me so far have come to precisely nothing. It’s jtst like the girl I remember at Oxford to get obsessed by some insignificant quarrel.’

She opened her clutch bag and took out a small spray of Chanel No. 5, casually scenting her wrists in an aristocratic gesture.

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,’ she said with a smile, and then turned away from them, walking across to John Metcalfand kissing him on the cheek.

Topaz stared after her for a long moment.

‘What a bitch,’ Goldstein said.

‘Is Josh here?’ Barbara Lincoln asked, sweeping up to them in a barebacked white organza dress which looked stunning against her black skin. She embraced Rowena on the cheeks and added, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine,’ Rowena told her. ‘He couldn’t make it, he’s

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getting a little old to be shuttling across the Atlantic.’

‘Is it true that they’re restructuring the board? Hi, John, baby, how are you?’ she added, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Still looking after my best friend?’ She gave Rowena an approving wink over Metcalfs shoulder. Barbara was still the only girl she knew who sized men up as if they were livestock.

‘I’m still getting looked after,’ John answered. ‘Rowena and I are trying to figure out how to make as much money as

yOU.

‘That’s a tough one,’ Barbara said, her every movement sending little showers of light out from the diamonds that sparkled at her throat, wrists and ears. ‘I have twenty per cent of the biggest band in the world and the second record is out in a month. I’m shopping for my own country right now. Something modest, like Malta or St Kitts… but the board, Rowena. You didn’t answer my question.’

Her frienal.jumped, taking her gaze off theman who had .just entered the ballroom and was standing talking to Rudolph Giuliani.

‘What? Oh, yeah,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s true. Oberman could be outvoted now, not that the new members are likely to want to… it’s some lawyer from France and an English management consultant.’

‘Should we be worried?’ Barbara asked, watching the new guest detach himself from the ex-mayor and wander towards them. She knew there had been ob.jections to Rowena’s promotion.

‘Not since you signed Atomic Mass direct to Luther for the second album,’John pointed out. ‘Rowena would have to be a mass murderer to get fired now.’

‘Hello, Michael,’ Barbara said, greetilg her friend as he walked up to them.

Krebs kissed her on the cheek.

Rowena stiffened.

‘Hey, honey, how’s it going?’ he asked pleasantly, adding, ‘Hi, Rowena.’

‘Oh, the usual,’ Barbara smiled. ‘Sold-out stadiums, “

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promoters on their knees begging for multiple dates.’

Michael chuckled. ‘Who’s tour managing this time? Still

Will Macleod?’

‘The one and only,’ Barbara agreed. ‘Who else? Are we sitting together at dinner, Rowena?’

‘No, she’s next toJake Williams,’John said, checking the seating plan.

Rowena was looking at Michael Krebs, feeling her heart thudding against her chest. It was the first time she’d seen him since before she left for LA. He was wearing a dark suit by Gieves and Hawkes; again, the ebony cloth picked out those awesome black eyes. The grey hair was a little thinner at his temples, but it made no difference to Rowena. Michael Krebs was like Sean Connery, she thought, one of those men who got more attractive as they got older.

‘

Krebs had barely acknowledged her, and hadn t looked at

her blond escort at all.

I hope he’s not going to make a scene, she thought.

‘You’ll have to excuse him if he gets up to powder his nose,’ Barbara said, grimly.

‘Is there a problem?’ Rowena asked, worried about her rhythm guitarist. She knew what that meant.

‘Yeah, I’d say so,’ the manager replied, giving Rowena a

tiny glance that said, Not here.

‘You’re the producer, Michael, right?’ Metcatf asked.

‘You must be working very closely with Rowena on this.’

Krebs turned to face the younger man, his movement deliberate. ‘That’s right,’ he said, neutrally. ‘We’ve known each for a while. John Metcalf, isn’t it? She told me about you.

Rowena looked from one man to the other, her smiled fixed on her face. Out of the corner of one eye she could see the gossip columnist, Marissa Matthews, hovering ominously.

Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Michael said politely.

‘I should go and talk to the band. Barbara, Rowena,’ and to her amazement he shook John’s hand and walked away, without so much as a backward glance.

Rowena couldnrt believe it. No anger, no hostility, nothing.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a footman loudly. ‘Dinner is served.’

‘You can’t let her get away with that,’ Joe muttered to Topaz as they sit down.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, settling into her mahogany chair in a rustle of satin and gold brocade. ‘This thing will be finished tonight.’

‘Tonight? How are you going to manage that?’

‘Just something she said about how I hadn’t changed,’ she

replied. ‘It gave me an idea. Back to basics.’

‘What? Tell me, ‘Joe asked, intrigued.

Topaz shook her head. ‘That would spoil the surprise.’ She smiled at him, and added, ‘Lovely flowers, don’t you think?’

Goldstein, mystified, glanced at the arrangements of orchids and.tiger lilies placed on every table. ‘What the hell have flowers got to do with it?’ he asked.

‘You’ll find out,’ she said.

This year’s surprise wasn’t in the form of gifts; tonight it was the food. Liz Martin’s chefs had prepared dishes of such shameless opulence that every fresh course brought gasps of appreciation and amazement from the guests. The starter was a large mound of beluga caviar, served neat to each guest with a wedge of lemon in individual ice sculptures, six hundred fantastic mini-masterpieces, each different, little gleaming fragments of art destined for just a few minutes of display. Rowena’s was a transparent ballerina, supporting the delicious black pearls over h’er head in an intricate basket. Joe Goldstein’s was a crouchifig baseball player, cupping caviar in his catcher’s mitt. It was followed by hen lobsters in a sorrel sauce, served with piles of real truffles; a warm salad of pheasant and grouse; impeccable grapefruit sorbet, to clear the palate; and finally a luscious dish of vanilla ice cream, served with a bitter chocolate sauce and tiny, perfect martins, the birds that were the corporate logo ‘

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for Martin Oil, created out of glazed spun sugar.

Jake Williams, apparently, had lost his appetite.

‘Try it,’ Rowena prompted him, spearing some pheasant

salad and proffering it to her rhythm guitarist.

He shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’

Rowena was concerned. In the space of a couple of

months, Jake had lost over a stone. He was frowning and

tense, he’d snapped at her all evening, and he’d turned up to

the most exclusive party of the year in one of Atomic’s own

Tshirts. Totally out of character. ‘I suppose you’re gonna tell me that I shouldn’t do drugs,’

he added nastily, rounding on her.

She shrugged, sending ripples of silver silk across her

dress. ‘Do drugs if you want to, man. I mean, I’ve had a few

tabs orE in my time. It’s a.perk of the job, everybody does

‘

it. The trick is not to let drugs do you.’

Michael found Rowena at the end of the party, while John

was deep in conversation with George Stephanopolous.

‘If you come over next week I’ll play you the roughs of

the new record,’ he said. ‘Zenith they’re calling it.’

‘Zenith. OK, I will,’ she replied, waiting for him to say something else, to tell her he couldn’t leave his wife, to tell her John Metcalf was a putz, to order her back to his bed. She would turn him down flat.

‘Great,’ Michael said, his dark eyes expressionless. TIt see

you then. You have a good night,’ and he walked offto the cloakroom.

She watched him go, cursing herself for being so hurt. ‘Are we done?’ asked John, ‘coming up behind her and scooping her into his arms. Rowena pressed back against his chest, grateful for his familiar warmth, for the comfort, for the fact that someone she cared about would make love to her tonight.

I wonder ifDebbie Krebs sees it like that.

Topaz Rossi and Joe Goldstein were among the last to leave.

Joe couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun outside

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of a huge Mets victory; he’d spent a golden night being congratulated by New York’s best and brightest on the NBCjob, and then recongratulated as word of his engagement spread through the room. Topaz had her fair share of corporate homage, too, and the dress was a genuine sensation; in a party crammed full of designer labels, she’d been photographed for Vanity Fair, GQ, Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily, and Liz Smith had asked her for details

of her couturier. Goldstein had fairly burst with pride. ‘You’ll make a pretty good trophy wife,’ he said.

‘You’ll make an adequate trophy husband,’ she shot back, and they’d stared into each other’s eyes for a second, wanting to kiss, not able to in such a crowd, luxuriating in the sexual tension.

‘Later, ‘Joe whispered in her ear.

She had been fairly sizzling all night, her smile effortlessly charming, her laughter genuine and relaxed, enjoying every introduction, savouring the .food, joking with all their friends.

‘What got into you?’ Goldstein demanded as they came to leave, taking his fiancee in his arms and kissing her lightly on the bridge of the nose.

‘You did. About four hours ago,’ Topaz teased. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Well, maybe there was one other consideration,’ she admitted, beckoning to him to follow her over to a table in the centre of the room.

‘That’s where Rowena .Gordon was sitting,’ Joe exclaimed. ‘Topaz, what the hell have you done?’

Grinning at him, Topaz reached down into her cleavage,

fiddled about a little, and pulled out a small tape recorder. ‘Remember that David Levine interview?’ ‘Of course,’ he answered.

‘Well, this hasn’t been clasped to my bosom all night, but - ‘

‘The flowers! You’re telling me you hid a tape recorder in the vase?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you,’ said Topaz, and she smiled. ‘

3oi

Will Macleod, Atomic Mass’s tour manager, strode around backstage, looking ferocious as usual, and people didn’t mess with him. He was constantly in motion, searching for something that might go wrong before it happened, checking the band were OK, sorting out a billion problems a night ranging from water in the PA to trucking permits to landing schedules for the private jet, and always, incessantly checking and rechecking the guest list. His all-access tour personnel laminate bounced against his chest as he ran, but guards across Europe, America and the Far East rarely demanded to see it. Basically, you took one look at Will and you did not get in his way. Not if you valued your mobility. , It’s something of a rule, especially in hard rock, that the crew’s tough exterior conceals warm-hearted family men who are constantly dreaming of their wives and baby daughters back home in Alabama. In Will Macleod’s case, the tough exterior concealed a tough interior. He was single, Glaswegian, and hard as all hell. He cared about running a good show, he cared about getting paid, getting laid and getting drunk. He also cared about his mates. Macleod had no family and ‘didn’t want one, he was completely addicted to life on the road, but when he did make a friend, he stayed loyal to them for life.

Over the course of three world tours, Atomic Mass, and to an extent their wives and girlfriends, had become his friends. And so had their manager, Barbara Lincoln.

Macleod was slightly surprised to find himself in this position. Barbara was about as likely to wind up a friend of his as a gay rights activist. She was, to say the least, not his

style. For a start, she was a woman, which under most circumstances would have knocked her right out of the running. Second, she was a woman who was also his boss. That stretched the bounds of credibility, as far as Will was concerned: Third, she was about a million miles away from being ‘one of the boys’. On the (very) rare occasions when he had the misfortune to encounter a woman on the road - no, scrap that, to encounter a woman working on the road-a catering girl, a wardrobe assistant, the rarer-than-hens’ teeth instance of a female truck driver or rigger or something - at the very least, he expected the lass to bend over backwards to fit in with the lads, to laugh the loudest at all the dirty .jokes, turn a blind eye if one of the roadies wanted to ‘entertain’ a groupie behind the generator trucks, swear like a squaddie and generally do her best to blend into the wallpaper.

Barbara, inexplicably, had refused to do any such thing. She showed up on the road dressed in Chanel or Armani, full make-up and often wearing.jewellery. She didn’t.joke around with the crew, and if the boys were reading porn magazines when Ms Lincoln showed up, they had to stuff them under sofa cushions. Not that she wasted much time socializing. Normally, she’d go and see that the band were happy, then find the promoter and the local record company rep, introduce herself and get straight down to business. She would be in total command of the production office from five minutes after she hit a venue. Watching her, Macleod was surprised that the phone wasn’t surgically attached to her ear.

He asked the band about it once.

‘What you gotta understand aboat Bar.bara,’Joe told him, ‘is that she’s clever. I mean she is really smart. And she can make sure that we’re not getting screwed financially, with the promoters and the agents and stuff, and on the record side-she used to work for the company. So she understands exactly what’s going on, and she also knows them all. We got a perfect relationship with them, y’know? She takes care of everything, and she lets you take care of the road.’