The Devil You Know (20 page)

She took them to Luigi’s.

‘I’m starving,’ Kate had said.

‘Let’s go get a bite. I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘Really? That’d be great,’ plump Molly said hungrily. ‘I ,.can

normally only afford White Castle.’

Which explains the size, Poppy thought.

‘Can we go to Denny’s?’ Molly said, hopefully. The other girls looked a bit embarrassed, but nobody contradicted Molly. ‘We don’t get paid that much,’ Lisa explained.

‘The diner? We can do better than that. You guys like Italian?’ They were practically drooling.

Poppy fetched her car from the parking lot and tipped the valet. It was a drop-top CheW. They looked impressed.

‘I’m afraid you’re gonna have to cram in there.’

‘Hey, no problem,’ Kate said, looking pleased. ‘I get the passenger seat.’

Her band exchanged looks, but they clambered into the two back seats, crouching on top of each other.

Poppy drove to Luigi’s because it was close. Her father gave this place a ridiculous amount of business.

‘Signorina Poppy, ciao, cara,’ Stefano said, kissing .her extravagantly on the cheek. ‘Ees so good to see you.’

‘These are my friends, Stefano,’ Poppy said firmly. He had been looking askance at the .jeans and T-shirts and beat-up leather jackets.

‘Ah, si? No problem, for you no problem. This way, please.’

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He led them into the restaurant and seated them in a corner banquette. Normally the place had a dress code: jackets and ties only. The girls looked at the other diners in their Hugo Boss and Armani and pearls.

‘This is real fancy,’ Kate said approvingly.

‘The food here’s not bad.’ A waiter handed them their menus. ‘Anything you want, ladies.’

Poppy saw their mouths were watering.

‘Lasagne,’ Molly moaned. ‘Oh, man. Hey, thanks a lot.’

Poppy ordered a carafe of house red. ‘And bring some champagne

cocktails to start off with.’

‘Very good, madam.’

Now they were gazing at her with something close to awe. Poppy

felt a bit ashamed. She was buying all this with Daddy’s money, Daddy’s connections. But she had nothing, herself. Fuck it. A manager couldn’t afford those kinds of scruples. Let them think she was super-successful.

The cocktails arrived, Kir royals in crystal flutes. Poppy lifted hers

in a toast.

‘To your success.’

‘Success,’ they echoed.

‘This is awesome,’ Kate said. ‘You should definitely manage us.’ ‘Glad to hear that,’ Poppy said confidently. ‘You won’t regret it.’ She talked a good game over dinner. Record companies, radio stations, booking them into clubs which weren’t pay-to-play. They were obviously broke and hungry. They scythed through the food when it came, relished the wine, sopped up the flavoured oils with their bread. Poppy could see a warm glow, part contentment, part alcohol, descend over the table.

But it wasn’t quite that easy. The cute pink-haired punk, Debbie,

tried three times to ask her who else she managed, and how she could do it so young. The other girls kicked her under the table, and Poppy just smiled and refilled her glass. But she saw that Kate, the

singer, watched with keen interest.

The band knew they were hot.

She was going to need to convince them with more than a good

meal. But one step at a time. Right now, she just didn’t want them

talking to anybody else.

‘Thanks, that was awesome,’ Molly said when she had settled up

and they were standing on the street outside.

Tll give you a ride home,’ Poppy offered.

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‘That’s OK,’ Claire said. ‘We live right around here.’ ‘Give me your numbers.’ They looked at each other.

‘We don’t have a phone,’ Debbie said, ‘but I got a beeper. OK?’

Poppy understood at once. They were probably squatting someplace. ‘That’s fine.’

‘We’re gonna need to talk with you some more before we sign a contract,’ Kate said.

‘I know. I’ll buzz you, we can meet up.’ The valet parker pulled up with Poppy’s car and she jumped into it. ‘See you girls later.’

That went well, she thought as she drove off. But she knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

She needed a plan. Bad.

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‘This is Kate.’

‘Hi, this is Poppy. Where are you?’

‘At a payphone on Wilshire. Hey, I’m glad you called. We had a

band meeting. You’re really great, everybody likes you ‘ Poppy could hear the ‘but’ in her voice.

‘We were, you know, kinda wondering what contacts you have at the big labels and stuff.’

‘I know people at college radio, people at venues, and I can get you guys great deals at ‘

‘Um.’ Kate sounded awkward. ‘That’s the kind of thing we thought, but that’s not really, enough …’

‘Oh, that’s not all.’ Poppy laughed. ‘I’m gonna call you gifts back tomorrow. I have a few meetings. Just wanted to touch base and see if you were OK.’

‘We’re fine, but-‘

‘Talk to you tomorrow,’ Poppy said firmly. ‘Bye.’

She hung up. Damn.

Oh well. She’d expected that. They were all older than she was. It was always going to be a rough sell.

Poppy felt in the pocket of her coat. She had the demo tape that Kate had given her last night. And now she had exactly twenty-four hours to do something with it, or give up the whole idea.

The band may have been starving musicians, but they weren’t naive. They had probably been together a few years, been around the block, just never got discovered. Poppy knew what they were looking for: a major label deal, money for recording time, a professional producer, a support slot On a big tour. The usual. The Sunset Strip dream.

She had to deliver it or she’d be out before she’d even got in.

Poppy had no contacts. Last night she’d thought about Daddy, but his roster of clients was all film and TV. Snaggletooth had never

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made so much as a ripple in the music scene. It was a mystery to her how Fiona had managed to get Joel Stein to come and see them. And she could hardly ask Fiona.

.Joel Stein.

Of course. That was it. Her first instinct was always the right one. Pity Joel Stein couldn’t see them, she’d thought.

Dream Management. Big offices on Wilshire Boulevard, near the Whisky and the Rainbow, right in the heart of the scene. Mercedes and Porsches always parked out front in its lot. They managed so many big stars; they’d know everybody, forget it; the promo guys,

MTV, the Monsters of Rock people, and all the major labels.

I could take them to him. And go to work for him.

Poppy dialled 4 . ‘Dream Management, Hollywood, please.’

It was exactly what she had expected.

The office screamed money. It had polished marble floors, a giant mock-up of the cover of Sergeant Pepper on the walls, a kidney shaped reception desk, a receptionist in Donna Karan, and framed gold and platinum records everywhere. There were coffee tables in front of the couch laden with Billboard, Music Week from the IK,

Variety, and other trade publications. ” ‘I don’t see you in the book, Miss,’ the receptionist told heril ‘Check again.’ Poppy was wearing her most expensive clothes, a gorgeous vintage black Dolce & Gabanna suit, with Wolford hose, Calvin Klein shoes, and the gold Patek Philippe she’d been given for her last birthday. ‘I’m with Reckless Records. Poppy Allen? We made the appointment two weeks back, at least.’

She opened up her Hermes bag and handed the girl a business card.

It said: ‘Poppy Allen. A & R Director, Reckless Records.’ The script was embossed in black. Poppy was quite proud of it, for something she’d knocked up at Kinkos in ten minutes flat

‘Let me see what I can do,’ the receptionist said, warily.

She punched a button on her phone bank and talked low into the receiver for a few minutes.

‘He says you can go straight in. It’s right ai the. end of the corridor.’

‘Thanks,’ Poppy said, trying not to reveal her joy. She turned and pushed open the glass doors. There was a long corridor with offices at either side; some of them had two or three people inside, shouting

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into phones. Fax machines were spurting, there was rock music

playing in the background, the whole thing was electric. Poppy’s pahns started to sweat.

This is rock ‘n’ roll, she told herself. Just do it.

Stein’s office was at the very end of the corridor. The door, like the others, was open. He had large windows and a Persian carpet and the sun glittered off all the records which covered his office, floorto-ceiling, like multi-platinum wallpaper. He was sitting behind a desk; antique, she recognised at once.

‘Hey.’ He didn’t get up, but beckoned her in. ‘Take a seat. Poppy, is it?’

She walked over to the Louis XIV-style chair, must be a repro, in front of his desk and sat down. Stein was looking at her curiously, with that same assessing manner he’d had last night in the club.

‘I don’t recall Susie booking this meeting in. She’s at lunch now. What is this about?’

Poppy made an instant decision. She wasn’t going to snow him. At least, not much.

‘It’s about this.’ She pulled out the demo tape and laid it on his desk. She was gabbling. ‘This band I manage. They’re young, they look good, the tunes rock. And I can’t take them any further, they need to move up a step. It was a lie about me being in a record company. We had no appointment. But you don’t need to call security, Mr Stein, because I’m leaving right now. I wrote my phone

number on the tape. If you’re interested you can call me.’

She got up.

‘And why should I listen to a tape of some baby band? Do you know how many tapes this oNce gets in every day?’ asked Stein.

He hadn’t pressed any buttons or lifted his phone. Poppy hovered a second.

‘Because you’re impressed with my ingenuity in getting in to your office?’

He laughed. ‘I guess I am impressed.’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Do I know you, kid?’

‘Not really. You met me last night. I was in that band you came to see, Snaggletooth.’

Stein’s expression changed. ‘This tape’s your band?’

‘No. Don’t worry, I left the band. They absolutely sucked. And I have no chops.’

He laughed again. ‘You’re an interesting young woman.’

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‘This band is also girls, but nothing like us. They’re good. Punk

pop. It won’t cost you anything to listen to them.’

‘You don’t manage them, do you?’

‘Not as such,’ Poppy admitted. ‘But in the sense that you don’t

know who they are or how to contact them, I do.’

Stein was grinning broadly.

‘You know what “chutzpah” is?’

Poppy grinned back and fished out the small gold Star of David she always wore around her neck.

‘Uh-huh. I should have guessed. Well, you’ve got it, toots, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

‘Thank you, Mr Stein.’

‘I remember you,’ he said suddenly. ‘You’re the one that wasn’t

shaking her tits at me.’

‘Wm, yes.’

‘Don’t worry, that never works. I’m gay.’

‘Ah.’ Poor Fiona, Poppy thought.

‘Well, I’ll listen to your band, toots. Since we’re being so honest, let me tell you that they’ll probably suck. Ninety per cent of

everything is crap. That’s rule number one.’

‘OK,’ Poppy said.

‘Thanks for dropping by,’ he said, dismissing her.

Poppy said, ‘Thank you, Mr Stein,’ again, and walked out. She felt slightly let down. She’d expected him to put the tape in instantly, be wowed, and offer her a job on the spot. Ninety per cent ofeverythin2 is crap. Well, at least that was upfront. But it didn’t make her feel any better. She felt down when she got home. It was a mad scheme, he was never going to go for it.

‘Hi, honey.’ Her mother gave her a kiss.

‘Hi, Morn.’

‘You’re on your own for dinner tonight, your father and I are out at the opera house benefit.’

‘No problem,’ Poppy said.

‘Conchita dropped off your dry cleaning.’

‘Great.’ She really felt down about it. The phone wasn’t ringing. She thought she’d have a hot bath, then call Kate and tell her she couldn’t do anything for her. Damn it.

‘Oh, and a Mr Joel Stein called. He left a number.’ ‘Is that a joke?’ ‘Why would it be?’ ‘When did he call?’

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‘Ten minutes ago. Here’s the number-‘

Her mother looked at her daughter in amazement as Poppy snatched the piece of paper and rushed out to the phone. Teenagers. Oh well, she suspected it was love.

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It started out as a perfectly ordinary Oxford day. Daisy came back from the library with some books on Monet, put the kettle on, and hit the red light on her blinking phone; the message didn’t sound important.

‘Daisy, darling, it’s Mummy.’

Sally Markham’s voice was distant and tinny. It usually was, as though she hadn’t quite come to terms with something as new

fangled as the telephone. Much less the answering machine. ‘Can you call home? Daddy and I want to talk to you.’

Daisy punched in her parents’ number, guiltily. She’d been having too much fun, hanging out with Brad, enjoying college. She hadn’t

called her parents for weeks. ‘Mum, it’s me.’

‘Oh, hello, darling. Let me just go and take the cakes out of the oven, or they’ll burn.’

She heard her mother clattering about in the kitchen and felt a sharp pang of homesickness. Mum always made cakes on Sunday afternoon. Daisy thought she could do with a little hot cake and a cup of Earl Grey with two sugars right now. Diet or no diet. Sod

fruit. There were only so many Granny Smiths you could eat. ‘Darling, it’s Daisy … hold on, Daddy wants a word.’ Quentin Markham came on the other end of the line. ‘Darling, I’ve got a bit of bad news for you.’

Daisy’s heart sped up instantly. Oh God.. Had Granny died? Oh God.

‘It’s all .fight, nobody’s dead.’ Her father read her mind. ‘But

we’ve had a bit of bad luck financially.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Lloyd’s of London has crashed.’