The Devil You Know (28 page)

She was aware that the men in the room were listening as she spoke.

Tm with Green Dragon. Dream Management. I’m calling to check on the bill.’

‘Hold on, please,’ said the ‘woman, a little more coldly.

Poppy was put on hold for a second. An older man came on, and his tone was severe.

‘You are responsible for the Green Dragon bill? It comes to fifty eight thousand francs.’

She did a quick conversion in her head. That was over seven thousand US dollars.

‘Furthermore, I’m afraid I must ask you for immediate payment and for one of your representatives to come back here and remove the luggage from the rooms of these guests.’ She could almost see his lip curling. ‘They have destroyed two rooms, and I can no longer admit them to our property.’

‘Can you hold on a second?’

‘Very well.’

Poppy hit the hold button. She turned to Mike lich. ‘This is the hotel manager, Mike. He says he wants the band checked out, that he’s throwing them out of the hotel, and that the bill is seven thousand dollars …’

P, Ach just stared at her. ‘Well, sort it out. You’re supposed to be a tour accountant, right? Fix it.’

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Poppy picked the line up.

‘Monsieur, I wilt be right over. I will need tO see you personally to settle the damages.’

‘That is fine, madam.’

Leo Ross walked in. ‘We got a problem with the PA. Somebody get over to the band, clear the tarts out. The wives’ limo just pulled

up.’ He glanced at Poppy. ‘How you doing, kid?’

‘I’m gonna go sort the hotel thing out.’

P, oss laughed. ‘Oh, are ya? I’m afraid we’re gonna have to eat that

Tll be fight back,’ Poppy said.

It was everything she had expected. The Charlemagne was central, elegant, formal, and, quite obviously, expensive.

Poppy walked into a marble lobby. There was the water feature, a Japanese-style flat fountain mounted against the wall. Gold rails and soft white carpeting were everywhere. She told the receptionist she was there to see the manager.

He materialised. He was about fifty. . ‘If you will follow me, mademoiselle,’ he said. They rode the elevator up to the top floor.

‘These are our presidential suites,’ the manager said.

He opened the doors and showed them to Poppy, one by one.

They were wrecked. Poppy was actually quite impressed. She hadn’t thought this kind of decadence was still out there.

TVs were overturned, wine had been spilt on the carpets, lamps were broken, there was glass everywhere, stains on the walls. The bathrooms stank of vomit. In one particular room, Tony’s, she assumed, the TV had been smashed to pieces and the curtains were

blackened where somebody had set them on fire.

Poppy looked grave.

‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘can we talk about this in your office?’

He had a picture of his family on his desk. Poppy studied it as she

eased herself into the chair. Two teenage daughters.

She spoke confidently.

‘Monsieur’ - she read his name tag - ‘Souris, I am a lawyer in a firm in Beverly Hills in the United States. We manage a great many clients, including film stars. I know your hotel has a record of hosting many of our clients.’ She nodded at a signed headshot of

Tom Cruise that was mounted on the wall. ‘I would hate for that relationship to be adjusted.’

He swallowed hard. ‘But the damage ‘

‘Yes, the damage is significant. But not seven thousand dollars’ worth. How long have you had those televisions? Those curtains? Many years. I am not paying brand new prices for them. Lamps? A few francs. If you present me with that bill, I will pay it, and then I will sue. I guarantee you, Monsieur, that you will spend many more times the amount in legal fees than you gouge from my clients in

COSTS. ‘

He was staring at her. Poppy ploughed on. ‘As you can see, I brought this camera with me to meticulously document everything and prevent false claims. Make no mistake, we will sue for a fraudulent bill.’

‘But, my maids will not dean that ‘

‘If I take them into court and ask them if you have ever asked them to clean up vomit, what will they say?’ Poppy smiled. ‘Give me their names and I will personally give them such a generous bonus they will be glad to do it.’ She made a little gesture at his family photo. ‘Monsieur has two lovely daughters. Will they be at the concert this evening?’

He sighed. ‘I could not ge tickets ‘

‘I can take care of that.’ Poppy beamed at him. ‘There is no need for unpleasantness, Monsieur. Two thousand, the band stays, I personally call the Chairman of your company with a glowing report as to how helpful you have been, five hundred to split between the maids, and I will escort your daughters and two of their friends to the concert as guests of the band. Teenage daughters can be hard to get along with, no? Just think, Monsieur, what a hero you will be - both to them and to your boss.’

He smiled back. ‘Mademoiselle is very persuasive.’

‘I thought you’d see it that way.’ Poppy tapped his computer. ‘If you’ll .just put that in writing.’

Back at the stadium, she turned up in a taxi with four ecstatic French girls in the back. Poppy escorted them backstage, stuck them in a generic hospitality area, and then picked her way through the dusk to the production office. Mike Rich wasn’t there, but Leo Ross

was.

‘I fixed it,’ Poppy said simply.

tLoss grabbed the paper from her and scanned it.

‘Well, fuck me,’ he said.

Poppy grinned. ‘No thanks.’

‘Out the way, out the way,’ came a man’s voice from the crackle

of a two-way radio.

‘Leo ‘

Poppy drew back. Surrounded by ferocious-looking bodyguards the size of bears, Green Dragon had entered the room. The men around them yelled into their radios as though they were the President of the United States. Poppy blushed scarlet.

‘Well, look ‘oo it is.’ Mark’s famous English accent. He and the band were staring at Poppy. ‘The squawker.’

‘What, the band’s not good enough for ‘er but you are?’ Blaze laughed. ‘That’s a turn-up, innit?’

Leo said calmly, ‘Lads, Poppy here works for Joel.’

‘Didn’t know Joel was that way inclined,’ Tony said, to laughter. ‘She’s your new tour accountant. Gonna help Mike.’

Drake looked sceptical and as though he was about to say something, but Leo ploughed on.

‘You know that bit of bovver at the ‘otel?’

‘Don’t go on about that again, mate,’ said Tony, but he looked

sheepish. ‘It was only a few fucking TVs and that.’ ‘They wanted to charge you five grand.’ ‘Seven,’ said Poppy automatically. Leo glared at her. ‘In pounds, doll.’

They were all Brits, of course. ‘Oh yes,’ Poppy muttered. ‘Lippy little bit, ain’t she?’ said Blaze.

‘I’m not fucking paying five fucking grand, luck that,’ said Tony, getting furious.

‘Well, you don’t have to, now.’ He passed Tony the piece of typed paper. Poppy held her breath as he looked it over; then his face broke into a wide grin.

‘That’s one thousand pounds.’

‘For the whole band, not just you, Tony.’ ‘How the ‘ell did Mike pull that one off, then?’ ‘Not Mike. Poppy here.’

The band, who had been following this conversation carefully, all

lifted their heads and looked at Poppy again. There was silence. ‘I hope that’s OK, Mr Watson,’ Poppy stammered.

‘Mr Watson!’ said Tony, to laughter. ‘You call me Tony, honey. Great job. Nice work.’

‘Yeah, well done,’ said Drake. The others nodded. Poppy felt as though she’d just won an Olympic gold medal.

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‘I still want: to see your tits, though,’ said Mark.

She froze, not sure what to say. But then the guys laughed, and Poppy felt the tension dissipate. Mark slapped her on the back. ‘Welcome to the road.’

They put her up on stage during the gig. Poppy watched from the wings, in the gloom, staring at the band running around out front and the crew running around out back; how the drum tech crouched behind the riser, periodically fiddling with things, how the lighting guys sat up in the rigging, double-checking the large

coloured spotlights. She’d seen stages before, playing the bass. But nothing like this.

Those had been sweaty, stinky, tiny little dives with a handful of teenagers out front and a tiny, cramped stage with a crapped-out PA. This, this was …

Poppy hugged herself. This was heaven.

It was dark outside now. The set was the famous Green Dragon logo. There were more lights than Times Square. The PA was so thick and rich and heavy that the sound was almost 3-D. Out front, the French summer sky was inky black, but the lights from the gig blocked out the stars.

And then there was the cr(wd.

They stretched out in front of the band almost endlessly, a great throng of humanity. They cheered and screamed so loud you could hear it over the crash of bass and drums and guitar; the electric excitement crackled from the crowd to the stage and back again, so that Poppy gasped and her skin prickled. Lighters were waved, punctuating the blackness, and spotlights swept across them, so she could see the fists thrust in the air, the forest of hands, the wave as sixty thousand kids all fought to get just a step closer to the stage, to the band, to the magic …

‘This one’s called “Force Ten”!’ Blaze yelled.

A roar from the crowd.

Poppy sighed in sheer bliss. Her favourite song.

I’m with the band, she thought. I’m with the band!

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For the first month, Poppy kept her head down.

She learned the basics. Checking expenses, giving out per diems. Mike let her check the band and crew in and out of the hotels. She made coffee, she ran errands, she subtly disappeared when rows of groupies and strippers turned up. Poppy knew at once that that was important, if she wanted to stay on the road. Rock stars liked fucking easy women, and the girls liked to screw the rock stars. Sometimes, to get to a rock star, they would give head to the crew. There was nothing so debased that some chick wouldn’t do it; half the guys had albums full of Polaroids to prove it.

As a woman, she had two choices. Be disgusted and quit, or

ignore it. Poppy chose the latter. There was a double standard. The men on the tour regarded themselves as players but the women as whores. Poppy learned fast that there was no point in bitching about this. Nobody forced these girls to do what they did.

She rememberd her own teenage fantasies about sneaking backstage and making wild love to every guy with long hair and a platinum album and shuddered, just a little. But the truth was, rock was all about sex. And drugs. And she still loved it.

Poppy found creative ways to write off the cocaine and poppers and other junk the band liked to use. At least they weren’t doing smack, she thought. There was no point pretending the stuff wasn’t out there. Some acts were destroyed by it. Not Green Dragon, at least not so far.

The first time she was offered blow on the crewbus Poppy shook her head.

‘No charge, honey,’ said the lighting guy, perplexed.

‘Not for me,’ Poppy said simply.

She had discovered something else. Drinking and drugs didn’t

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offend her, even groupies didn’t bother her all that much. But what excited her was the business of music. Taking the flights, organising a big tour, like a marching army fighting battles. She was part of the logistics. Watching an expert crew raise the same stage with mechanical precision in thirty different venues, watching the production office being built like an ants’ nest, sorting the problems, climbing into the bus, rocking the house, then ripping it down again. Partying happened after the gig, not before it; a roadie who drank pre-curtain was unceremoniously fired.

Poppy drank it all in. She learned. And she loved it.

The crew tolerated her. Giving out per diems was a good job; people were always happy to see her. Docking a guy for every minute he delayed the crew bus was not so good. But they understood. The tour ran on a schedule, calibrated down to the minute. Joel Stein, the manager, was due to turn up on one of the Spanish dates; he’d review and check everybody’s time sheet, make sure they were running on time and under budget. Nobody wanted to run foul of Joel, when he did turn up. So if Poppy had to dock the daily allowance for lateness, the guys didn’t even bitch that much.

Poppy also made sure the band would like her. She reduced all their personal hotel bills. They loved that; never underestimate how much rich people like extra money, Poppy thought. She also phoned ahead to warn their security when the wives and girlfriends were on their way in to the stadium. Sometimes a wife would ‘surprise’ her husband. It was Poppy’s job to see he was never so surprised he couldn’t get the groupies out in time.

But there was one person who didn’t like her at all, and that was Mike R.ich.

Mike made her life a living hell. Poppy didn’t say anything about it to Joel. He called in to Production often, and she just told him everything was fine.

The road had its own rules. One of them was that you didn’t squeal.

‘Hey.’

Poppy looked up from her table in the production office. They were in Barcelona tonight, one of the last gigs on this stretch.

Joel Stein had just walked in.

‘Hey. I forgot you were coming tonight.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ Stein said. He pulled up a chair, turned it

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around and straddled it, looking her over. ‘You having problems, kid?’

‘So it’s your last gig.’

Poppy nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Drake smiled at her. He had a new crew cut which was driving the gifts crazy. They were sitting in the band’s enclosure backstage, in a field near Milan. Another open-air show.

Poppy was leaving the next day. She didn’t smile. She was going to have a chance to get some rest, to do her laundry properly as opposed to washing her panties in the sink with handwash liquid, to report triumphantly back to Joel Stein. And all she felt like doing was crying.