‘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 withRe:Soundmeant 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 withRe:Soundhad 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 The only definitive information was a two-paragraph profile on the Pinnacle website, which was out of date because it listed his base as Mexico City and the artists he shepherded were Latin ones I’d never heard of.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.
