‘I’m sorry, Zoë, I can’t. End-of-term piano recital – I promised to take the kids.’ She suddenly froze.
‘It’s okay, Dawn. I believe you. No need to look so guilty!’
‘I’ve just remembered. I heard from a contact in Pinnacle that Marcie wants to take piano lessons.’
‘You’re not suggesting I pose as a piano tutor, are you?’ I laughed. ‘It’s a bit Inspector Clouseau.’
She swatted my arm. ‘No, she’s buying a concert grand – my contact’s organised a private shopping trip for her to the Steinway shop in Marylebone. She cancelled the first one he booked for her, but then rearranged it. It’s coming up, I think. I’ll check.’
This was promising. The shopping trip would no doubt be private, but surely I could wangle my way in. When else would I get the chance to approach Marcie in a semi-public place? And this way, I wouldn’t have to go through Nick.
*
I was in a much better mood when I got back to my desk after lunch. If Dawn’s tip about Marcie worked out, then I might be able to pitch an interview to her in person. If she really was intending to give someone an exclusive,Re:Soundwas the obvious choice for her. And that way meant we wouldn’t have to give in to Nick Jones’s demands and sully the magazine with a double-page spread of Hands bloody Down.
The thought made me so chirpy that I even attempted to answer my logjam of emails. I would have got through them all if the phone hadn’t kept interrupting me.
One particularly annoying call came from a publicist complaining that we’d called her client ‘English’.
‘He’sWelsh,’ she huffed.
I told her I’d look into it and got off the phone as fast as possible.
‘Gav,’ I called, craning my neck over my screen. ‘You described the lead singer of Stepping Stones as English.’
‘Is that against the law?’
‘He’s Welsh.’
‘Bollocks. He sounds English when you speak to him.’
‘Always use British. It’ll save us a lot of hassle.’
Lucy looked up from her screen. ‘Typical Gavin, always denigrating the Welsh.’
Gavin swivelled round in his chair. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not anti-Welsh.’
‘Yes you are. What about that birthday card you bought me last year? It had a cartoon sheep on it, and as a proud Welshwoman, I was offended.’
‘You’re from Leamington Spa,’ said Gavin. ‘You’re about as Welsh as Lenny Kravitz.’
‘My nan’s half Welsh.’
‘I didn’t know,’ muttered Gavin. ‘And anyway, you said you liked that card.’
‘That was before I realised you were a racist.’
‘I’m not a racist!’ He stood suddenly. ‘I’m going out for a coffee.’
‘Awhiteone, no doubt,’ shouted Lucy to his retreating back. Gav halted in his tracks, his shoulders tensing.
‘She’s joking, Gav,’ I said, laughing.
He shrugged and left.
I turned back to Lucy, who was quietly giggling into her keyboard. ‘Gav makes it too easy.’
‘Go gentle on him, Luce,’ I said. ‘He’s more sensitive that you might think.’
