‘You’re Zoë Frixos, editor ofRe:Sound.’
His voice was gruff – it wasn’t a question.
I squared my shoulders, tensing for a fight. ‘Are you going to tell me my bra size and blood type too?’
‘I’m Nick Jones.’
The name meant nothing. ‘Good for you.’
He finally levelled his gaze at me. Impatience simmered behind bottle-green eyes. ‘I’m the publicist for Hands Down, and I’d appreciate it if you showed some professionalism when you spoke to my clients.’
Wow. Another jumped-up posh boy who thought he was better than everyone else. I bet he spent ages every morning trimming those neatly squared sideburns. I shifted my weight, pushing back where his shoulder had encroached on my space.
‘I see you went to the same finishing school as Jonny Delaney to learn your manners.’
He drew himself up to his full height. He must have been 6' 4", but I’m 5' 10" without heels; tall men don’t intimidate me.
‘You want to talk about manners? Yours weren’t much in evidence when you were talking to Jonny.’
He had some nerve, standing there in his designer suit spouting self-righteousness.
‘Well, if you were doing your job properly you’d have found a moment in between giving Jonny his afternoon milk and nap time to explain that we don’t rewrite reviews because someone’s feelings got hurt.’
‘I’mnot doingmyjob properly? That’s rich coming from the woman who reviews albums without listening to them.’
He might have been gifted in the looks department, but the brains were seriously understocked – a lot like his client.
‘I haven’t written a review for months. That’s what I’ve got a reviews editor for. I wasn’t going to tell Delaney who wrote the review because then he’d set his thousands of Twitter twats onto her, but I’ve got a thick skin.’ Getting attacked on social media was par for the course, but Hands Down fans could be particularly rabid. ‘Anyway, as editor, I stand by that review.’
‘That wasn’t a review – it was a hatchet job.’
‘You might be able to buy glowing reviews from music bloggers and teen websites, but we’re part of the serious press.’
A tendon in his jaw tightened. Good – I was getting to him.
‘You think you’ve got the moral high ground? Your review said, and I quote: “The best cut on the album is the two minutes of silence between the last song and the secret track.”?’
I bit down a smile. I’d laughed at that line when Lucy filed her copy and I still found it funny.
‘It’s one bad review. Surely you can explain that to your poor, wounded client? Every other review sang the record’s praises. Oh wait,every otherreview was paid for by the label.’
I wanted to spin round and march out triumphantly, but I couldn’t leave without my jacket – it was a one-off I’d found in Camden years ago.
‘You’re not as different atRe:Soundas you think,’ he said. ‘Money doesn’t have to change hands for a barter system to work.’
Was he reeling off his Economics A-level at me now? I really couldn’t be arsed with this. Thankfully, the curtain whooshed back and the attendant materialised with my jacket. I thanked him, swung it over my shoulder and marched out without another word.
*
The encounter had put me in a bolshy mood. So, when a taxi I’d flagged down was intercepted by a random bloke in a suit – probably a mid-level record exec – I marched over and glared him into submission. I swooped into the back seat, slammed the door behind me and asked the driver to take me to Shepherd’s Bush.
Uppity publicists were the bane of my life. They had no sense of perspective. Their emails were headedURGENTorBREAKING NEWS, but their content was alwaysDULLorOLD INFORMATION. Well, luckily for me, I had no plans to feature Hands Down or any other autotuned upstarts in the magazine ever again.
Soon, the West End was behind us and we were zipping past Notting Hill and Holland Park. We crept along Shepherd’s Bush Green, sandwiched between buses, and after we’d taken the Acton exit, I directed the driver to my road and my flat – the top floor of the stuccoed townhouse with the most cracks.
Snowy, my neighbour’s cat, was sitting guard on the low wall, but as soon as she saw me she stretched up and demanded stroking. I scratched the soft white fur under her chin and she purred. You’d think a cat called Snowy would be white, but she was grey with a few white highlights – she was the colour ofLondonsnow.
I unlocked the door and flicked on the light. I was picking my way past the junk mail on the floor when something buried among the adverts for double glazing and pizza menus caught my eye.
