Tilly Bagshawe - Friends and Rivals

‘Fine, but you do understand it’s you who’s walking away from the Jester name. You’re effectively giving Ivan Charles the brand – a brand you’ve spent your entire professional life building.’

Jack shrugged. ‘It’s just a name. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but clients are loyal to me, not to Jester. I’ll start a new company and carry on as before.’

It does sound arrogant , thought Jared Crane, or at least foolhardy. Brand names were important in any business, but especially in music, and they couldn’t be replaced overnight. In his enthusiasm for a fresh start, Jack Messenger was giving up his rights in something very valuable. And not to a friend, but to a man in whose interests it was to try and destroy him professionally.

‘Have you called your clients and discussed it with them?’

‘Not yet,’ said Jack.

‘Don’t you think you should?’

Jack frowned. He knew Jared Crane was looking out for his interests, but his mind was made up. ‘With respect, Jared, I know how to handle my clients. The one thing artists hate is uncertainty. Once I’ve formally split with Ivan, I’ll let people know where things stand. Day to day, nothing will change for most of them.’

Jared Crane watched Jack Messenger leave his office with a spring in his step, satisfied with the morning’s business. Jared hoped his own pessimism was unfounded and that things would work out all right for his client. Until today, he’d never put Jack Messenger down as impulsive, still less a fool.

He buzzed his secretary with a heavy heart. ‘Linda, I have a document here I need you to FedEx. Uh huh. Express delivery to London.’

‘Hey, Brett, it’s for you. Ivan Charles.’

Reluctantly Brett Bayley put down the lap-dancer and picked up the phone. His hotel room at the Georges V in Paris was littered with empty champagne bottles and wraps of coke, the remnants of which dusted the top of the coffee table like snow. So far The Blitz were enjoying the French leg of their tour immensely.

‘Whassup, man?’

‘Good morning, Brett. Has Jack called you?’ Ivan’s voice was low and rich, like slowly pouring honey.

‘Jack Messenger? No. Why would he?’

‘Well,’ Ivan cleared his throat, ‘he’s decided to leave the company and set up on his own.’

‘ What? ’

‘He didn’t even bother to call you?’ Ivan sounded surprised.

‘No,’ Brett frowned. ‘He didn’t. This is the first we’ve heard of it. I guess I should call him.’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Ivan casually. ‘I’m just calling to let you know how much we at Jester value The Blitz as clients. I hope you’ll consider staying with us.’

Brett hesitated. ‘I don’t know, man. Jack’s been with us from the beginning, you know? We kind of owe him.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Ivan. ‘Well, I must say that’s very generous of you. I’d have said that he owes you, after a decade of skimming twenty per cent off your top line.’

Brett had never really thought of it like this. ‘I guess he could have called us at least.’

‘Indeed,’ purred Ivan. ‘I should probably also mention that now that I’m running Jester, we’re going to be halving our commission for our top-tier acts.’

The lap-dancer was massaging Brett’s shoulders, her huge silicone breasts pressed against his back like beach balls. He struggled to concentrate. ‘Halving it, you say?’

‘Uh huh. Ten per cent.’

Brett Bayley was no Einstein. But a ten per cent commission rate was unheard-of in the music business. It would mean millions of extra dollars in his pocket every year. And, after all, he did have a wife and kid to think about now.

‘No pressure,’ said Ivan. ‘Have a think about it.’

Lex Abrahams sat at the bar at Cecconi’s on Melrose indulging in some surreptitious star-spotting. Out on the patio, Simon Cowell was holding court amongst a bunch of artists and record-company execs, including Gwen Stefani and David Alaia, the new head of Sony. Inside, Jennifer Aniston and a mystery man were huddled at a corner table, and Kobe Bryant, the Lakers hero, was enjoying a quiet dinner with his latest girlfriend, a Croatian model with legs like a giraffe and the brain power to match. As a music biz photographer, and longtime West Hollywood resident, Lex spent half his life amongst celebrities, but he was ashamed to admit he still experienced a small thrill when a beautiful actress or a brilliant sportsman sat down next to him. It was part of the buzz of living in LA and, although few people admitted to feeling it, it was one of the main reasons that celebrity hang-outs like Cecconi’s were fully booked all year round. It always made Lex laugh when pretty girls claimed they came here for the food. It was like saying you went to Hyde for the music, or the Chateau Marmont for the views.

‘Can I get you another margarita?’

The girl behind the bar reminded him of Kendall. She had the same glossy dark hair and angular cheekbones. Lex had successfully not thought about Kendall for an entire ten minutes, but now his mind wandered back to her. He’d only had one phone call from her since she arrived in London, which he assumed meant she was enjoying herself. As a general rule, Kendall only ever called him when she needed something – usually a shoulder to cry on about Jack. She’d be back in a few days and Lex was frightened by how violently he was longing to see her again.

He smiled at the barmaid. ‘Sure. Why not?’

Jack was late, and Lex had nothing much else to do. Having worked on back-to-back shoots for the last six weeks, he now found himself with the rare luxury of a few days off. He’d been thinking about driving down to La Jolla for a well-earned mini-break when Jack Messenger called asking to meet for a drink. He’d sounded excited on the phone, as if he had good news he wanted to share.

When Jack finally arrived, weaving his way through the tables towards the bar, Lex noticed how many female heads turned to look at him. Even in a restaurant full of famous, attractive men, Jack Messenger stood out from the crowd. Lex put it down to the fact that, unlike almost everybody else here, Jack genuinely didn’t care what sort of an impression he made. LA was crawling with good-looking men, but very few of them were so self-contained, so entirely without vanity. Jack Messenger didn’t play it cool. He was cool. Big difference.

‘Sorry. Crazy day.’ Sitting down next to Lex he ordered a gin and tonic and a charcuterie plate from the bar. ‘Have you eaten already?’

‘Yes,’ lied Lex, who couldn’t afford Cecconi’s prices. He’d mop up the alcohol with a big bowl of pasta when he got home. So what’s this all about? I’m intrigued.’

Jack took a deep breath. ‘I’m leaving Jester.’

His eyes sparkled with excitement. Lex wasn’t sure how to respond.

‘Wow,’ he said eventually. ‘That’s big news. Where are you going?’

‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.’

Lex looked puzzled. Had he had one margarita too many? ‘You mean you’re retiring?’

‘Noooo.’ Jack laughed. ‘Jesus, thanks a lot. I’m not that old. I’m splitting with Ivan, that’s all. It’s been a long time coming and I think it’s gonna be better for both of us. I’ll set up shop here in LA, and we’ll gradually regrow a European business. Ivan can reinvent himself as a reality star, or whatever the hell it is he thinks he does these days.’

Lex processed this information. He’d worked for Jester on and off for the last five years, and in all that time he had only met Ivan Charles twice. Nevertheless, he’d made a big impression. By far the more flamboyant of the two founding partners, it was Ivan who people most associated with the name Jester. Jack was the quiet, powerful engine that kept them going, but Ivan Charles was the face of the company.