Polly Courtney - The Fame Factor

‘I see what you’re saying,’ said Shannon, shooting out at high speed from the parking space. ‘But you can’t diss the guy who’s just taken us on as manager.’

‘I can if he’s wrecking our tunes,’ replied Zoë. She couldn’t believe the drummer was willing to sacrifice their musical integrity in favour of some bolshy hot-shot’s ideas.

‘I agree,’ said Kate, her neck bent at an unnatural angle to avoid the snare drum that was occupying the space where her head should have been. ‘That last version sounded like an early Boyzone number.’

‘Boyzone sold a lot of records,’ yelled Shannon, swerving frighteningly close to the kerb.

‘But not our type of records,’ argued Zoë, concerned that Shannon was focusing on the row and not the road.

‘He’s a decent manager! Look what he’s achieved with other bands.’

‘Decent managers leave the producers to do the producing,’ Kate pointed out as Shannon embarked on an ambitious overtaking manoeuvre.

‘He seems to know what he’s talking about,’ Ellie pointed out, blissfully unaware.

‘Exactly!’ cried Shannon, buoyed by the support. ‘I don’t think it would be a disaster if we ended up releasing something like—’

‘I am not in a boy-band,’ Zoë growled. Then she realised they were outside her flat. ‘Oh, right.’ She thought about making a final point, then decided it could wait. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘No bother. I’m sure Louis will run it past us before he sends the demo to the label guys, anyway. Right?’

Zoë eased herself out of the car. ‘I’m sure.’

She slammed the door shut, patting the roof as it lurched off, trying to cleanse her mind before she entered the flat. She would worry about the CD another time. Burdening James with her Dirty Money issues was something she’d done too much of lately.

The place was in darkness. It was only as Zoë crossed the threshold that she realised that something was wrong. Not wrong, exactly. Just…amiss. It felt as though she’d forgotten to do something, or left something behind. She just couldn’t work out what it was.

James, when she finally tracked him down, was sitting on the sofa in the glow of the small table lamp. His short hair was lightly gelled and glinting. As he turned, Zoë noticed something else shining out. Something on his wrists. Cufflinks.

‘Why—’ Zoë stopped and closed her eyes, suddenly realising what it was. ‘Oh God,’ she said, crumpling at his feet. ‘I’m so sorry.’

It was Saturday the eleventh of February. She had forgotten about their date.

‘You must be joking!’ cried the brunette, visibly gagging. ‘I mean, no disrespect to him or anything, but it’s a singing contest. You can’t win if you can’t sing.’

‘That’s discrimination.’

‘She’s got a point though,’ said the girl next to Zoë – someone she vaguely recognised from previous events James had brought her along to. ‘JJ was a terrible singer.’

‘Not true,’ claimed another. ‘He had a good voice; he just wasn’t always in tune.’ She downed the remains of her wine and readjusted the fashionable sack-like top that hung from her shoulders.

Zoë let the argument wash over her as she mashed the cheesecake crumbs into the plate with her fork. They were, as far as she could make out, discussing the controversy surrounding the Talent Tout final, an event that had taken place more than two months ago. Over the main course they had dissected no fewer than six contestants’ performances, ranging from Maureen, the cleaner from Norwich, to 4U, the boy-band from Salford that featured in its ranks an albino and a midget gymnast.

‘Well, call me un-PC,’ said the brunette, ‘but I say the boy deserved to lose. Denzel White was by far the best act.’

‘You’re un-PC,’ declared the girl at the end of the table. ‘Denzel White is a dick.’

Zoë tried to recall something from the times Shannon had sat her down to watch the acts in their final rounds of auditions. She remembered Denzel White; it was impossible not to. In the last few months of the previous year, the whole nation had gone crazy for the North London rapper – his pearly teeth shining out from billboards, his lyrical voice pumping out from the internet, his cheeky smile winking from magazine centrefolds. But the other finalists…Nope. Zoë drew a blank.

That, in a nutshell, was why she didn’t believe in the merits of Talent Tout. It made great television, but it didn’t make rock stars. She had never entertained the idea of subjecting Dirty Money to the ordeal. Her band deserved more than five minutes of fame. They deserved longevity and musical respect. They wanted their songs to mean something. They wanted to make their own decisions about what to wear and when to smile. Nobody got that from appearing on Talent Tout.

Denzel White was a prime example. He had been hyped to superstar status within the space of about three weeks, his background spun in a way that spectacularly endeared him to the UK public, and now what? He hadn’t even released an album. He had enjoyed his brief accolade and then he had plummeted back into obscurity.

Kate was with Zoë on this; she understood that the show wasn’t right for the girls. Shannon disagreed. She bought into the Talent Tout dream, swallowing it hook, line and sinker, seeing the show as the obvious route to stardom. In her eyes, the twelve million weekly viewers spoke for themselves. Ellie, when pushed, agreed with the drummer, which made for an ongoing rift between the two halves of the band.

Zoë glanced longingly at the other end of the table, where James and all the boyfriends of the marketing girls were engaged in a drinking game that involved a burned cork and a piece of cheese. Zoë wished she’d been smarter and manoeuvred herself into a better position when they’d all sat down. In fact, she wished she hadn’t agreed to come out at all. If it hadn’t been for her hideous Valentine blunder then she might have let James come alone, but that wouldn’t have been fair. She owed it to him to be here tonight.

James had been quiet for the two days that followed their supposed date, making it difficult for Zoë to know how to react. For her, when something was troubling her, she let it all out, exploding with rage or misery or angst. But James wasn’t one for confrontation. He just stewed, keeping his feelings locked up inside. She had apologised, of course, trying everything she could think of to make it up to him. She hated the fact that occasionally, her relationship ended up taking a back seat to her music, but she wasn’t sure James understood that. She needed him to understand.

Tonight, as they’d set off for the restaurant, Zoë had seen the first sign that her message was getting through. James had slipped an arm around her waist and asked, quietly, whether she had heard any news from Louis Castle. Now, looking down the table at his merry, cork-charred face, it looked as though his sulk had been long forgotten.

‘How d’you think that poor guy felt?’ the first girl went on, like a dog with a bone. ‘Being kicked out because he was deaf?’

‘ Deaf ?’ Zoë spluttered.

The girls whipped round, all staring at her.

‘How could you not know JJ was deaf?’ asked one.

‘Well…’

There were gasps of astonishment and wary looks.

‘I…I must’ve missed that episode,’ she said sheepishly. It was as though she had confessed to not knowing of Barack Obama. She felt her phone vibrate in her lap and pushed the thick linen tablecloth aside.

Oh God. Just played it.

Boy-band-tastic. He’s

taking it 2 Universal

this wk :-( Kx