The Fame Factor. Polly Courtney
and a DJ, she was a tolerant woman. But when the broom handle started banging, the girls knew it was time to stop. It was a small price to pay in comparison to the studio fee.
Waiting for Ellie and Kate by the door, Zoë checked her phone. One missed call from her mum. She dialled to hear the inevitable voicemail.
‘Hello dear, only me. Lovely to see you tonight. Pity we didn’t get a chance to chat. You seemed to arrive late and then you, er, disappeared…Anyway. I wanted to ask, I’m having a bit of a clear out. You didn’t want your old guitar, did you? I’m taking a carload to the charity shop.’ Zoë let out an involuntary squeal. ‘There’s a…speaker-thing, too. You know the one I mean? Black…sort of square, lots of holes in the front…I’m not sure whether it’d be any use to anyone. Perhaps I’ll get Daddy to take it to the tip. Oh and that jar of old plectrums – can I throw that away? We’re trying to make the spare bedroom look a bit more presentable. Let me know. I’ll see you soon. Byeee.’
Zoë growled angrily and deleted the message.
‘Your mum?’
Zoë looked up. James was standing in the doorway. He must have driven round to give her a lift home.
‘Hello.’ Zoë tried to match his smile. ‘Yeah, my mum. She’s trying to throw out my old guitar.’
Shannon and Ellie poked their heads round from the front room.
‘What?’
‘What?’
‘And my old practice amp. And you know that little pot of plectrums I collected at uni?’
‘Sacrilege,’ hissed Shannon, shaking her head.
James was frowning. ‘Um…Perhaps I’m misunderstanding, but if you haven’t used these things in the last two years, do you really need them?’
There was a collective gasp. Zoë drew a breath to explain, but Shannon got in first.
‘It’s not a question of need, James. It’s a sentimental thing. You can’t throw out your first guitar.’
‘Oh. Right.’ James nodded, nonplussed. ‘And…the amp?’
‘Okay,’ Zoë nodded reluctantly. ‘Maybe that can go.’ The connections had always been a bit loose anyway. ‘But the plectrums…’
Kate raised a hand and slipped out. ‘Sorry – gotta go.’
James looked into the darkness and quietly called out to her. ‘Chin up, eh. I’m sure it’ll work out.’
The girls looked at one another; presumably Kate had been telling James all about her latest rejection by Henry or Hugo – the names blurred into one.
‘You gotta have words with your mum,’ Shannon said firmly. ‘Make her change her mind.’
Zoë nodded, handing her guitar to James and stepping outside. The truth was, she had to change her mother’s mind about a lot more than the fate of her old guitar.
‘Oh and Shannon?’ she said, poking her head back into the warmth of Shannon’s flat. ‘Nice one on the Louis Castle thing.’
Shannon grinned back at her. ‘Tepid Foot Hold, I’m tellin’ ya. Go check ‘em out.’
‘I think that covers everything,’ Brian Aldridge concluded, much to Zoë’s relief. Her balding boss was blessed with a gift for all things numerical, but he was also an incredible bore.
‘Don’t forget,’ he called out as people morosely filed out of the meeting room. ‘Rigorous Accounting Practices. RAP!’
The most irritating thing about Brian, thought Zoë, was that he genuinely believed he was interesting. His way of spicing up a presentation was to pepper it with his own acronyms, which just made you want to throw something at his shiny head.
Zoë found herself nodding as she passed through the door. It was a reflex she had developed at university for dealing with tedious lecturers.
‘…this afternoon, Zoë?’
Zoë faltered. She had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Or have you already done it?’
‘Uh…’ Zoë thought about answering, but decided against it. ‘Sorry, have I done what?’
He looked at her, brow deeply furrowed. ‘The British Trust audit.’
Zoë masked her mild panic with another smile. The British Trust was turning out to be something of a can of worms, largely because the charity was run by a bunch of sweet, well-meaning grandmothers who were incapable of using an abacus, let alone a spreadsheet.
‘I’ve done the first run,’ she replied.
‘Could I see a copy, please?’
Zoë didn’t like his patronising tone. ‘I’ll email it to you now,’ she replied, leaving the meeting room and striding back to her desk.
Hoping she hadn’t left any gaping holes, Zoë dispatched the email and looked at her watch. Twelve forty-three. She was meeting Ellie at one. It didn’t seem sensible to get stuck into a spreadsheet with such little time. She opened a browser and typed three words into Google.
Results 1-10 of about 2,400,000 for ‘tepid foot hold’ returned the search engine. Zoë stared at the hits: The official TFH site, a couple of YouTube videos of live performances, a Last.fm profile, a MySpace page…even Q had a page for the band.
Zoë clicked on a couple of links. The country-rock fusion act had had seven top-ten singles in America and two platinum-selling albums, both making the top forty over here. Their lead singer, a guy called Toby Fox, was originally from London but now lived in LA with his model-actress girlfriend. Through Tepid Foot Hold he had won two Mercury awards, an NME award, a Grammy…Zoë squinted and reread the line. He had won an Ivor Novello award. An Ivor Novello. That was the ultimate achievement. It was more impressive than filling Wembley Arena or headlining on a bill that included the Eagles and Sheryl Crow – which, according to the articles, Fox had also managed to accomplish. Ivor Novellos were the musical equivalent of the Oscars. They were for real songwriters.
She was about to search for ‘Louis Castle’ when her survival instinct kicked in, telling her to revert to her spreadsheet.
‘Getting through it?’ asked Brian as his middle-aged paunch drew level with her desk.
‘Mmm…’ Zoë squinted hard at a formula, following her manager’s progress through the office. It was ten to one. She set her screensaver to ‘Never come on’ and stood up, draping her coat over her guitar as she eased it out from under the desk.
‘Are you going outside?’ Eric, her annoying neighbour, asked loudly. Several heads turned. ‘Can you get me a Coke?’
‘Ooh, Zoë, can you buy me a sandwich?’
‘Will you be going anywhere near a newsagent?’
Zoë pulled an apologetic face. She didn’t want to admit that she’d be gone for a full hour. Hour-long lunch breaks were frowned upon, especially during January.
‘I’m, er…I’ve got to run a few errands,’ she explained. ‘Sorry.’
‘Is that a guitar?’ asked Eric, even louder, as though wanting his colleagues to appreciate his powers of perception. There was something about the pointy-faced auditor that Zoë found exasperating. He managed to turn every conversation into a competition.
‘Oh, er, yes.’ Zoë looked down at the case. ‘That’s the, um, the errand. Gotta drop it off somewhere.’
A minute later, the