The Devil You Know (29 page)

The crew hadn’t stopped ragging on her once. There were obscene songs on the bus.., she knew most of them by heart now. She’d been tossed fully clothed into swimming pools, had eighty pizzas charged to her room, and her butt had been patted and squeezed and generally assaulted. They called her names, ‘Miss Priss’, ‘the Virgin Mary’, whatever. And now she felt like crying.

It was pathetic.

Drake saw the redness in Poppy’s eyes and grinned.

‘Always the way, babe. First tour? Forget it. You think yoi’ll never forget these guys, that they’re your brothers in arms, whatever…’

Poppy nodded and shook her head to get rid of the nascent tears.

‘Yeah, well. One week back at home and you won’t even remember their names. Trust me. It’ll all be a blur, until the next

orle. ‘

‘I guess,’ Poppy said.

‘You can’t go on the road, anyway. Not like this. They should find you something else to do.’

Drake was in the band, which meant Poppy had to kiss his ass. He

was a client of her boss. But she fought to stop bristling. ‘I’m damn good at it,’ she said shortly.. He chuckled. ‘Prickly little pear.’

‘I didn’t mean anything by it …’ Poppy said, panicking.

‘You don’t need to worry about me, love. I’mnot gonna tell on

you. You did fine. But that’s not the point.’

‘Then what is? That I’m a woman?’

‘That you’re a gorgeous woman,’ Drake said. ‘That won’t work long-term. Trust me.’

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Poppy blushed richly.

‘Soundcheck,’ said a runner, poking his head into the enclosure. ‘Later.’ Drake walked out.

Poppy went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Evian from the ice. The band liked her enough that she was allowed to pick at the food in their area. Normally that was absolutely off-limits. Being on the road was like a court that followed a king around; the band were royalty, and the others were .just servants.

The familiar sounds of soundcheck drifted back from the giant stage. ‘One-two. One-two.’ Why couldn’t roadies find something else to say? There was a definite lack of imagination …

The sun beat down on her face. She was leaving tomorrow. Poppy felt a lack of something, as if she had failed in some way.

Not by anything she’d done. She knew her record was very good, for a rookie. The crew accepted her, even if they tormented her, the band was pleased, she’d run her errands with efficiency and even some flair.

But it wasn’t enough.

She desperately wanted to go back to Joel Stein in a cloud of glory. To show him why he should give her an act of her own to manage under his umbrella.

The record business was a man’s world. Period. If you were a chick, you had to be more than .just competent. You had to knock them out.

But what could an assistant tour accountant do, exactly?

She’d had an uneasy feeling about Mike Rich from the start. His hostility couldn’t be explained by her mere presence. Poppy knew all about soothing egos, and she’d done everything he asked, promptly and obediently. She even made his goddam coffee, `just the way he liked it.

She sat and thought until the first support band was announced. Then she got up, and tucked her laminate into her T-shirt, so nobody could rip it off her, and headed out of the backstage compound into front of house.

It was early, but the place was already three-quarters full. This gig had sold out in half an hour when it went on sale four months ago; the promoter told Poppy it had melted a local phone bank. She

remembered him rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘Ch’e fantastico,’ the guy had purred. Fantastic. Yeah, a bonanza for him.

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Poppy stared out at the sea of people. They were crowded into the standing area and filling the seats at the back. They were nodding politely as the first support, a local act, desperately ground out their best tunes in front of a backdrop of plain black drapes, set up to cover Green Dragon’s set.

There sure were a lot of them. Queuing up at the food stands, thronging the T-shirt stall, drinking the overpriced, watered-down beer.

A little bell rang in her head. Something wasn’t right. What was

it?

Something’s wrong with this picture, Poppy thought.

Then she found it. A section had been added. The crowd extended to the right of the stage, to the left of the stage. She focused and brought up the seating diagram in her head. No, they hadn’t intended opening those seats up. You were at a really bad angle, you couldn’t see a thing, and the PA sound would be tinny and off because of the acoustics.

Other bands liked to gouge every dollar from their fans. Not Green Dragon. Not Dream Management. Not her boss.

Poppy’s heartbeat accelerated. She marched back inside “the backstage compound and threaded her way through the chaps directly to the production office

Mike Rich was sitting there with the promoter, drinking. He was laughing, too, as though he’d made a big score. Poppy saw there was a wad of notes in an envelope sticking out of his pocket.

Surreptitiously she glanced at the seating diagram on the wall. Those seats weren’t there.

‘Hey, Mike.’ Poppy kept her tone light and calm. ‘Where are the ticket stubs?’

The two men’s expressions changed instantly.

‘Honey, wha’ you wan’ stubs for?’ the promoter purred. ‘All is done auto, the band is gonna get paid, you think I don’ pay Green Dragon?’

‘I lust like to be thorough,’ Poppy said pleasantly.

‘I already counted the ticket stubs,’ Mike said shortly. ‘Everything matches.’

‘That’s nice,’ Poppy said. ‘What’s up with the seating at the side of the stage?’

‘All accounted for. Not your business. I don’t like your tone, missy,’ Mike blustered. ‘You report to me, so why don’t you take

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that tight little ass of yours and get the luck out of the office? You’re in the way.’

She held her hands up. ‘OK, OK. As long as you counted it all, I guess I have nothing to say … see you guys later.’

She went to catering to kill half an hour, then came back to the production office. There was a little dusting of coke on the tables where they’d been sitting, Poppy recognised the white powder

instantly. Her heart was in her mouth as she dialled the office in LA. ‘Dream Management.’

‘It’s Poppy. Let me speak to Joel.’

‘He’s in a meeting.’

‘Just put me through, Lisa.’

That aggravated sigh at the end of the phone. Poppy didn’t give a damn.

‘Is this an emergency?’ Joel’s voice snapped. ‘I’m in a meeting with ICA.’

‘Mike’s ripping you off,’ Poppy said succinctly.

A pause. ‘Extra seats?’

‘Extra sections, I think a kickback.’

‘Document it,’ Joel Stein said. Then he hung up.

Poppy smiled to herself and. reached for a camera. She knew what was about to happen. She was gonna climb the second rung of the ladder, after only her first road trip. Six weeks to a promotion, Poppy thought.

She loved the record business.

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‘So,’ Ted Elliott said. The super-agent spun slightly on his modern, sleekly ergonomic chair, which perfectly matched his sleekly ergonomic offices. They overlooked the Thames, with vast floorto ceiling windows; interior design that looked as though it had come from someone hipper than Terence Conran; a kidney-shaped couch on which an utterly overawed Daisy was perched; a glass coffee table laden with copies of The Bookseller and Publisher’s Weekly and publishers’ catalogues; a kilim rug, and a chrome-covered espresso machine.

Daisy thought it was rather incongruous, because Ted Elliot .was about her father’s age, and as upper-class as they came. He reminted her of Edward Powers, many years down the line. An old-fashiontd gentleman. But the thought, for once, did not stab at her heilt, because she was too jumpy to think about anything other than getting through this.

‘Ted Elliott of Elliott & Russell?’ Edward had asked, when she’d finally met him in the bar. ‘You’re not serious, Daisy. But that’s fantastic!’

‘Is he a big agent?’ Daisy had asked nervously, looking around for Edwina.

‘She’s not here, had to run,’ Edward said, answering her unspoken query. ‘But as for Elliott, he’s the biggest agent in London, bar none. Represents …’ and he ticked off a list of gargantuan bestselling authors. ‘No romance, though, as far as I’m aware.’

And now Daisy was here. She’d jumped on the bus to London, and she was actually in an agent’s office. A really big, important agent.

Ted Elliott could make her dreams come true. If only he’d take her on.

‘Have you had any other interest?’ he asked.

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Daisy nodded, blushing. It had been a week since the summons to Elliott’s office, and three other agencies had written to her asking to see more of her work. It was a great response to the chapter she’d mailed out.

‘Curtis Brown, ICM, William Morris,’ she mumbled.

His eyes were polite, but rather steely.

‘I’ll tell you what I am not interested in,’ Elliott told her, ‘and that is a beauty contest.’

‘Pdght,’ Daisy agreed, not sure what he meant.

There was a silence. She had no idea what she was supposed to say.

‘So we’ll get this out to a few people. I know a couple of editors I think could be right for the material.’

Daisy had no idea what was going on, and the super-agent was pushing back his chair like the meeting was over. She couldn’t let it end like this.

‘Will you represent me?’ she blurted out. Subtle as a brick, but she had to know. This was torture. She had no idea if she was supposed to walk out of here despondent or elated.

‘Yes, of course.’ He looked at her as though she had just arrived from the planet Mars. ‘We’ll get contracts out to you tonight. What are you crying for?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Daisy mumbled, because she wasn’t being remotely cool. ‘I’m just so happy.’

The older man’s face crinkled into a broad smile. ‘No need for tears just yet, I imagine. Do you have a job?’

‘Yes, I’m a waitress,’ Daisy said fiercely, ‘and I can’t wait to pack it

in —’

‘Over my dead body.’ Now he really did look like her father. ‘You have no idea if the book will sell.’

‘Oh,’ said Daisy, yanked back down to earth. She hated her crappy job in Oxford.

‘Never give up a job until you know your future is secure; and that can take years.’

‘Oh,’ said Daisy gloomily.

‘Just go home. We’ll call you,’ Ted Elliott said, and the meeting was over.

Daisy went back to Oxford and tried to concentrate on her studies. She was six weeks away from her final examinations. After the agency contracts arrived, she signed them, and that was about all that

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happened. The strange thing was that the lack of news about her manuscript concentrated her mind.

She rented herself a new place - away from Edward Powers. To be around him hurt too much. It was a nasty little dump on the ringroad, modem, with a handkerchief-sized patch of neatly clipped lawn out front boasting a garden gnome showing his workman’s bum. She had to share it with a glue-sniffing teenager called Spike, which actually wasn’t too bad as he was never home.

But more importantly, the rent was as tiny as her room, and she was out of danger; he was never going to ‘drop in’ with Edwina here, and she wasn’t surrounded, every day, by reminders of him. Daisy told Edward that she needed to buckle down, to get her degree. He understood that, and didn’t pressure her into going out for a drink.

‘After finals. Quite right,’ he said.

Sometimes she wondered if he knew how she felt about him. But she tried not to obsess about it, else she’d go mad.

Daisy went to the library for her course, pulled out books, buried her head in them. It was strange how she was actually starting to find it interesting. Even though there were no calls from London, e ver fact that a big agent had signed her gave her a new zest for lille, something that had been missing for so long she almost felt drunk.

A sense of achievement. How strange; she looked at herself differently now.

She started to lose more weight, without noticing it. She was too busy to think about eating, and quite often she’d grab a Boots Shapers sandwich for lunch, not because it was low-cal, but just because it was there. And fast. The last few pounds of puppy fat were melting from her thighs. Daisy had to walk a mile each day just to get to and from her nearest bus-stop; the inaccessibility of the nasty suburban house was one reason even she could make the rent. And then she’d be on her feet at night. Waitressing.

As she dropped the weight and started to like herself a little, Daisy found she was making more money. She would make up her face with something cheap such as No. 7, just a dab of foundation and a black eyeliner. And her tips increased dramatical]y.

Pretty girls made more money. She resented it, but she needed the cash; it didn’t hurt to smile, Daisy told herself.

Some of the diners, emboldened by cheap house red, asked her out on dates, but that was a bridge too far.

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‘I’m taken,’ she’d reply, grinning in a friendly way. That was usually good for a river.

Daisy met Edward for a last drink, still no Edwina, thank God, and promised to keep in touch.

‘You don’t think I’d let a famous author slip out of my clutches, do you?’ Edward joked.

Daisy laughed gently. ‘I suppose not.’

That was a rough night. All she could think about was how much she loved him, but there was absolutely no chance of telling the truth. Even though the girl was not in town, Edward talked about her constantly. He was smitten, and Daisy was history.

She sat her finals, and left Oxford without looking back.

Daisy was out in the garden, helping her mother pull some bindweed out of the fence. Her parents had managed to find a flat to rent; nice enough, but hardly their old house. It had two bedrooms, was part of an old Victorian schoolhouse, and had its own small patch of garden. Daisy was thankful for that; her mother loved to garden, and she had planted roses and clematis around the trellis fence.