What She Wants (31 page)

and astonished that she’d fallen asleep in the first place. Rubbing her cheek to get rid of the creases from falling asleep on a magazine, she got up and automatically looked into Morgan’s back garden. She’d been such a bitch to him and she didn’t know why. Well, she amended, she did know why. She fancied him, was deeply attracted to him, whatever. And because it was clear that he wasn’t interested in women of her vintage, she’d gone out of her way to be horrible to him. Queen Bitch strikes again, she thought miserably. What was wrong with her and her life? She had a fantastic new job, she was one of the few women ever to reach the position of managing director of a record label, she was tipped for career stardom and yet she still felt empty and miserable inside. No, Sam corrected herself, not empty: she was full of despair, that was it. Despair. No matter which way she looked, she could see no bright future, only the draining loneliness of the rest of her life.

CHAPTER NINE

Darius both loved and hated opening his post. As an artists and repertoire scout, or A & R man as they were commonly known, he got sackloads of the stuff every week: demo tapes and CDs from hopeful bands and even more hopeful band managers, each one convinced that their demo would be The One. To the hopefuls, The One meant a million-pound signing and a career of number one albums and singles, not to mention wall to wall groupies and a lifestyle of drinking champagne in the back of limos. To Darius, The One meant the kudos of having discovered them, and hopefully promotion and an assistant to go through the demos and sort out the chaff from the wheat. When he was interviewed by hip music magazines about his job at Titus Records - ‘the best job in the world!’ as the interviewer normally described it jealously - Darius rarely mentioned the down side of trawling through hundreds of terrible demos looking for something good. Scrupulous about his work, Darius refused to do what some overworked A &c R people did and listen only to the first song or two. He listened to the whole demo carefully, no matter how horrifically busy he was. ‘These are people’s dreams,’ he’d explain, when asked about this, ‘it’s not fair to give them a cursory listen and then dismiss them.’ This wasn’t a media sound bite: Darius Good was serious. He knew just what it was like to long for musical stardom and the cover of Billboard. Until he’d got this job, he’d been the singer in a college band. The Effervescent Bunnies were long disbanded but Darius never

forgot what it was like to send a demo off to a record company. He remembered waiting two whole months for some sort of response and when it had come, it had been a blunt form letter which the whole band had gone into gloom over. Of course, they were a terrible band, he realized now. But that hadn’t made the pain of being rejected any worse. Consequently, he was always plugged into his Discman, listening to demos, and he went through a lot of headache tablets after enduring dire songs that sounded as if they’d been recorded in the sort of register that only bats and police dogs could hear. On the last Thursday in January, he arrived at his desk with a mild hangover after a wild session with Density. The band had had an appearance on breakfast telly that morning and he hated to think what they had looked like after a three-nightclub crawl that had involved a shot-drinking game. Those boys could sure party, Darius sighed, easing his lanky frame into his chair. His post was a smaller pile than usual but it was full of the same brown envelopes or yellow padded ones containing people’s hopes and dreams. Darius groaned and leaned his forehead on his desk. He couldn’t cope with other people’s bloody hopes and dreams today. He didn’t want to be kind and scrupulous; he wanted to sweep the whole lot into the bin because chances were, there wasn’t a single decent song, band or singer in the lot. He’d had it up to here with people who thought an adequate Oasis impersonation meant they were destined for stardom. Coffee. Coffee would help, he decided, and went off to find some. Half an hour of gossip and two sugar-saturated lattes later, Darius felt marginally more human. Ripping open the first envelope, he stuck the minidisc it contained on the player, sat back in his chair and put his trendy trainered feet up on his desk. Not another Whitney clone, he groaned silently, as the strains of the first song started and he recognized ‘The Power

of Love’. He closed his eyes and listened, wishing he wasn’t quite as diligent about his work. But as the singer started, something strange happened. The hairs on the back of Darius’s neck stood up. The woman’s voice was the most sensual, husky thing he’d ever heard in his life. Utterly untrained, of course, but the magic was there. She could hold a note as pure as a piece of Waterford Crystal and then let it drop down into a velvety huskiness that would make a bishop blush. Darius loved it. When he’d listened to the four songs on the demo once, he listened all over again. And again, with the volume up so loud that Moll, the marketing woman next door, came in briefly to ask him to turn it down but stayed to listen, just as rapt as Darius. ‘Who is that?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know but she’s got an incredible voice, hasn’t she?’ said Darius excitedly. However, there needed to be more than a voice. He read the accompanying letter from one Nicole Turner which was brief and actually offered no information apart from her address and mobile phone number. There was no picture, sadly, which would really have helped. If Ms Turner was young and a looker, with a voice like that, and if they could get the right songs for her, there’d be no stopping her. The combination of a wonderful voice and hits from the top songwriters could make it all happen. Unfortunately, that huskily experienced voice made it sound as if she’d been around a bit. The wrong age and the wrong looks would all work against her and in an industry dominated by youthful talent, Nicole Turner could fail before she’d started, no matter how beautifully she could sing. There was only one thing to do: Darius had to meet her. Casually, not too hyped up, of course. Just in case she was a velvet-voiced fifty-year-old who’d have her hopes unfairly raised by meeting the guy from a record company who were unlikely to sign her. He popped his head round the door of the marketing woman’s office.

‘You wouldn’t do us a favour, Moll, and not mention that demo to anyone, would you? I don’t want to get people interested in case she’s not what she’s looking for.’

Nicole was attacking her cod and chips with gusto in the office canteen when her mobile rang. She fished it out of her bag, her mouth full of chips. ‘Hebbo?’ ‘Er hello,’ said Darius, mildly disconcerted at this muffled reply. Ib eabing my dinner,’ mumbled Nicole. Thorree.’ She swallowed. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Nicole Turner?’ asked Darius. ‘Yeah,’ she replied, spearing a few more chips. ‘This is Darius Good from Titus Records.’ Nicole’s jaw clanked open and she dropped her fork. ‘Wow.’ In his office, Darius grinned. She sounded young, that was definite. ‘I liked your demo and I’d like to meet up. Would that be possible?’ ‘Tell me when and where,’ Nicole said simply. ‘You pick,’ he said. Nicole was thrown. Astonished by his phone call, she couldn’t think of a venue for the life of her. ‘Er …’ she stammered, racking her brains, ‘er … the Red Parrot.’ ‘Seven tonight?’ Darius pressed. ‘Sure.’ She gave him brief directions. ‘I’ll see you there.’ Nicole pushed the ‘end’ button on her mobile and groaned. What sort of a moron was she? Suggesting the Red Parrot and agreeing to meet him tonight? For a start, the Parrot was a total dive and not the place to meet a cool record company bloke who probably only ever went for cocktails in trendy members-only bars. He sounded far too posh for the Parrot. And secondly, she should have played it cool and made a date for a few days. Talk about being too eager. Stupid, stupid, stupid. ‘What’s wrong, Nic?’ asked Sharon, sitting down with

her cottage cheese salad and eyeing Nicole’s chips hungrily. Nicole rolled her eyes but there was a slight uplift at the corner of her mouth. ‘You’ll never guess who I’m meeting tonight.’

Contrary to Nicole’s expectations, Darius was perfectly happy in the Red Parrot. Used to visiting flea-ridden venues to check out upcoming bands, he didn’t care that the red brocade banquettes were faintly sticky from years of having booze spilled on them or that the table in front of him still bore the empty glasses, torn crisp packets and half-full ashtray from the last people who’d sat there. He ordered a pint and waited, looking up eagerly at each new influx of people. Strangely, he was sure he’d recognize Nicole. Lord knew why. One minute on the phone hardly gave him a clear concept of her physically and he hadn’t asked what she looked like, but Darius somehow felt he’d know Nicole the moment she stepped into the bar. She’d look special, he knew it. At ten past seven, Nicole, who’d been loitering outside with an anxious Sharon so they’d be fashionably late, strode into the Parrot and smiled at the landlord behind the bar. She didn’t look around, fearful of appearing as nervous as she felt. Instead, she sashayed up to the bar and leaned against it, trying to look as nonchalant as she could. From his seat, Darius watched the girl in the sharkskin jeans and fitted leather jacket. His eyes followed her eagerly as she joked with the barman, bought a drink for herself and her short, blonde friend, and then turned to cast a cool, speculative eye over the premises. He knew instantly that she was Nicole. She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Skin the colour of caramel with high cheekbones like Nefertiti and glittering, tigerish eyes. Not much more than twenty-one or two, he guessed, but she certainly looked streetwise. Wary, almost, in spite of that cool demeanour.

The hair was wrong, he thought instantly. There were quite a few beautiful dark girls with long straight hair on the circuit. They couldn’t let his Nicole look like a clone. She was far too talented for that. He could just see her hair cropped short, clustering round that beautiful skull, feathering around her high cheekbones, hair soft enough to stroke … ‘Darius?’ She stood in front of him, tall, slim and self-possessed. Hoping he hadn’t been looking at her like a lovesick calf, Darius stood up and nodded solemnly before shaking her hand. ‘I’m Nicole, this is Sharon.’ ‘Sit down, please,’ Darius said formally and cursed himself for sounding as if he was at one of his mother’s garden parties. ‘Do you want a drink?’ ‘We’ve got one,’ Nicole said shortly. It was weird, Darius thought. He was the one who should have been in charge and she should have been nervous, but it was the other way round. He tried not to stare into the liquid dark eyes which were boring into him and looked down at his half-finished pint instead. What was happening to him? She was gorgeous but he’d met gorgeous women before. Famous ones too. ‘Have any trouble finding this place?’ asked Sharon, to be sociable. ‘Not really,’ he replied. Two minutes more of idle chit chat was enough for Nicole, who was not known for her patience. She had to know why this guy wanted to meet her and now that he was here, he was burbling on in his posh voice about the perils of getting a cab driver these days who knew where he was going. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ she asked brusquely. ‘Well, I like your demo,’ he said, still not looking at Nicole. ‘Really like it. Your voice is fantastic…’

He felt her hand on his arm, touching him lightly. He could smell her perfume now, something seductive with cinnamon in it. He gulped. ‘You really like my voice?’ she breathed. Feeling as if he was drugged, Darius looked up to see that Nicole’s coolness had melted away and that she was staring at him in delight. ‘You like my voice,’ she repeated, as if she’d just been given the winning lottery ticket. ‘Yeah,’ he said, gazing at her animated face and the small, perfect mouth curved up into the most kissable smile. ‘I wouldn’t have come otherwise. When I heard it, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.’ Nicole shot a gleeful look at Sharon, who was too busy gazing at Darius to respond. ‘So what happens now? Do you sign me up? Do I go into a studio and record an album? What do we do next?’ The warning signal went off in Darius’s head too late. ‘Er… well, it works a bit more slowly than that.’ Nicole whipped her hand away as if she’d been burned. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You liked my voice.’ She looked at him suspiciously, waiting for him to say that liking her voice wasn’t important and that he’d come here to let her down gently. ‘I do,’ Darius said earnestly. ‘But I’m only one cog in the wheel. We need to get more people interested and we need to see how far you’ll go.’ ‘Whaddya mean? How far she’ll go.’ This time Sharon was looking suspicious. ‘I mean how serious you are about music as a career,’ Darius explained quickly. ‘It’s not all fun and parties. It’s very hard work and I mean seriously hard. I’ve been spending some time with Density and they work their asses off.’ ‘Never heard of them,’ Nicole said, feeling hurt and wanting to hurt back. ‘You will,’ he assured her. ‘The thing is, you don’t suddenly become a star overnight. It can take up to two years

to get an album off the ground and get the marketing set up.’ ‘Two years,’ Sharon said, aghast. Nicole said nothing, just stared at him. ‘Please don’t think I’m wasting your time, Nicole.’ Even saying her name gave him a shiver. This girl had star quality and something else, but he daren’t mess around with things by falling for her. She was too young for that, thought Darius with the wisdom of his twenty-seven years. And she was definitely vulnerable under that cool exterior. Although if she made it in the industry, she’d soon have an even cooler, harder exterior. ‘I believe in you. I’ve simply got to convince other people at Titus to believe in you too. I’ll phone you in a couple of days, OK?’ ‘Fine,’ she smiled tightly and pulled Sharon’s sleeve to signify they were going. ‘Bye Darius,’ cooed Sharon as Nicole dragged her out the door. ‘Did you see him?’ Sharon sighed lustfully as they trudged through the rain to the bus stop. ‘Bloody gorgeous face and what a bod. What do they give to these posh blokes to make them grow up like that? It must be all that rugby playing in the snow at those posh schools. And his accent. And imagine having naturally blond hair …’ She poked Nicole in the ribs playfully. ‘D’you fancy him?’ ‘No way. These posh guys look right through the likes of you and me. He’s only being nice to us because he sees us as useful opportunities,’ Nicole said scathingly. ‘I don’t know,’ Sharon grinned. ‘He was looking at you in a very interested way, like he wouldn’t mind if he got the opportunity.’ ‘Yeah right.’ ‘Really he was,’ Sharon protested. ‘You’ve been reading those bodice ripper books again, haven’t you, Shazz,’ Nicole teased her. ‘Where the handsome duke ignores the toffee-nosed ladyship they’ve got lined up for him and marries the housemaid with the big tits.’