What She Wants (36 page)

made her point by remaining angry with Matt for so long. ‘I’m glad we’re out of that particular rat race,’ she lied. ‘It’s better here, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ lied Matt in response, returning her hug. ‘Much better.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On Monday morning, Nicole stalked into work with her short feathery hair a glinting copper colour. The hideous orange had been replaced by subtle shades of dark burnt umber mixed with gleaming metallic tones, all of which looked absolutely stunning against Nicole’s cafe au lait skin. Even better was the cut which clung to her perfectly shaped head and showed off cheekbones to die for. She looked utterly different from the girl who’d left the office the previous Friday. Always beautiful, she was now stunning, thanks in part to hair that would make heads turn. ‘Holy shit,’ said the receptionist in astonishment as Nicole walked past in tight black trousers, high boots and a teensy faded denim jacket clinging to her slender body. ‘What happened to your hair?’ ‘I fancied a change,’ said Nicole. She and Sharon has agreed that this was the best response because Nicole was far too embarrassed to admit that a home dyeing accident had actually been to blame. Except where the hell was Sharon? They’d been supposed to meet in the cafe across the road so Nicole would have some moral support when she braved the slagging from her workmates. ‘You the new mascot?’ demanded a guy from new business as she got into the lift. ‘Copperplate, copper hair, geddit?’ ‘It’s fashion,’ said Sharon, panting as she just made it into the lift in time. ‘Don’t men have fashion too?’ she added, then, staring disgustedly at the man’s balding head, added: ‘you’d give your eye teeth to have some hair so you could dye it!’

‘Bitch,’ he snapped. Nicole gave him the finger as she and Sharon fell, giggling, out at their floor. ‘What happened to your hair?’ gasped every second person in shock when they spotted Nicole. ‘It’s lovely,’ breathed the girls who sat nearest to Sharon and Nicole. ‘I wish I was brave enough to do something with my hair,’ said a pretty Indian girl named Shirin who had long black hair just like Nicole’s. ‘My father would kill me if I dyed it.’ Nicole’s face burst into a big, rueful smile. ‘That’s about the only advantage of not knowing your father!’ she joked. ‘Sinclair at nine o’clock!’ hissed Sharon, spying Miss Sinclair advancing on the cheerful little group. Faster than mice who’d noticed a creeping cat, the gang scattered and flung themselves into their allotted seats. They needn’t have worried. Nicole was Miss Sinclair’s real quarry. What had the stupid girl done with her hair? ‘Your hair,’ said Miss Sinclair in disgust. ‘Yes,’ smiled Nicole, the smile not reaching her eyes, ‘hair. I have hair. I got it cut.’ Grim in the face of such cheekiness, Miss Sinclair growled deep in her throat. ‘It wasn’t the cut I was talking about,’ she said icily. ‘Don’t you like the colour?’ Nicole asked innocently, knowing that there was nothing Sinclair would have liked more than to have her fired for breaking some stupid workplace appearance code. ‘Lots of people dye their hair,’ she said, looking pointedly at Miss Sinclair’s hair where an inch of dandruff-riddled mouse showed through the dark brown. ‘It’s not a problem for women of Indian heritage to dye their hair, is it?’ she added wickedly and had the satisfaction of seeing the bitch step back nervously. She knew that Sinclair picked on her because she didn’t like her, but ostentatiously playing the race card would serve the old cow right.

Miss Sinclair’s nostrils flared. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was commenting on your hair, that’s all. But the denim jacket is not allowed. You know the Copperplate rules: no denim.’ Silently, Nicole shrugged off the jacket, revealing a white T-shirt, the thin fabric of which did absolutely nothing to hide the high, braless breasts with erect nipples underneath. Miss Sinclair’s eyes really did pop then, which made Nicole grin. There was no rule about not wearing a bra, now was there? When Sinclair had stormed off to the top of the room to make someone else’s life hell, Nicole phoned Sharon up. ‘That cow,’ she hissed. ‘The sooner I get out of here the better, because I am going to end up in jail for murdering her one of these days.’ ‘Cheer up,’ said Sharon kindly, ‘when you’re a big singing star, you can bitch about her to everyone you see and she won’t be able to do a thing.’ ‘Yeah right,’ Nicole said gloomily. ‘Hell will have frozen over before I’m a big singing star.’ ‘You shouldn’t have said anything about Indian women,’ Shirin chided her later when they met in the ladies’ at one minute past one. ‘My father says it’s wrong to claim special treatment on account of our race.’ ‘Well, Shirin, your dad sounds like a real old pet but although I have fifty per cent Indian blood in me,’ Nicole pointed out breezily, ‘I’m West London through and through. I never even met my dad. The only culture in my house is my gran’s cultured pearls.’ ‘I am sorry for you,’ Shirin said. ‘What’s she sorry for?’ asked Sharon, coming in to put on some lipstick. ‘Nothing,’ muttered Nicole. What was Shirin on about? Just because she didn’t know her dad and anything about his culture, didn’t mean anything. She got plenty of culture from her gran, anyhow: she could sing the ‘Old Claddagh

Ring’ and any number of Irish traditional songs thanks to Reenie’s training. What else did she want? It was a long, dull day. Nicole got bored by half three and began circling ads for other jobs in the evening paper. When Sinclair prowled around, she didn’t even bother to hide the paper, half willing the supervisor to fly into a rage and fire her. Nicole was fed up to the teeth with Copperplate. It was all Darius Good’s fault, she thought crossly. If he hadn’t come along and given her false hope about her singing career, she’d still be happily working away, joking with Shazz and the gang, playing tricks on Sinclair and not giving a damn about life except to hope Friday came around as fast as possible. Now, she’d had a glimpse of another life, and she was hungry for it. She didn’t want to be stuck in this office for the rest of her days. At coffee break, she turned her mobile phone on - they were banned from having them on for personal calls during working hours - to check if there were any messages. ‘You have no messages,’ cooed the automated telephonist. Nicole was so miserable that she didn’t even bother turning the phone off again. It was ten to five when the mobile began to bleat from the depths of her rucksack. ‘Where is the damn thing?’ hissed Nicole, poking around in the rucksack looking for it. ‘Yes?’ she snapped, pushing the ‘yes’ button. ‘Hi Nicole, it’s Darius Good from Titus.’ Nicole straightened up in her seat. Who cared if Sinclair saw her on a personal call. ‘So, what’s the story?’ she said casually. Darius couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice: ‘Can you come in tomorrow and meet the boss? I know you’ve had to wait a few weeks to hear from us but the boss, Sam Smith, has been really busy. She loves your voice, by the way.’ ‘She does?’ Nicole beamed.

‘What time tomorrow?’ ‘Ten?’ ‘Perfect. Give me the address, will you?’ When she’d written it down, she inquired: ‘Will you be there?’ ‘You bet. You’re mine,’ Darius said. ‘I mean,’ he stammered, ‘that I discovered you… that, I brought you in … you know what I mean.’ ‘I do,’ said Nicole huskily. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ She hung up and grinned at Sharon. ‘Get your coat, Shazz, we’ve got to hit the shops.’ ‘It’s not half five for ages,’ Sharon protested. ‘We’ll sneak out,’ giggled Nicole. ‘I can’t.’ ‘Ok, I will and give me a buzz on the moby when you get out and we’ll meet. I’ve got to buy a very special outfit.’ Nicole unbuttoned the top three buttons on the deep scarlet clinging shirt dress she’d bought in Next the previous day. The black leather knee-high boots she’d had to buy to go with them had been way out of her price range but, she’d thought as the assistant in Russell &c Bromley scanned the price tag, what else were credit cards for? Sharon had made the ultimate sacrifice and loaned her older sister’s cherished Prada handbag, on the proviso that it was back in its place in the wardrobe by that night or Tina would kill her. ‘You’ll look a million dollars,’ Sharon had sighed reverently when she saw Nicole wearing the whole outfit, including the handbag, which had been smuggled out of Tina’s wardrobe in a high security operation. Now Nicole sat in the chrome and smoked glass expanse that was the Titus reception area and tried not to look too awestruck as people, all trendily dressed, rushed to and fro, talking at the tops of their voices on mobiles or to each other. A particularly glamorous woman with a blunt platinum blonde bob, and distressed leather trousers that Nicole

knew were D &C G, sashayed past, clutching the latest electronic organizer in purple-tipped fingernails. Nicole would have loved to have asked the receptionist who the woman was and what she did, but Darius appeared at that moment and Nicole didn’t want to appear gauche. ‘Hi,’ she said calmly, as if she was quite used to sitting in record company lobbies waiting to find out if she was going to be offered a record contract or not. ‘Hi,’ he said back to her. Nicole ran her eyes over Darius. He looked even better than he had the last time. His fair hair was shorter and fashionably spiky and he was one of the few people she knew who suited casual shirts worn open over jeans. His welcoming face was warm and friendly and he looked like he was ready to find a sunny spot in Hyde Park and lie down on the grass with a bottle of wine and Nicole, with bees buzzing lazily around them as they stared deep into each other’s eyes. ‘I love your hair,’ he said admiringly. Her reverie interrupted, Nicole smiled, hoping that he never heard the true story of her haircut from hell. She felt her cool facade wobble as Darius led her to the fifth floor where, he explained, Sam Smith, Sophie Lanson, Nadia Vieri and various other members of the team were waiting to meet her. ‘Like a group of people?’ Nicole said, wishing she could smoke. ‘Yeah, well, everyone wants to meet you and afterwards we’ll probably have a chat with Sam on her own. She’s tough but she’s cool, I promise. She loves your voice.’ ‘You said that before,’ Nicole pointed out through chattering teeth. ‘What does that mean precisely? What’s going to happen next?’ ‘What it means is that if Sam agrees, we’ll sign you for a deal where you go into a studio and work with songwriters and producers on songs and, if it’s all good enough, we’ll release singles and hopefully, an album.’

‘I don’t have many songs, that’s the problem,’ Nicole said. ‘I’ve written a few but nothing incredible.’ She might as well be honest. The night before, she’d gone through her entire catalogue of songs and realized that they were all terrible. ‘We could look at your songs, but if they’re not up to scratch, don’t panic. Lots of artists don’t write their own music,’ Darius comforted her. ‘That’s fine. You’ve got the voice, that’s what matters to us.’ He didn’t add that LGBK was so keen on Nicole because their last two young British female singers had failed dismally. They needed young blood and they needed a hit singer. If Nicole was what they were looking for and was successful, then they’d all be delirious but only time would tell. ‘Why do you keep saying “artist”?’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what we call singers and musicians.’ ‘Oh, like piss-artists?’ joked Nicole. She stopped joking when she went into the big, modern board room which was ten times classier than any part of the Copperplate office block. Seated around a large table were more trendy people, looking at her intently. In one corner sat the platinum blonde she’d noticed in reception. Nicole gulped and then took a deep breath. This was her chance; she’d show them.

‘She’s fantastic,’ Sam said to Karen Storin afterwards when Darius was showing Nicole where the ladies’ loos were. ‘She’s a bright kid and she knows what she wants.’ ‘And she’s utterly stunning looking,’ sighed Karen. ‘She could be a model. If the music works and if she’s got what it takes, then we could go a long way with Nicole.’ ‘I hope so,’ Sam said fervently, ‘because we’ve spent a fortune on Density and I have a feeling that they’re not going to go a long way. We need a sure-fire, no hassle hit act to make up for those boys.’ ‘Did they like me?’ Nicole asked Darius anxiously as he escorted her to Sam Smith’s office. She’d given up any

pretence of being ultra cool with him. It was clear that he wanted her to succeed just as much as she did. Darius beamed down at her. ‘They loved you. I told you they would.’ ‘So we’re going to work in the studio and record some songs and see, right?’ ‘Just a couple,’ Darius said, ‘and then Sam will see if she can offer you a deal.’ ‘I don’t know if I can stand the waiting,’ Nicole said impatiently. ‘Look, if you can sing even half as well as you did on your demo, then you’re a dead cert, I promise.’ Sam’s office was a lot like her, Nicole thought: immaculate, businesslike and without any frills. There were no photos of kids clustered around her desk, no carefully tended pot plants hanging from filing cabinets, no watercolours on the walls: just a seating area with a table, a huge, clear desk and platinum singles on the walls. Sam was definitely a tough cookie, Nicole decided. Small, slim and elegant in what was obviously a dead expensive grey suit, Sam was very attractive looking but she gave off vibes that said she didn’t take any bullshit. Nicole liked that, even if it was a bit daunting. But Sam had been really nice to her all along, which was a good sign. ‘What did you think of all that?’ Sam asked her when the three of them were sitting down at the table. ‘It made me a bit nervous to be honest, all that talk about voice coaches and choreography and stuff like that.’ ‘I’m delighted you were nervous,’ Sam replied, to Nicole’s astonishment. ‘This is a serious business and we’re going to be asking you to give up your job to work with singing coaches and producers to record songs, get an act together, work with a choreographer, all of which comes with a guarantee of exactly nothing.’ Nicole blinked. ‘You’ll get the advance for signing the contract, assuming

we do sign you, but if it doesn’t work, after that, it’s goodbye. This is a tough business and I don’t want you to go into it with your eyes closed, Nicole.’ ‘I’m not stupid,’ Nicole said hotly. ‘I didn’t say that,’ Sam was calm. ‘I can tell you’re anything but stupid. But you’d be surprised at how many people think they’re going to be a huge star and when it doesn’t work out - and there’s a high failure rate in the music industry for your type of act - they’re heartbroken and astonished. This isn’t telling you that you’re going to fail,’ Sam was speaking very intently now, ‘this is just to make sure you’re aware of the possibility of failure.’ Nicole looked a bit shocked. ‘Cheer up,’ Sam said. ‘I have every faith in you, and in the LGBK label. We’ve a great team here and if we can’t make it work, Nicole, then nobody can. Nobody can break an act, like LGBK, I promise you. Right, first things first, you need a manager. Darius, what’s the story about management for Nicole?’ When Darius and Nicole went down to the lobby in the lift half an hour later, Nicole felt as if she’d been in the presence of a tornado. ‘She’s impressive,’ Darius said, ‘but I hope she didn’t scare you?’ He looked anxiously at Nicole, hating the idea that she might be upset. But Nicole’s feline little face was alive with exultation. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it was wonderful. I’m even more determined than ever to make this work!’