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For my parents
1
The First Cut is the Deepest
I’m not saying I don’t believe in love, but my last relationship ended after twelve days.
We might have managed a full fortnight if I hadn’t come back early from a weekend away and found him with his hand down a barmaid’s shirt.
Shame, really. It was my local and they do 2-for-1 mojitos on Sunday nights.
If anybody asks, I tell them my one true love is music. I can honestly say it’s what gets me through long days and lonely nights. I can listen to almost anything, but the one thing I can’t stand is a schmaltzy love song.
My brother’s getting married in a few weeks and has asked for help picking a song for his first dance. I suggested Kiss’s ‘Love’s a Slap in the Face’.
It didn’t go down well. He’s still trying to find the perfect song.
But all songs are imperfect. That’s what makes us keep listening. Who wants perfection? I suggested he write his own song, but I think he decided it was too much work.
I’ve got a bit of a track record for making stuff up. Before I became a music journalist and got paid to interview real life musicians – I still have to pinch myself sometimes – I invented my own personal rock star. That’s how I came to be president of the Zak Scaramouche Fan Club, which, at last count, had exactly two members: me and Simon Baxter.
Simon and I made up Zak Scaramouche when we were twelve, using the initials of our names: ‘Z’ for Zoë and ‘S’ for Simon. We imagined him as a kind of rock star secret agent – James Bond with eyeliner, if you will.
Simon was the one who wanted him to be a secret agent. GoldenEye had come out and he was obsessed with Pierce Brosnan. Zak combined the two roles effortlessly, strumming a Les Paul while a loaded Walther PPK sat discreetly in his shoulder holster. In my head he always looked like Marc Bolan: tousled dark hair and piercing eyes ringed with kohl. What better cover for a spy than a glam rocker partial to make-up? And who’d suspect that under his unbuttoned shirt and snakeskin trousers, he’d be packing a licence to kill?
Zak always timed his concerts to coincide with missions, and the fan club was how he communicated with his sources.
When one of us went on holiday, we’d send the other a postcard from Zak. The first one Simon sent me featured a donkey wearing a sun-hat under the moniker: Greetings from Lanzarote! On the back, his neat handwriting swallowed all the white space.
Dear Member,
I’m in sunny Lanzarote for an open-air concert at the Playa Blanca. Rehearsals are going great, but damn, that sand gets everywhere!
I’ve been super busy. Since releasing my tenth album and divorcing my fourth wife, I’ve taken up the classic card game Baccarat – I’m a natural!
In unrelated news, international arms dealer The Crook has been spotted at Lanzarote’s Royale Casino, a short drive from Playa Blanca.
That’s all for now, fans.
Keep doing the Fandango!
Zak x
Those postcards meant the world to me. I was young and hopeful then. I still believed that bad guys always got their comeuppance and that love was all hearts and flowers. But as I got older and the postcards petered out, I seemed to lose my faith in romance. And after Simon got married, the postcards stopped altogether. I blamed the internet. Who sent anything by post anymore? The internet ruined love, too. Dating apps encouraged you to make split-second judgements about people. What happened to getting to know someone slowly? Life moved too fast for that.
But about a year ago I was invited to join the Zak Scaramouche Fan Club page on Facebook, so our secret childhood club was reborn. Nothing had changed. We were still the only two members, and Zak was still trotting the globe wowing fans in between catching bad guys.
As for Simon and me, we kept doing the Fandango, shuffling around our feelings for each other via an imaginary rock star, never quite getting the steps right.
2
You’re So Vain
I was face-to-face with the man that a million schoolgirls had their first crush on.
I could sort of see why – his genetics alone qualified him to be in a boy band: he was pretty, with wide-set blue eyes, and non-threatening, with smooth cheeks that didn’t need to be scraped every morning with a razor. His floppy hair was long enough to look rebellious, but short enough to keep middle-class parents happy. That’s the thing about teenage crushes: it’s fun imagining the under-the-cover fumblings, but the real fantasy is to marry them.
Right now, Jonny Delaney – aka ‘The Cute One’ from Hands Down – didn’t fit the image of fantasy lover; he looked constipated. His waxed eyebrows were scrunched together in concentration as he recited all the reasons why the review we’d given him was ‘total arse bollocks’. I tried to act like I was listening, sipping my champagne and nodding, but I was scanning the room for someone else: Patrick Armstrong, the man we were here to celebrate.
It was dark in the bar so I couldn’t make out faces. The walls and ceiling were draped in black velour and the only illumination came from perspex candelabra blinking on mirrored tables. It was like being in Ozzy Osbourne’s boudoir with one of Sharon’s yapping dogs for company.
The only thing I could clearly discern were Delaney’s teeth. They were blue-white and as symmetrical as tabs of chewing gum. They had to be capped – no one in London had a set like those by the grace of God. He grabbed a bottle of beer from a passing waiter and slung back his head to take a gulp. A flash of grey gave me hope. Was that an amalgam filling? If he’d only open his mouth a bit wider . . .
‘Are you even listening, Zadie?’
Zadie? I guess Jonny must have had White Teeth on his bedside table. Fitting, really.
I corrected my gaze to meet his eyes. ‘Of course I’m listening.’
‘It’s the best album we’ve ever made. You need to review it again.’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘Make it work – you’re the editor.’
Being the editor didn’t mean I had everything my way. I still had to fight my publisher to convince him that a boy band like Hands Down had no business in our magazine. I’d lobbied hard against including the review that was causing Jonny all this excess spittle. Except the piece had prompted so much discussion on our website that the extra traffic had almost vaporised our servers. Even the print edition had benefited: after twenty-three months of declining sales, circulation had gone up.
But neither our core readers nor the new readers were happy; my inbox was overflowing with ‘Disgusteds’ from Hackney, while my Twitter feed had been scorched by teenage girls venting their outrage in block caps.
Everyone hated me this week, except for my publisher.
Above the din of the party, I tuned back into Delaney, whose drunken yammering was now up to eleven. I caught a whiff of his breath – it smelt of rotting garlic. The most snoggable man on the planet – according to the tabloids, at least – had an unfortunate case of halitosis.
‘I bet you didn’t even listen to it, you stupid bitch.’
Wow. He thought calling me names would help his case? Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was someone whose highest form of self-expression were the emojis on his liner notes.
He was right about one thing though: I hadn’t listened to it. I hadn’t ev
en written the review. But I wasn’t going to tell him that; I was going to have a little fun.
‘I didn’t need to,’ I said. ‘A boy band’s third album is the “grown up” record. You co-write the songs yourselves so every track is about sex, you rope in a couple of guest rappers with criminal records to give you credibility, the cover showcases your newly acquired tattoos and the one song that isn’t about sex is about the price of fame. This time next year, one of you will have a baby, one of you will come out as gay and one of you will have found Jesus. None of you will ever make a record again.’
Delaney’s mouth dropped open, and rather than wait for another blast of hot air and bad breath, I made my escape.
I was breathing hard, and it was only after I’d put several bodies between me and the Poundland Prince Charming that I could relax. I smoothed down my chiffon dress and unclenched the hand that was coiled around my champagne glass.
It wasn’t my most professional hour, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let that idiot derail what I was here for: toasting the retirement of Patrick Armstrong, one of the biggest managers in the business, who also happened to be my mentor and friend.
Years ago, when Patrick first set up Armstrong Associates, he used to rent the office above my parents’ restaurant in Acton and would pop in for his daily fix of keftedes and tzatziki. I used to work lunchtimes during the school holidays and usually hated those afternoons behind the bar because my mum never trusted me to do the fun things, like use the wall-mounted optics to measure out spirits, or make Irish Coffee – even though I’d secretly perfected pouring the cream over the back of a spoon to get a perfect swirl. No, all I got for my efforts was a face blasted by dishwasher steam and ears assaulted by the seventies Greek pop that my parents insisted on playing and my mum insisted on singing along to, always half a tone off-key.
But Pat’s visits were a high spot and we got talking. I was fascinated by what he did, and later, when I’d finished university, he introduced me to a couple of music journalists who invited me to write some reviews. I owed Patrick my career. He knew everyone and was famous for always wearing a bow tie and never being without a tumbler of Gordon’s in his hand. Twenty years on, and countless neat gins later, two hundred of us were crammed into a private members’ club in Fitzrovia to give him a proper send-off.
His company had moved from a couple of rooms in Acton High Street to a three-floor office off Old Compton Street, but now he’d sold it to Pinnacle Artists, a conglomerate whose head office in the City inspired the wrath of Prince Charles for its spiky steel façade.
As I moved around the bar, I kept a lookout for any other moon-faced boy-banders in case their radars had beeped to tell them one of their own had been disrespected.
I found Patrick among a group at a nearby table. I caught his eye as a waitress in a pencil skirt leant closer to whisper in his ear and slip something into his jacket pocket. Anyone else might think contraband was being exchanged, but I recognised this for what it was: an enterprising musician getting her demo into the hands of a very influential man. Patrick nodded, the waitress left with a flirty smile and he came over.
‘It’s never the pretty young men that whisper in my ear,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure there are any here tonight. But if I see one, I’ll send him your way.’
He clinked my champagne glass with his gin and we both took a sip. Mine was depressingly warm, thanks to Delaney.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he said. ‘You’re wearing a dress.’
‘All in honour of you, Pat.’
‘And you look very good in it too. I saw how that Hands Down chap was looking at you.’
‘That was fury, not lust,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’
‘Pinnacle look after the band. I’ve seen the sales figures. You wouldn’t believe the units they shift,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘My god-daughter asked me to get her tickets to Hands Down for her tenth birthday.’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Ten seems a bit young. Have you heard their lyrics? The closest The Beatles could get to singing about sex was ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. But Hands Down wail about bumping and grinding, without any attempt at a metaphor, and they’re marketed at pre-teen girls. It’s not right.’
‘Aren’t they just love songs?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Those boys wouldn’t know love if it bit them on their waxed arses.’
He smiled a refreshingly nicotine-stained smile. ‘Maybe I’ll buy her a subscription to Re:Sound instead.’
‘Much better idea.’ I gave his hand a squeeze. ‘I’m going to miss you, Pat. Are you sure you want to retire?’
‘Hardest decision I’ve ever made.’
‘You’re sixty-five, Pat. You deserve some time off for good behaviour. A chance to let that suspiciously full head of hair down.’
He ran a hand through hair that seemed to get thicker every time I saw him. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying. Elton might have given me the name of a specialist, but that’s all I’ll say . . .’
‘You should have been a diplomat,’ I said. Then, rather undiplomatically, I added: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Marcie?’
He shook his head and my stomach lurched. Marcie Tyler was a notorious recluse and I’d staked everything on an interview with her for the magazine. She’d sold 150 million albums, was rumoured to have been the inspiration for David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’, and was just out of rehab. Patrick had been her manager for years and we’d both hoped she might make an appearance tonight, but they’d fallen out and hadn’t spoken for a decade. To be fair to Pat, she hadn’t spoken to many people in the last ten years – and certainly no journalists. An interview would be a spectacular coup and would prove to my publisher that my vision for the magazine was right.
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way to get to Marcie,’ he said. ‘You’re a very resourceful woman.’
Patrick always knew the right thing to say, but before I could thank him for the faith he had in me, Justin, his partner of thirty years, appeared. ‘Sorry, Zoë, I need to steal Pat away from you.’
‘Uh-oh, sounds like I’m in trouble.’ Patrick winked at me.
‘We’ll be at the vineyard in Crete at Christmas. Come for a break and drink yourself silly, then we’ll find you a nice Greek man like your parents always wanted.’
I’d given up on finding a nice man – Greek or otherwise. Music was a great industry to work in, but it made for a terrible dating pool. I dated the news editor of NME a few years back, but he kept wanting to know what I got up to on the nights I went out without him – and not because he was the jealous type. God forbid I stumble on a news story he’d missed because he was at home watching back-to-back episodes of Star Trek in his pants.
Being single suited me just fine. It meant that if the mood took me I could stay in and watch the Federation’s finest in my pants, too.
But Patrick was one of life’s good guys and I was going to miss him. Tears blurred my vision and I hastily swiped a finger under my eyes. God, what was wrong with me? In this mood, I may as well just go home – the last thing I wanted to do was descend into full-on blubbing. It had been a glorious July evening when I’d set off, but British summers being what they were, I’d wisely brought along my leather jacket for the journey home.
I made my way to the cloakroom and handed my ticket to the attendant, but instead of disappearing behind the velvet curtain to retrieve my jacket, he leant forward and grinned.
‘I fucking loved what you said to that pop star prick.’
‘Jonny Delaney? You heard it all the way out here?’
He shook his head. ‘I was doing drinks earlier. I passed by with a tray and lingered. No one notices waiters; it’s like wearing an invisibility cloak.’ He pointed over my shoulder and grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, he heard it too.’
A tall man in a dark suit was stalking towards me. Unlike the attendant, he did not look amused. His brow bone cast a shadow acros
s his face, and as he moved, the lining of his jacket flashed angry red silk. He came to a rest beside me, his sleeve scratching the skin of my bare arm. He didn’t speak or turn his head; he simply placed his hands flat on the counter, which the attendant took as a cue to hightail it behind the curtain.
He looked about my age and had one of those profiles you usually see immortalised in marble in museums. The way his brow, nose and jaw aligned would have made Pythagoras sing. This was good-looking on a mathematical scale.
‘You’re Zoë Frixos, editor of Re:Sound.’
His voice was gruff – it wasn’t a question.
I squared my shoulders, tensing for a fight. ‘Are you going to tell me my bra size and blood type too?’
‘I’m Nick Jones.’
The name meant nothing. ‘Good for you.’
He finally levelled his gaze at me. Impatience simmered behind bottle-green eyes. ‘I’m the publicist for Hands Down, and I’d appreciate it if you showed some professionalism when you spoke to my clients.’
Wow. Another jumped-up posh boy who thought he was better than everyone else. I bet he spent ages every morning trimming those neatly squared sideburns. I shifted my weight, pushing back where his shoulder had encroached on my space.
‘I see you went to the same finishing school as Jonny Delaney to learn your manners.’
He drew himself up to his full height. He must have been 6' 4", but I’m 5' 10" without heels; tall men don’t intimidate me.
‘You want to talk about manners? Yours weren’t much in evidence when you were talking to Jonny.’
He had some nerve, standing there in his designer suit spouting self-righteousness.
‘Well, if you were doing your job properly you’d have found a moment in between giving Jonny his afternoon milk and nap time to explain that we don’t rewrite reviews because someone’s feelings got hurt.’
‘I’m not doing my job properly? That’s rich coming from the woman who reviews albums without listening to them.’
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 1