Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  Kate gaped. “But do you know how much those guys cost?”

  “In your case, nothing.” Poppy shrugged. “I arranged it all.”

  “You’re incredible,” Lisa said.

  “I’m just the manager,” Poppy told them.

  The day before the gig, Poppy marched them into the hairdressers.

  “You’re getting a new look,” she said. “Lisa, you’re going to have brown hair. Kate, you’re going blond. Claire will be a redhead and Molly’s going raven-black.”

  “But I like being blond,” Lisa protested.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a gimmick. One of each hair color. Once you’re signed, you can go back, if you still want to. The singer is the front woman, she has to be blond.”

  “Sounds great,” Kate purred.

  Lisa scowled, but she submitted.

  They were beginning to do everything she told them.

  *

  The day of the gig, Joel was there. Poppy had made sure the little club was packed with executives. She had radio guys there, promoters, local TV stations, even some ponytailed Armani-wearing suit from MTV.

  Silver Bullet came out to dimmed lights, even smoke from the dry ice. Poppy had taken pro headshots of each girl, heavily made up, and had them blown up to gigantic size. They hung around the walls of the club. Spotlights swirled over the excited crowd even before the first note was played.

  And then her act burst on to the stage. They wore semi-matched outfits in black and silver PVC, very Barbarella. Their hair colors looked fantastic. Kate’s hair was a gleaming fountain of platinum. The lights were bright, amazingly flattering, and soft. And then, through a wall of professionally mixed speakers, they started to play.

  For twenty minutes they ripped through the set. Just the best songs, performed fast and sleek. When they finally left the stage, hair flying, Kate blew little kisses, waggling her fingers like a cheerleader; Molly shoved her fists in the air like a biker.

  Huge applause.

  House lights up.

  Poppy was surrounded by drooling talent scouts, pressing cards on her, telling her to call them.

  She looked over at Joel Stein, standing at the back. For once in his life being ignored.

  He winked at her.

  *

  After that it was gravy.

  Poppy signed the band to Musica records for an advance of a million dollars. She didn’t let them spend more than five grand of it. She rented them an apartment, found them a producer, booked them on tour with Diamondback, one of Dream’s midsize acts. By the time the record was out, Silver Bullet had already been on three magazine covers.

  Their first single went in at number 5 in the rock charts, number 15 in the Billboard Hot 100. It broke out on radio like a rash and peaked at number 7.

  Silver Bullet were stars. And so was Poppy.

  Thirty-Eight

  Poppy was good at it. Better than Joel Stein had expected. Better than she had expected.

  Nobody wanted to take her seriously, but that, Poppy thought, was their problem. She wasn’t gonna tone herself down for anyone.

  She was young, and she wasn’t going to try to dress old. No red power-suits with gold braiding and shoulder-pads. She wore jeans and Metallica shirts with high, strappy heels; little black dresses that clung to her curves; denim shorts with a Daisy Duke–tied shirt over the top. Poppy liked to wear her hair loose, to go light on makeup and perfume. Most days she wore nothing except sunscreen and a little scent, Hermès perhaps. She didn’t need much else.

  Several times Poppy got turfed out of offices. MTV told her, “We don’t let fans in the lobby, miss.” Record company receptions called security. Bank managers rolled their eyes.

  Not for long.

  Poppy was armed. She carried her business card like a weapon. And she had Silver Bullet.

  *

  “I can’t believe it,” Kate said.

  “Believe it.” Poppy grinned at her singer. “The cover of Rolling Stone.”

  Molly looked as though she wanted to cry. They were in the back of the limo, riding toward the Rosebowl, where Silver Bullet were third on the bill at the Monsters of Rock Festival, behind Skid Row and Guns N’ Roses. Her girls looked great; Poppy had worked out a black-and-silver theme for the set, to coincide with the band’s name. She’d come up with a new look for them, which would be featured in Jann Wenner’s prestigious magazine. Ironically, the once rebellious Rolling Stone was now as establishment as it got.

  Gracing the cover was an industry stamp of approval. One that said: “Made it.”

  “I have some more good news for you,” Poppy said. “Our marketing campaign really worked and ‘Hellacious’ is going to debut at number one.”

  Claire made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

  “I’ll take that as approval.”

  Poppy felt a small thrill of pride. She liked these kids; she thought of them as “kids” somehow, even though they had a year or two on her. And she had been instrumental in changing their lives.

  A good manager did a little bit of everything. Jill of All Trades. She helped pick the producer, the artwork, the set designer, the tour manager. She supervised how the record company did their job; she breathed down Promotions’ back, making sure her girls were all over the radio; she took the calls at 3 A.M. when Molly was drunk and needed bailing out of a holding cell.

  And this was the reward: her band in demand, albums flying off the shelves, video on Headbangers Ball on MTV, fans outside the hotels, great slots on tours. T-shirt sales weren’t great; teenage boys wouldn’t wear a shirt with the name of a girl band on it, even if they wore leather and studs. But the picture was rosy.

  And now they had a number-one record.

  Poppy tried not to get too cocky. After all, she wasn’t in the band. It wasn’t her music on KNAC. It wasn’t her twirling the drumstick, flirting with the front row, posing for sexy shots next to Harley Davidson bikes. Silver Bullet were talented.

  But not, said a little voice in her head, that talented. The fact was, talent alone didn’t guarantee you big sales—just ask Mott the Hoople. And sometimes you didn’t need talent at all. Just ask Milli Vanilli. A Grammy award, and they hadn’t sung one note on “their” record.

  You needed a man with a plan. Or a girl.

  Like me, Poppy thought.

  She looked at the band high-fiving each other. No way could they have done it without her.

  *

  “We’re Silver Bullet!” Kate flung her arms in the air, gave her patented fists-thrust-skyward salute. “Thank you and goodnight!”

  The band bounced offstage to cheering and whooping and a surge toward the lip of the giant festival stage. Poppy watched it with a clinical eye, to check security was on it and no kids were going to get injured. Roadies were there with bottles of water, white fluffy towels, so the girls could mop their sweat off before heading into the shower.

  “Poppy.”

  There was a hand on her shoulder. Poppy jumped out of her skin.

  “Dude, Joel, you scared me.”

  “Great gig,” Joel Stein said. He was wearing a gorgeously cut suit and a platinum Rolex that cost about four times her yearly salary. “My girls are doing fantastic stuff.”

  Your girls? Poppy thought, but didn’t say it.

  “Rolling Stone shoot’s tomorrow,” Poppy said.

  “I know, I spoke to Jann personally. They’re going to go with Annie Liebowitz for the shots.”

  Poppy nodded, but of course she already knew that. She’d been negotiating this for over a month now.

  “I’ve got some very exciting ideas for the band,” Joel said. “I’m gonna take a band meeting after they get out of the shower.”

  Poppy stared at him. “You are?”

  Silver Bullet was her band. She took the band meetings.

  “You can sit in if you like,” Stein said, easily enough.

  Poppy debated internally, with the chaos all around her, as crew guys ran on to t
he stage to rip down the Silver Bullet set and set up for Skid Row. Stein was sending her a clear signal, and she didn’t care for it. The best thing would be to suck it up and say nothing. That was clearly what he expected.

  “Silver Bullet are my act, Joel. I set up Rolling Stone. I’ve been handling them for a year now. I take the band meetings.”

  “Last time I looked, they were a Dream Management act.” Stein’s eyes warned her not to go any further. “You did a great job, Poppy, but the girls—”

  The girls, right.

  “—are at a stage now where I can be of more use to them than you. They’re ready to go to that next level. What I want you to do is to start thinking about our roster, maybe pick another band to work with closely. How about Highway? They need refreshing, you might be just the girl for the job.”

  Highway? Fucking Highway? Joel’s teen-pop act, his manufactured answer to New Kids on the Block? Highway were two years too old and on the way out. Their fifteen minutes were up.

  She smiled briskly. “I’ll think about that, Joel.”

  *

  Poppy left the gig early. She was too angry to trust herself to stay. Arguing the toss with Joel wouldn’t do anything for her, it would just make her look weak. She didn’t want the band to see her upset.

  She wasn’t overly worried. Silver Bullet would be loyal to her, would stick with her. After all, it wasn’t Joel, busy with Green Dragon and his other multi-platinum giant acts, that had broken Silver Bullet, and they would know it. If necessary, Poppy thought, she would just lay it on the line with Joel. The group would want her, not him, and the customer is always right.

  She tried to think of it as “just business.” But she was fuming.

  Poppy took her new BMW right back to her office. She marched inside, slammed the door and grabbed a yellow pad and a Bic pen. Every crisis hides an opportunity, they said. Very well; Joel was forcing her into something she might have waited on. But no longer.

  She wanted a bigger slice of the pie. She wanted to be credited separately on all the albums: not just “Dream Management” but “Poppy Allen for Dream Management.” A bigger percentage of the management cut. And no more interference from Joel.

  I might be young, Poppy thought, but look at the way I’ve performed. Silver Bullet love me. He can’t say no.

  *

  “No.”

  Stein shook his head. Once. Firmly. “Anything else, Poppy? I’d love to hear the ideas you have on Highway.”

  Poppy struggled not to lose her cool. She was standing in her boss’s office. It was a typically mild and gorgeous day in L.A., with a cool breeze to temper the sunshine. The fronds of the palm tree outside his window rustled gently.

  Inside this office, however, the atmosphere was getting very cold. Very fast.

  “You want to come in just when my act—”

  “Dream’s act.”

  “I’ve done all the goddamn work, Joel. My act suddenly hits number one, is on Rolling Stone, and now all the heavy lifting’s been gotten out of the way,” she could not stop the sneer in her voice, “uber manager Joel Stein comes in and takes all the glory? No way. That’s not fair.”

  “‘That’s not fair,’” Joel mimicked. “Listen, kid. I gave you your shot. Don’t think you’re some magical hotshot who waved her wand over this act. You wouldn’t have gotten any place without the name of Dream, without my expertise. They weren’t taking your calls. They were taking Dream’s calls. My company and my reputation broke this act. Now, you did a good job with the tools; I want you to do it again with Highway.”

  “You want my advice to Highway? Quit. It’s over,” Poppy snapped.

  “Defeatist?”

  “I don’t want to manage bands that suck. I want to manage my own act. The one I found.”

  “And I signed.” Joel jabbed a manicured finger at her. “It’s my way or the highway, princess. No pun intended.”

  “The band don’t even know you. They won’t stand for this.”

  “On the contrary.” His smile was crocodile-wide. “I explained my plans for a switch in the day-to-day handling, for me to take them to the next level. And they’re all for it.”

  “Bullshit,” Poppy almost shouted.

  “Now, now, dear.” Joel pushed his phone toward her. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. Call them yourself. You’ll see.”

  Thirty-Nine

  The 747 began to judder and shake slightly as the wheels lifted off the tarmac.

  Poppy settled back in her seat and tried to focus. She was heading to New York for the weekend. She’d told Joel she had urgent family business, but the truth was she just needed to be out of L.A. And out of touch.

  Betrayal.

  Poppy could hear those voices still. Kate’s awkward pleasantries: “Yeah, Joel told us about the new arrangements. Sounds pretty good, like some other band will be lucky enough to have you working with them, Poppy…”

  “You don’t want me working with you?” Poppy demanded.

  “Seems like a waste to have you and Joel, ya know…”

  The acid in her stomach had started to seethe. Kate had never wanted Poppy, not really, not from the first moments she’d talked to the act. She’d always wanted Joel, Poppy suddenly realized, with a flash of insight.

  Poppy had been second best.

  “Do the rest of the band feel that way?”

  “Yeah,” Kate mumbled.

  “Even Molly? Let me talk to Molly.”

  “Sure, hold on.” Poppy heard Kate covering the receiver with her hand, heard muffled girls’ voices. Then Kate again, still awkward. “Um, Molly just stepped out for a second, she can call you back in a little while…”

  Poppy closed her eyes for a heartbeat. When she opened them, Joel was still there, sitting in front of her, with a look that said “I told you so.”

  “No,” Poppy said, “no need, hon. I think this will work out wonderfully for Silver Bullet. Joel will help you guys to the next level.”

  A small, thin smile from her boss.

  “It’s not like you’re never gonna see us again, or something, is it?” Kate asked brightly.

  “Hmmm,” Poppy said, making a non-committal grunt. “Later, OK?”

  She had hung up, bright spots of color high on her cheekbones.

  Joel Stein chuckled. “Honey, don’t take it so personally. You really are a greenhorn. Bands aren’t your friend, they’re your client. First lesson.”

  “A good one,” Poppy said grimly.

  “Second lesson.” Stein waved the piece of paper. “A couple of successes does not make you Tom Zutaut, sugar. I hired you to be smart and inventive. You’ve delivered. You’re gonna get a bonus. But Dream is my company and I divide up the roster. Always remember that.” He shook his head. “I’m not looking for a partner, but you keep going like this, you could wind up my number two. And be very well rewarded.”

  “I’d like to take a vacation,” Poppy said on impulse. “I got some family business to deal with…”

  She’d spun him the story and he’d accepted it. Why not? Poppy thought bitterly. You win a major victory, you can afford to toss the loser a bone.

  *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Continental Airlines Flight Forty-one to JFK.”

  The man next to her was sarcastically mouthing the words of the loudspeaker announcement under his breath. He suddenly looked at Poppy.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” It was a rich Southern accent, which slightly surprised her, because the man was so urbane; wearing a discreet tailored suit, very expensive—probably from Europe—handmade shoes, and a plain gold watch. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes and a square jaw. Muscular, too; good-looking, Poppy decided, in an ultimate capitalist pig-type way.

  The voice sounded as though it belonged to someone with a Stetson and cowboy boots. “It’s a bad habit. I can’t stand that yapping. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet—who cares. You know?”

  Poppy nodded, smiled at him. “I
’m Poppy Allen.”

  “Henry LeClerc.”

  The name sounded faintly familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “You looked kind of upset, if you’ll pardon the intrusion. Don’t like to fly?”

  “It’s not that. It’s business,” Poppy said.

  He chuckled. “Business?”

  Poppy frowned. “Why is that funny?”

  “You look too young to be in business,” he said, frankly. “You look like you should be in college.”

  His eyes were dark blue, very confident.

  “I’m flying business class,” Poppy pointed out.

  “So do lots of rich kids.”

  Arrogant sod, she decided. “Well, it’s not like that. I work in a business with … a global reach.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So do I, I suppose.”

  Poppy didn’t like his tone. “People think you can’t do shit because you’re young. But that’s bull. Alexander conquered the whole world before he was thirty.”

  LeClerc grinned. “I’m sure I try not to underestimate the young, ma’am.”

  “Champagne?”

  A flight attendant was hovering, one of the prettier ones. She was made up to the nines, and she was staring at LeClerc with an incredibly submissive air and a brilliant smile. She ignored Poppy.

  “I’ll take some champagne,” Poppy said. She had paid plenty for this seat.

  “How old are you, miss?”

  Poppy flushed. “Twenty-three. OK?”

  The woman looked skeptical.

  “You can serve this young lady,” LeClerc said softly.

  The flight attendant instantly handed Poppy a crystal flute of champagne. “There you go, ma’am. Sorry for the misunderstanding. And for you, Congressman?”

  Poppy blinked.

  “I’ll just take an orange juice,” he said.

  *

  It was a bumpy flight, but Poppy took no notice of it. She felt like she was fighting a rearguard action, trying to get back a little dignity.

  “So I’m stuck with a politician,” she remarked when they served the food.

  “Afraid so.” He waved away the lunch tray.

  “Congressmen don’t eat?”

  “Not that swill.” LeClerc reached into his carry-on luggage and brought out a small, elegant silver box, monogrammed with his initials. “I do too much flying. I insist on eating decent food.” He flipped open the box. Inside was a ripe peach with a heavenly scent, a small tin of Sevruga caviar, some fresh blinis, and a set of sandwiches, very thin brown bread, smoked salmon, and lemon slices.