Angel Dares (27 page)

‘Anything, love. You’re our ticket to sweet success.’

‘Can you pick up my gear from the instrument store—my amp and violins?’

‘No problem. It’s not like you to forget Freddie.’

‘I had a lot on my mind yesterday.’

‘OK, Angel: consider it done.’

‘Thanks.’

I was dressed and sitting in the sunshine in our back garden when I had my next set of visitors. Mum showed Summer, Misty, and Alex out of the kitchen door, handing Alex a tray of iced homemade lemonade. She knew better than to give it to Misty to carry.

‘Hey, guys!’ I took out my earbuds and waved them to join me on the rug under the cherry tree.

‘What were you listening to?’ asked Misty, sitting cross-legged beside me and checking the playlist on my iPod. ‘Oh.’

‘Pathetic, aren’t I?’ I’d been listening to Black Belt’s back catalogue on a music streaming service. ‘Give me points for not watching the videos too.’

‘Not pathetic; completely understandable.’ Misty sipped her drink and gave a little shudder. ‘So cold.’

‘So good,’ murmured Alex, nibbling her ear.

‘Cut it out.’ Misty grinned at him, which was hardly very effective at persuading him she wanted him to stop.

Feeling a lot jealous of their easy display of love, I changed the subject. ‘So what happened after Summer and I left? Did Jennifer show up?’

Misty rolled her eyes. ‘No, but she sent Brian a text claiming she had a sudden family emergency.’

The hollow in the pit of my stomach grew worse. ‘So they all got away? I nearly drowned and nobody is to blame?’

‘Seems that way,’ said Alex, ‘but I don’t think for one second that Victor is going to let it rest there. He’s on their track, convinced Davis has not given up on his idiotic plan to expose us.’

‘It all feels so unfair. So I climbed in that container myself, did I? Decided it would be a hoot to try a Houdini?’

‘It doesn’t make sense to anyone outside the savant world so that’s why the Benedicts are keeping the story quiet. They’ve persuaded Marcus and Kurt not to mention it to anyone and the crane driver is hardly going to want to confess he dumped you in the harbour.’

I curled my fingernails into my palm. ‘But I want justice.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Summer. ‘But as Alex says, it might not come immediately. You’ll have to trust the Benedicts to do right by you.’

‘My trust is rather at a low ebb at the moment.’

‘I know—with good reason.’ She left it at that, rather than make things worse by repeating her arguments until I got annoyed.

I flopped on my back, trying to recapture my better mood. I held up my fingers, capturing the leaves and ripening cherries in their frame. ‘Oh, guys, I have something good to tell you. Jay got us a deal with Barry Hungerford, the record producer. Looks like Seventh Edition is going somewhere.’

‘That’s great, Angel,’ said Alex. ‘You deserve it.’

‘So last night wasn’t the only chance you were going to get, was it?’ said Misty brightly, referring to my missed opportunity to play with Gifted.

‘How very
Sound of Music
you are, Misty: when one door closes, the good Lord opens a window,’ I chuckled, paraphrasing Maria.

‘Don’t knock it: sometimes commonplace sayings hold the truth.’

‘You mean like absence makes the heart grow fonder?’ I asked, thinking of Marcus and me.

‘Or time heals all wounds,’ said Summer gently. ‘I think you should let Marcus process the new information about the savant world. He’ll have Will on hand with Margot to keep reminding him that he’s got a connection to you he can’t ignore. He’ll come round.’

‘I’m not sure I want him to come round.’ Leaving it at that, I rolled over onto my stomach and put my forehead on my arms, hiding my expression. I had that wobbly feeling around my mouth that heralded a good cry. What was wrong with me—happy one moment, in despair the next? Oh yeah, I’d met my soulfinder: that was the problem. My friends tactfully moved on to other subjects and left me to my moping.

I got up to see them out and spent the early afternoon quietly playing with the garden hose, honing my control, seeing how far I could push my powers. After the scary time shut in the container, I had to reassure myself I had some energy left and I’d not blown it all by holding back the sea. I could tell Mum and Dad were worried about me. They weren’t used to me staying at home and, well, being more like them in refusing to go out. Mum kept making helpful suggestions—ring a friend, make an appointment with a hairdresser, go for a walk with the neighbour’s dog—but I ducked each one. Dad did drive me to the local phone shop and waited outside while I replaced my lost mobile. The assistants in there all knew me from school. They were sweet about my appearance on television and the news stories, teasing me for becoming famous.

‘The press will have forgotten me tomorrow,’ I told them, attempting a smile.

From the puzzled reaction my modesty received, I knew I had to be acting very out of character. Old Angel would have been lapping up the attention. How to explain that looking at the photos of the festival was like ripping a plaster off a wound?

‘They won’t forget,’ Sophie assured me as she packaged my phone back in its box. She had left my school last year and knew me a little from the sixth form common room. ‘You were really great: we were all amazed. You were good at the gigs round here but that was something else.’

I pondered her words as I got back in the car. I’d been ‘something else’ because I had been plugged into the extra power of my soulfinder. Even my triumph was a fraud, now I thought about it. I was beginning to think I should bow out of the meeting with Barry Hungerford: he wasn’t signing up whom he was expecting after that performance, just her shadow.

Will you just listen to yourself? snarled Angry Angel, giving my moping self a kick up the butt. Enough with the self-pity! Forget Marcus. You were a musician before he came along. What better way to test your real talent than seeing how far this deal will take you? You don’t totally suck as a performer without him so just get on with it. The guys are depending on you.

Pitiful Angel whined and licked wounds but Angry Angel took her shoulders and gave her a shake.

Pack it in! I called for order in my warring sub-conscience. Angry Angel had made some good points. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending my life waiting for a guy to get his act together: that was so lame. I would climb on board the adventure that was offered, not worry about the one that had stalled on the starting grid.

I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting of a record producer’s office but Barry Hungerford’s was not it. His company was on the third floor of an old eighteenth-century townhouse overlooking Soho Gardens, a little park in the centre of the Bohemian district of London. We were in the middle of the theatre and restaurant district but the area still held the edge of being part of the red-light zone so I suppose the record producer thought that gave him some street cred. The stairs were narrow and the carpet on the tatty side. The only reassuring notes were the framed photos on the wall: it looked like a rock hall of fame—nearly all the most important bands and artists of the last twenty years had their mugshot here. Matt poked me in the back as on the turn to the third-floor landing we came face to face with several shots of Gifted when they were starting out. Kurt Voss looked like an alley cat back then, not the sleek and dangerous puma he had become, long black hair hanging over his eyes, a studded collar round his neck. The final photo just by the buzzer for reception was a recent one of Black Belt, Marcus looking moody as he sang, his band mates lost in the music: it was a great picture. I sincerely hoped Jennifer hadn’t taken it or I would have to hate it on principle.

How had Brian reacted to the news that Jennifer had been a spy in the camp? Had Kurt even told him?

Jay rubbed his hands nervously then pressed the buzzer. A handsome young man with shaved black hair and lanky frame opened the door. He had sharp cheekbones and an expression to match.

‘Hi, everyone. I’m Ali, Mr Hungerford’s PA. He is expecting you—just wrapping up a call to the US. What can I get you to drink?’ He ushered us into a little boardroom that looked out onto the garden square. The room was a contrast to the stairs: stripped oak floor, big table with metal legs and clear Perspex top, chairs made out of moulded plastic, probably by some up-and-coming designer. Prints of classic album covers decorated the walls. It felt a little cold. I had the odd image I was sitting in a shark’s mouth, not helped by the pigeon-deterring spikes on the windowsill that looked like rows of teeth.

We made our orders. Jay had the balls to order something complicated—an espresso I think he said. I asked for water and slid into a chair at the end of the table, far from the one at the top with arms—a carver they were called in dining-room sets. I imagined Hungerford sitting there to slice and dice his deals.

Five minutes of awkward conversation passed, then Ali was back with the drinks, Barry Hungerford coming in behind. He was dressed in a navy blue Paul Smith suit so new that it surely had a few flakes of tailor’s chalk still on it. A bright cerise tie throttled his neck under the crisp white collar of his light blue shirt. His short brown hair with fair highlights was swept back from his forehead, eyes steely grey and hungry for the next deal.

‘Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming in. Angel, you’re looking pretty today.’ He came round and kissed my cheek as if we were the best of friends.

I had made an effort for the meeting, putting on a favourite pale green silk top, but the last time I had seen him he had been treating me like athletes’ foot. Now I was flavour of the month. Sensible Angel whispered to me to take this as a lesson in the fickleness of fame. One day I was Hungerford’s trump; next I’d be his discard.

‘Thanks, Mr Hungerford,’ I said, acknowledging his compliment while Jay struggled to smile at the fact he had gone over to me first.

‘Barry, please.’ Hungerford went to the top seat and took his place. ‘Where’s the fricking champagne, Ali?’ (He didn’t say fricking but I can’t bring myself to transcribe his every swear word). ‘Go fetch a fricking bottle—we’re going to need it to toast our deal.’

Another suit came in—a middle-aged man who looked like a lawyer: collar and tie, intelligent face and salt-and-pepper hair.

‘This is Neil: he’s got the contract. Did you bring your own legal representation?’ Barry directed the question to Jay.

‘Er, no, Barry.’ Jay looked like he was kicking himself.

‘Then you’ll want to have another pair of eyes look at this before you sign, but for today I hope we’ll make a gentlemen’s agreement—a handshake—if you like what you hear.’

Jay tried to look as if he made such deals every day. ‘Yes, sure, that’ll be fine.’

Hungerford passed copies of the agreement to each of us. I was the last to receive mine so was aware already that Jay wasn’t pleased by what he was reading. I looked down at the first page.

‘Angel Dares?’ asked Jay, trying to keep a hold of his temper.

Hungerford leant back in his chair, fingers steepled. ‘Yeah, the marketing guys say that name tests out well. It has an edge, gesturing to the exploratory nature of your songwriting, taking risks.’

Jay looked blank.

‘And of course it highlights your main attraction and her personality.’ Hungerford winked at me.

I didn’t know where to look.

Matt leant closer and whispered in my ear. ‘Ready to steal the limelight, Angel?’

‘And I’m sure you’ll recognize that Angel here is your selling point. Guys like her—girls want to be her surrounded by all these gorgeous boys.’ He looked over to Ali standing at the door. ‘I do like that—ticks so many boxes its fricking unreal.’ He beamed at us all.

‘You’re moving Angel up to front man—front girl?’ asked Matt.

‘Frick me, yes! She’ll be sharing the spot with Jay. That’s fricking new and fresh—there’s no other leading band at the moment with that lineup so you’ll get more attention.’ He took our stunned silence as assent. ‘Now “Star-Crossed” has to be your first single—the Romeo and Juliet reference very classy. I’m thinking Angel on the cover in a kind of modern version of the balcony scene. Angel’s already in the news as Marcus Cohen’s girlfriend so a song about doomed love will play really well with the music press—human interest angle, you know?’

He was planning to turn my heartbreak into my career break.

‘I don’t suppose you can engineer a little falling out with Marcus on single release day, Angel?’ Hungerford asked in a jovial tone, only half-joking. ‘It would be worth at least a hundred thousand fricking downloads.’

Where to start with my refusals? ‘I don’t think … ’ I began.

Jay cut across me. ‘We’ll do whatever is necessary to make it a success, Barry. None of this need be real, need it? Stars date each other all the time to make a story for their publicists.’

Hungerford nodded and smiled at his star pupil. ‘Exactly: no real pain involved for any of the parties, just good photo opportunities. I’ll talk to Marcus’s people about it.’

This was getting out of hand. I stood up. ‘No.’

‘No what?’ asked Hungerford, his smile dimming.

‘I will not use my relationship with Marcus to launch our band. You’ll have to find some other way.’

‘Sit down, Angel. We’ll talk about this later,’ hissed Jay. ‘Don’t worry, Barry: Angel’s impulsive. Take no notice.’

Hungerford gave me a quizzical look. My fingers were shaking where I rested them on the tabletop. ‘Let’s leave that aside for now. Return to it after we’ve laid down the track in the studio.’ He moved on to less inflammatory matters, touching on the next few months, how we would work on the first album, write or sample new material. Matt tugged at my shirt to get me to sit. He put his arm around me and gave me a quick squeeze.

‘I won’t let them do that to you,’ he promised. ‘Remember, Marcus would have to agree too and that is no more likely than he’d agree to go on stage naked. Let him put these guys off. You don’t have to take the flak for it.’

I nodded. Of course Matt was right: Marcus wouldn’t compromise his art for a story. Dislike him as I did, even I knew he had more integrity than that.