Fallen for Rock (26 page)

Mike shrugged. ‘United We Stand?’ It was a question rather than a statement. I jumped with excitement.

‘Yes! That’s what I’ve been calling it too. I love it!’

Mike grinned. ‘You have no idea how much this means.’

‘This what?’ I was at a loss.

‘This. All of it.’ Mike made an expansive gesture with his hand. ‘Being here. Writing, without interruptions. Except for mealtimes, of course.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Having you here. You’re like… You’re my muse.’

I snorted with laughter. ‘Hardly a muse. But I appreciate the thought. It’s been fascinating being part of the process, and I feel really privileged.’

‘Bless you.’ Mike hugged me tight.

‘What’s next?’ I wanted to know when he let go of me and I got my breath back.

‘Next,’ Mike declared with palpable excitement, ‘you and I shall go talent hunting.’

‘Talent hunting?’

‘Yup. I want to assemble Fallen For Rock from a group of talented unknown young musicians. We’re going to do the gig circuit and keep our eyes and ears wide open.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve some ideas, you know, people I heard about… I want to get them on board so we can lay down demos properly. My old label will consider them—’

‘They will?’ I couldn’t hide my surprise. ‘After everything that happened with MonX?’

Mike pulled a face but launched a wicked smile at me. ‘
Especially
after everything that happened. They’re not stupid. They know who was behind the music. So Greg—’

‘Greg?’ I was mentally taking notes for my folder.

‘Greg Grearsby. Our rep at the label. He said right off the bat he would always be interested in stuff I wrote. I called him yesterday. He’s ready and waiting.’

‘Wow. What about your agent? Is it wise going to the label directly, all on your own?’ I suddenly realised that I had no idea how MonX had worked beyond the contract situation and the fact that Adam was their manager.

‘I don’t have an agent. Agents are mostly in charge of booking gigs and making sure that the band has work. Adam did that for us as well as looking after our career and growth while it lasted.’

I digested this information for a moment. ‘So apart from me doing your publicity, you don’t want any representation for Fallen For Rock?’

Mike shot me a shocked look. ‘Of course I do. I need to find us a manager, and a good one, too. Someone to push us and mould us and make us great.’ He paused for breath. ‘I thought about asking Adam, but he didn’t trust me when the band was falling apart, and that’s not a good basis. Meanwhile, if I have an opening at the label, I might as well show them my stuff. Sometimes, you’ve got to do things backwards.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘Trust me. It’ll all come together. Band first, proper demo next, and we’ll tackle the rest from there.’

‘Sounds good to me. Bring it on!’ I did a cheerleader-style twirl with imaginary pompoms, and Mike laughed.

‘You’re a star, Emily.’

Chapter Forty-One

‘Your toupee is slipping.’

I tugged at a black lock of hair curling over Mike’s eyebrow. Mike swatted my hand away with a goofy grin.

‘It’s not a toupee,’ he retorted. ‘It’s a bespoke wig, and it can’t possibly be slipping.’

‘Well, it is. You look like you have a dead cat on your head.’

‘That’s not very nice.’ Mike pretended to be hurt. We were in the Guns ‘n’ Roses pub in Ealing for a gig of The Rough Shods, a new local band. Mike had heard that the drummer was meant to be phenomenal. Fearing being recognised, Mike was in deep disguise. In addition to the definitely skew-whiff black wig, he also wore sunglasses that rendered him more or less blind inside the dark pub.

His rationale was simple. ‘If I’m a bit of a nutter, the band won’t take any notice of me and simply do their thing. If I turn up as me, I’ll either get booed, or the band will fall over themselves to impress me. I don’t want either of that to happen.’

In fact, as disguises went, this was one of his less bizarre attires. Over the past three weeks, I had been to a dozen pubs and as many gigs with Elvis, Michael, a bald man with buck teeth, a bouncer, a pimp, and a Magnum, PI lookalike complete with moustache (first Nate, then Mike: what was it with rock stars and their like of the colourfully-dressed eighties sleuth?).

To begin with, Mike insisted that I match his theme, but I had drawn the line there. I was trying to establish myself in a professional capacity, and I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—do so in skimpy sequined outfits or white block heels. Instead, I had donned what I considered my new rock chick suprema uniform: boot-cut hipster jeans, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, a tailored black leather jacket, my favourite black clogs, and a pair of sunglasses perched in my rocked-up mane. Glam, cool, fitting the scene, but a little more sedate and sophisticated.

I returned my attention to his slipping hairdo. ‘You should definitely visit the men’s room,’ I suggested. ‘You do look like you’re balancing a furry animal on your head.’

Mike rolled his eyes but obediently trotted off to fix his appearance. I went to the bar and got us drinks before elbowing my way towards the front and installing myself boldly at a table.

‘You don’t mind, do ya?’ I smiled at the two men already in situ.

‘Not at all,’ one of them replied after looking me up and down. ‘Chicks like you are always welcome.’ He nudge-nudge-wink-winked his friend suggestively, but I paid no attention. Leering and crass innuendos were bouncing off of me like water off a duck’s back these days.

Mike rejoined me, wig duly balanced, and sipped at his beer.

‘So, who’s here?’ he prompted. He knew about my grand plan for building up a network of contacts, and he had prepped me personally on some of the key figures in the industry, plus the tells for who’s who: journalists, agents, band managers, tour managers, venue managers and so on. I had been startled by the layers of representation involved for some of the world’s biggest rock acts but duly filed the knowledge for future reference. Now, I had fun applying some of it.

‘A couple of journalists, probably from the music mags. Although see that chap there?’

I subtly pointed my bottle towards a man sporting a paunch and an AC/DC shirt over ironed trousers.

‘Yeah. What about him?’

‘I reckon he’s local press and way out of his comfort zone.’

Mike raised his eyebrows. I could just see them peeping out above his impossible sunglasses when he did. ‘What makes you say that?’

I gave an amused snort. ‘For starters, he’s borrowed the shirt. It’s too small.’

‘He might have grown out of it.’

‘It’s from a gig they played last year. He would have bought it to fit, if it were his. Or he would’ve had to have eaten a lotof junk food to put on so much weight.’

‘Point taken,’ Mike conceded. ‘But surely that’s not all your evidence.’

‘Nah.’ I shook my head. ‘The trousers are the clinching factor. They’re office trousers. I reckon he was put on this assignment at short notice, given a shirt to look authentic, and has no idea what to expect or how to write about this.’

Mike waggled his head. ‘You might be right. Poor man. Anyone else I should know about?’

‘That bloke there…’ I engaged in more surreptitious pointing. ‘He must be the band manager. See how his eyes are everywhere—on the stage, on the sound desk, on the audience…’

I gave Mike a moment to observe, and he nodded. ‘I agree with you. He looks like a manager man to me.’

‘Hm. I bet someone is going to get a bollocking about having alcohol on stage.’

‘What? Really?’ Mike turned to follow my gaze. One of the roadies had set down a couple of bottles of beer next to the guitarist’s microphone. The manager was making energetic throat-cutting motions with his hand, but the roadie was oblivious.

‘Oops.’ Mike grimaced. ‘What a rookie mistake.’

‘Indeed. You did say they were new to the scene.’

‘I did, but still.’ He frowned.

‘Don’t let it put you off. Maybe it’s for motivation, you know, to get through the set. Maybe the guy suffers from nerves.’ I paused slightly before delivering my pièce de résistance. ‘Anyway, you might like to know that Iron Dave is here.’

‘Iron Dave?’ Mike nearly choked on his drink. ‘
The
Iron Dave? How do you know? How do you know about him, for that matter?’

I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It’s my job to know these things.’

Iron Dave was an iconic manager. He specialised in rock bands, although he represented most genres, and he was always on the lookout for tomorrow’s big act.

‘But how do you know what he looks like? Have you met him?’

That was a good question. Iron Dave was a legend, not least for keeping his identity strictly secret. Not unlike Mike, he wanted to see bands ‘au naturel’. There was no photo of him on his company’s website or anywhere on the Internet.

‘Not yet. I’m building up to that.’

‘So how do you know?’

I grinned. ‘I overheard someone talking to him last week when you were busy chatting with that bassist. I grew Spock ears and eavesdropped unashamedly until I was certain. I took a photo so I wouldn’t forget.’ I dug my phone out of my purse and scrolled through my photo gallery. ‘There.’

‘Oh. My. God. You are unbelievable.’ Mike stared at me with his mouth hanging open.

‘Well. I’ve got to learn these things, and fast. Right? So anyway…’ I placed a finger under Mike’s chin to close his mouth. ‘This is both good news and bad news. Good news, because the band really must be good, otherwise Iron Dave wouldn’t bother showing up. And bad news, because you’ve got to get in there before he does.’

Mike shook his head in apparent wonderment. ‘I so made the right choice hiring you. You sure you won’t let me pay you?’

‘Not yet. I—’

I didn’t get to finish my sentence as the house lights went out and the show started. Mike picked up his bottle and gently pushed his way further to the front so that he could observe the drummer better. Picking up my own drink, I abandoned the table and sidled my way in the general direction of Iron Dave. If Mike wanted to talk with the band, a little distraction for the powerful manager in the shape of one Emily Trenden might just buy him enough time.