She rounded a corner and emerged into catering. Long trestle tables were set at the back of the amphitheatre, with a buffet of hot and cold food, huge steaming urns of tea and coffee, and an icebox with C6kes and beer and mineral water. Roadies were serving themselves and bantering with
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the catering girls as Barbara walked in.
She strode up to the main table and addressed the biggest guy she could see. ‘Will Macleod in here?’
‘Not in catering, sweetheart,’ he replied, not recognizing
her. ‘You can try the production office, about a hundred yards ahead and to your left, right under the stairs. If he ain’t there, the dressing rooms are on the first landing just up those same stairs. You can find that OK?’
‘Sure,’ Barbara said. Score one, she thought. ‘I guess … Jake Williams isn’t around, is he?’
‘Don’t waste your time,’ the big guy grunted, not unkindly. ‘He’s here. But he’s not available for business. He’s seen his connection already this evening, you know what I mean? Will Macleod takes care of his shit.’
‘Do you guys mind?’ Barbara asked, controlling her voice.
General shrugs. ‘Will keeps him out of our faces mostly,’
the big guy said. ‘Yeah, he can be a grade-A bitch, but that’s
the drugs talking.’
‘Well, that ain’t my fucking problem,’ said his neighbour. ‘He used to be a real sweet guy,’ the big man said angrily. :And he’s dying, so make some fucking allowances, would you?’
‘Thanks, I appreciate it,’ said Barbara, walking away. The sky was darkening out front, she could see it behind the stage scaffolding. She’d never been to this venue before, but most backs of stadiums are the same: expanses of concrete, the constant smell of petrol, people rushing about, groups of roadies manhandling huge flight cases so heavy they need wheels.
A roadcrew in operation is an impressive sight, like a colony of strong worker ants with beer-guts. They can raise a vast stage set in an afternoon and tear it down in two hours. You don’t get in their way when they’re moving gear. Barbara scattered out of the path of several guys and thus got slightly lost, but eventually found the production office without too much hassle. To her left, the way out to front of house was being illuminated by coloured
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spotlights, racing round the stadium. They’d stopped piping music to the PA.
Her watch showed thirty minutes to showtime.
Barbara took a deep breath. Then she flung the door opcYl.
Macleod was bent over a prostrate figure, sprawled on the couch. Barbara had to look twice to see that it wasJake. He was wearing his normal T-shirt and jeans, but they hung off him obscenely, in loose, flapping folds, his ribs poking through his skin. His emaciated chest heaved spasmodically as though it was an effort for him to breathe.
One skeletal hand was clasped round a small vial which Macleod was trying to prise loose; she could see grains of white powder dusting his hands.
Barbara’s hand flew to her mouth in horror.
‘Jake’s sick,’ Macleod growled without turning round. ‘Whoever you are, get lost.’
Barbara, shocked rigid, burst into tears.
33
For the first time since she’d started working, Rowena Gordon was an unmitigated success.
It hadn’t been easy. Finding her first band had been tough, getting Michael Krebs involved had been tough, signing an American act had been tough, doing the Picture This deal had been tough.
But finally she’d come through. She was the first woman to run the North American division of a major label, many of her discoveries had reached stardom,and one had reached the true superstardom that founds empires, something that happens to one band in a million. She had power, money and a good-looking boyfriend even more successful than herself.
But like thousands of men before her, Rowena was finding that achievement brought its own set of problems.
Tm so tired, I can’t think straight,’ she complained to John.
‘You should move down to LA,’ he suggested. ‘It’s]ust as good as New York for the record business and at least you
could cut out the shuttle flights every other weekend.’
‘I can’t do that. All the good bands are up here.’
‘You’re not a talent scout any more, babe. Since when did you last have time to go to a club?’
‘That’s true,’ she admitted, feeling old. Luther Records had a bunch of teenagers finding bands for it now.
‘Think of the sunshine. Think of the jacuzzis,’ John tempted her. ‘You know what we’d be doing if you were here this evening? We’d be out at my house in the hills, naked, in a warm hot tub in the open air, looking at the stars
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and sipping champagne.’
Rowena tried to imagine it. Her first three months as division head had been more physically and emotionally taxing than she could possibly have imagined. Running Luther as a one-man outpost, and even heading up a small team that shovelled product into somebody else’s pipeline, was a whole different ballgame to this.
She was supervising the birth of a seventh major American label. That meant having to make decisions every minute of every day, about things she’d never have dreamt of dealing with before. At Luther her only concern had been music. At Musica North America, her job involved marketing, promotion, budgeting, tax structures and distribution.
Rowena found herself picking between haulage systems, flying to Detroit and Minnesota to meet with truck companies. She had to set whole days aside to talk to investment bankers and accountants. She had to become competent to judge advertising agencies and indie promotion. Her days seemed to melt one into the other, in a sense of urgency and unremitting rush. If John hadn’t insisted they spend time together at weeknds, she wouldn’t have had any free time at all.
And now, Atomic Mass’s second album, Zenith, was nearly finished.
‘Feeling warmed up, kid?’ Josh Oberman cackled, in town on a flying visit. ‘Because the fun’s just about to start.’
Initially he’d wondered whether to mention Topaz Rossi’s call to Rowena, but decided against it. No point in bothering her with that venomous littlejourno now, when they were under such pressure. She was only trying to stir things up, and Joshua Oberman never Went for hype.
Rowena groaned. ‘Don’t you think Frank Willis should handle it? He’s in charge of Marketing.’
Oberman shook his head. ‘No way After what you did with that Coliseum gig? Nobody handles this record but you. ‘
‘Christ,’ she muttered, pushing a hand through her hair. ‘
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‘You haven’t been talking to Michael Krebs much these days,’ her chairman added shrewdly. ‘That has to stop. I’ve heard the final mixes, and they’re terrific - they make Heat Street sound like it was recorded in Joe’s bedroom in a couple of weeks. I want Michael involved in strategy for
radio promotion and tour support.’ ‘But that’s not a producer’s job.’ ‘Krebs isn’t just a producer.’
She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to see him. ” It was unavoidable.
What could she say? ‘Boss, I’m uncomfortable with Michael because I used to sleep with him’? ‘I think Krebs would prefer working with someone who hasn’t dumped
‘ him’? ‘I never want to see him again’? But she did want to see him. And that was the problem.
America the beautiful. America the free, Rowena thought as she dressed for her meeting. America, where the national pastime is reinventing yourself and taking control cffyour own life.
Hadn’t she done that? Hadn’t she walked away from one
way of life and carved herselfa place in another? She had all the accoutrements of the modern American woman. An apartment of her own, with furniture pared down to the bare essentials. A regular gym class, where she worked out in Lycra and Nike. A smart wardrobe of classic basics. A refrigerator stocked with lots of mineral water, fruit and vegetables. Everything designed for the Manhattan way of life; maximum style, maximum efficiency.
Yet Rowena failed the test in one respect. In the most important respect. Her love life had been screwed up from the word go. Until she was twenty-two, she’d had a few boyfriends, a handful of lovers, nice unthreatening boys whose names she could hardly even recall now. The boyfriends had often complained that she was driven, she never made time for herself, she’d never love anyone.
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Rowena had laughed and kissed them, but her heart was an
impregnable fortress. Not one of them could get through. But when I fell, If el! hard.
Michael Krebs. Everything a first love should not be. Twice her age. A different religion. A different background. A different country. The father of three sons. The husband of his high-school sweetheart.
And the other strikes against him? He was a close colleague. He was in a position of power over her. He was insensitive. He was domineering. But they had been good friends. He had been her mentor. All of which, of course, had evaporated into thin air when Rowena met somebody else, because the only way to eliminate Michael Krebs was to cut him off, cut him out.
Rowena wondered what the hell to wear. Something plain, but flattering, she decided; if she dressed deliberately frumpy, Krebs would think she was sending him a signal. She had to look like this was no big deal He was married,
she had a terrific partner, and they worked together. What was in the past will stay there.
She picked a loose Armani sweater dress in buttery cashmere and teamed it with sandals and a thick wooden bangle, brushing her hair to one side and choosing a bare foundation with a muted berry lipstick; a natural, stylish look, nothing too provocative. She finished it off with a spritz of scent: 36o°, by Perry Ellis, a clean, fresh fragrance.
Yeah. That’s perfect, Rowena told herself, heading out of the door.
She looked put-together and in control.
She could handle this.
‘Hey, it’s good to see you again,’ beamed Amy Tritten, the Mirror, Mirror receptionist, with complete insincerity when Rowena’s white Lotus Esprit pulled into the parking lot. She was walking across to the main studio with a sheaf of papers, immaculate in a navy Adrienne Vittadini suit. None of the women who worked with Krebs had ever been glad to see Rowena Gordon.
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‘Did you want Ms Lincoln? Because she called to say she needed to see Michael right away, but she can’t get here for a couple of hours.”
‘No,’ Rowena answered, wondering why Barbara needed to see Krebs so urgently. ‘I have an appointment with Michael to discuss the new record.’
Amy smiled s!ightly. ‘He’s in the office. I’ll take you.’ Rowena followed the younger woman through the studio complex, trying to calm her nerves, smiling brightly at all the engineers and technicians who waved hello. This was going to be OK. Actually, it was a good thing that they have this discussion. She could use some help with the Zenith launch right now, and Michael was an expert on radio. He seemed to be able to tell what programmers would go for merely by looking at a CD.
She was shown into the office. Krebs was drinking a cup of coffee, talking animatedly to a pretty woman in her late thirties, her sleek brown hair cut in a neat bob. As Rowena walked in, she gave her a friendly smile.
‘Rowena, I’m glad you could make it,’ Michael said. ‘Have you met my wife?’
How she got through that day, Rowena could never figure out.
Deborah Krebs was just the start. Not a bimbo, not a frump, not a bitch; an attractive, intelligent, pleasant woman, who took an interest in Rowena’s career, and who obviously loved her husband. She had one hand in his throughout their conversation; less a signal of ownership than the relaxed, natural posture of a woman completely at ease with her partner.
Rowena had felt a fist ofjealousyclutch at her stomach with almost physical force. She felt her legs tremble. For a second, she couldn’t breathe.
‘Debbie, right? It’s nice to meet you,’ she said.
nd at that moment she blessed every unhappy moment she’d spent at an English boarding school. The old reflexes snapped into focus: composure, composure, composure. Shep>
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told his wife how much she’d heard about her. She asked meaningless questions about the health of her boys. She rhapsodized about John Metcalf.
And she avoided Michael’s eyes.
When they moved on to Zenith, Rowena took notes, knowing that Oberman would ask her about the meeting and she wasn’t registering a single word Michael said. She didn’t hurry, she didn’t rush, and when she got up to leave she shook both their hands and told them that they must all have dinner when John was next in New York. All the way across the complex to her car, she had a happy, contented expression on her face, like someone who’s just finished a production meeting with an old friend. And when she finally, blessedly, pulled .out of the parking lot, she still didn’t cry. The pain was far too deep for that. But there was worse to come.
She knew,something was wrong the moment she walked through the doors.
At a.m. on a Wednesday morning, Musica Towers should be buzzing-job candidates waiting anxiously in the foyer, bikers dropping off DATs and artwork, visitors being shown up to offices and her motley crew of staffers running everywhere. But today there as nothing. The lobby was completely empty, the black polished marble of the walls and floor ominously silent. Not even the duty receptionist was at the front desk.
Has there been a fire or something? What the hell’s going on? Rowena thought.
At that moment, a security guard in the Musica Entertainment uniform, accompanied by a short man in a dark suit, marched into the lobby from thb ground-floor cor
ridors. She didn’t recognize either one of them. ‘Ms Gordon?’ asked the man. ‘Yes,’ she replied, suddenly scared.
‘My name is Johnson. I’m with Harman, Kennedy and
Co. ‘
Her heart contracted. What in God’s name did that mean?’