‘Okay, Brad. If anyone calls, I’ll tell them you’re in a meeting.’
She watched him as he sauntered out of the pub, his hands deep in his pockets.
She knew he’d agree. What choice did he have?
She smiled, thinking what a pleasant alternative to pain a smidge of power was.
Brad woke at six o’clock, feeling disorientated and hungover. He showered, made a strong cup of coffee, then picked up the telephone and dialled Tony Bryant’s number.
‘Yep, everything she told you is true. She’s a very wealthy young lady with a hell of a head for figures. But she’s still naive emotionally. Don’t you dare manipulate her, Brad.’
‘Huh? I think it’s her who’s manipulating me. She holds all the cards and is asking for half of the company.’
Tony chuckled. ‘That’s my girl. She’s had a bloody good teacher, don’t forget, Brad,’ he quipped.
‘So you think she’s kosher?’
‘Oh yeah, totally. Helen’s as straight as a die. If I were you, I’d snap her and her money up before someone else does.’
‘You think I should give her half the company?’
‘Well, from what you’ve said, there isn’t a company for much longer. Remember, half of something is better than all of nothing.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Anyway, thanks for the advice.’
‘Any time. Let me know what happens.’
‘I will. Bye, Tony.’
Brad swung out of his flat at ten to eight and headed for the Civic, a trendy club just off Brewer Street. Watching a potential signing was the last thing he wanted to do when he wasn’t sure whether he’d got a record company or not, but the earache he’d receive from Freddy if he didn’t turn up just wasn’t worth it.
Brad pushed his way through the crowd at the bar and ordered a beer, then tried to find a dark corner so Freddy wouldn’t spot him.
The group came on stage to decent applause and a lot of wolf-whistling. There was no doubt they were an attractive bunch of lads.
The group started with one of the songs on the demo tape. They played it well and the audience’s reaction was positive. Then the bass guitarist came forward and took the microphone.
‘I’ve got a new one for you all. It’s called “Can Someone Tell Me Where She’s Gone?” Okay, let’s go.’
The bass guitarist sang the first verse alone, accompanied only by the lead guitar. He had a great voice, deep and melodious. At the chorus, the band backed him with tuneful harmonies and a well-constructed arrangement. The middle eight needed some work, but the tune was undoubtedly catchy. Brad felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. The audience had fallen silent, but after the last note a huge surge of applause rang round the club.
The song was something special. Brad could still hear thehaunting melody line in his head. It was a perfect Christmas debut single. It was August now...under four months to record the single, organise the PR and launch the group onto the scene. If they could compose songs like that on a regular basis, he was on to a winner.
Brad stopped himself. It was pointless getting excited until he knew what was happening with Metropolitan. On the other hand, if he did bite the bullet and sell Helen McCarthy half the company, this band could be his.
Brad had heard enough. He left the Civic and walked back to the office. He unlocked the front door, ran up the stairs and searched his cluttered desk for his address book. Having found Helen’s details, he locked up the office and hailed a taxi.
‘Hello.’ She was wearing a dressing gown and her face was shiny with some kind of cream that she’d hastily tried to remove before answering the door.
‘Sorry it’s so late, Helen, love. Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ She let him pass.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he commented as he stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room.
‘Thanks. Please sit down, Brad.’
He did so. Helen took the armchair opposite and waited expectantly.
