Dirty Diana by January James

Chapter Sixteen

“Ican’t believe this,” Carlos squealed, hanging up the phone.

We were on our way to the MusicWeek awards having been offered free seats thanks to the unexpected success of our campaign.

“The cast of The Mayhem Show have declared their support too. They’ve donated three hundred thousand dollars to the fund…”

I shook my head in disbelief. Only two weeks after the campaign had hit the newsfeeds, we’d been forced to open a bank account: rich music enthusiasts all over the country had wanted to donate to our cause, to keep Phoenix afloat. I’d had to hire a campaign manager—an ex-Democrat—to figure out how we could spend it within legal limits to further our cause but also to help secure our future.

The campaign had become so mainstream it was now considered trendy to be behind it. Alternative radio stations across the states were reporting phenomenal increases in listeners and YouTube had reported an all-time high in advertising profits for that quarter. It was no longer just affecting us. The campaign had impacted everyone.

Restaurants had jumped on the bandwagon by donating a portion of meal profits to the cause, and playing only Phoenix-signed acts while patrons dined. Talk shows were giving slots to new musicians to capitalize on the heightened interest in alternative music. Big shot artists were dedicating their awards to unsigned acts and instigating grass roots projects to encourage underprivileged kids to learn music. Recording studios were offering ‘Unsigned’ mornings to allow kids to record at a heavy discount. Music fans were carving out a new ‘influencer’ niche becoming citizen talent scouts for hot new acts. It turned out the threat to have Phoenix Music closed down might well be the one reason it could be saved.

“Is he going to be here?” Carlos asked me as we stepped out of the cab.

“By ‘he’ I’m assuming you mean Mr. Peyton-Harris?”

“Of course. I can’t bear to say his name.”

“I’m guessing not. He’s not going to make any friends by being here, not now the word is out he’s the one trying to throw us off the map.”

“Phew. So I can get totally smashed without his beady eyes judging me.”

“I wish they were beady,” I sighed, exasperated. “It would make hating him a lot easier.”

“You’re at a disadvantage, you know,” he said, looping my arm through his. “You saw him before he became the monster. He sucked you in like an orchid mantis. I never had that pleasure. I knew what an asshole he was before I saw him. That tainted my view somewhat.”

“I still can’t get my head around it, Carlos. There are moments when I speak to him he seems to go back to the Jude I knew before he came here. Not that I knew him hugely well then, but, you know what I mean…”

“You knew him in all the important ways,” Carlos said, pushing open the doors for us both. “And don’t forget, if what you told us was not a figment of your imagination, there were feelings on his part too. He’s not made of stone, as much as he’d like everyone to believe.”

“I can’t help but wish this would all go away and I could just start afresh, but it isn’t is it? It isn’t going to go away. He really is trying to get us out, and I really can’t roll over and let him do that.”

Carlos un-looped his arm and turned to face me. “No, Diana. It really isn’t going away and he isn’t going to get any nicer. I hate to say this because I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re never going to be able to go back to him. Nothing is ever going to happen between you again. It wouldn’t be allowed while the two of you are fighting for position, and once the restructure has finally been done, whatever the outcome, too much time and shit will have passed between you, you won’t want him anywhere near. I suggest you start getting used to that fact. I’m saying this because I love you. You’re clearly hanging on for something that isn’t going to happen. I don’t want to see you getting even more hurt than you already are.”

“I just…” I sniffed and looked over Carlos’ shoulder at the very tempting table of champagne flutes, just waiting for me to get my hands on all of them. “I couldn’t believe my luck, you know? This gorgeous man who was seriously the best sex I’ve ever had, wanted to actually be with me—at one point, anyway. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, it’s me, Dreary Diana. What the hell did he see in me?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what he saw,” Carlos replied, sternly. “He saw a stunningly beautiful, kind-hearted and passionate woman. Someone he would be damned lucky to have by his side. And you’re smart and, you know, opposites attract.”

I smirked and gave him a giant hug. This seemed to be how I operated these days, my emotions swinging wildly from confident and ass-kicking to unsure and second-guessing.

“Thank you, Carlos,” I smiled, into his shoulder. “I need a bloody drink.”

“There’s my girl,” he replied. “There’s a table full of bubbles, right there, with our names written all over them.”

We helped ourselves to three flutes each before moving on to find our table. I was slightly tipsy by the time we sat down and I welcomed the food that would arrive no doubt in teeny tiny quantities in due course. It might have been New York, home to giant portions, but this was showbusiness, home of the size zero.

* * *

We atethe food and clapped respectfully as the winner of each award was announced.

“Hardly any indies, yet again,” Carlos grunted, after the last award was given out. “There’s nothing different anymore; it’s all so samey. I’m disappointed in MusicWeek; they’re supposed to champion diversity and originality.”

I sighed next to him. He was right. The field of music seemed to be awash with generic, soulless artists who sang about the exact same thing: love and heartbreak. Nothing about teenage angst, social strife or emotional turmoil. It was as though the punk era, grunge and Britpop had never happened. If today’s mainstream music was to be believed, there were no issues in the world other than the fact the boy next door kissed and cheated.

“Excuse me…” I looked up to see a middle-aged gentleman hovering over our table. “I hope you don’t mind me approaching you; I saw your name on the table list back there.”

“No problem at all,” I replied, smiling.

“My name’s Randy Nolan. Executive Vice President of MSG Live.”

“Oh!” I spun round to face him properly. This was an unexpected, unprepared for, once-in-a-lifetime meeting. “MSG—Madison Square Gardens. I know exactly who you are and it’s an honor. How do you do?”

I held out my hand and simultaneously booted myself under the table. How do you do? Who even said that any more, apart from ninety-six-year-old men who still lived in English country piles that were crumbling into rubble around their ears?

He smiled and shook my hand.

“I’m great. I wanted to come over here and congratulate you on your campaign.”

“Thank you,” I said, kicking Carlos to get out of his seat. “Would you like to join us for a few minutes?”

“If you don’t mind, I would like that. I have a proposal for you.”

One last kick in the shin and Carlos was up and out of his seat.

“Here,” he smiled through a wince. “Take my seat. I need the bathroom anyway…”

“Thanks Carlos!” I said, brightly.

“…Right after I’ve visited the emergency room,” he muttered under his breath as he limped away.

“A proposal? This sounds very interesting.”

He sat down and clasped his hands between his legs. I’d wanted to meet with this man my entire career, but I never thought I’d get the chance. High ranking venue execs didn’t meet with lowly indie VPs often, if at all; they usually left that kind of thing to the artist relations team.

“Well, I’ve been watching your campaign to save Phoenix Music with great interest, I have to say.”

“I’m flattered to hear that.” Flattered was an understatement.

“My team first alerted me to the way you began championing unsigned acts with such passion. Honestly? I had no idea what you were thinking. We all knew something was going on over at Empirical. We’d heard about the Peyton-Harris appointment and we knew that didn’t bode well for the group’s subsidiaries, so we were thinking, what’s this girl up to, starting something like this?”

“I don’t think you were the only one,” I said, my attention still stuck on his knowledge of ‘the Peyton-Harris appointment’. I was impressed at Jude’s notoriety.

“But as soon as the hashtag leaked out, I got it. What a strategy and what a tactic. You are one ballsy woman, you know?”

“Thank you,” I blushed. “I’m assuming that was meant as a compliment?”

“It was,” he said, in all seriousness. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because you have shone a light on this undercurrent of music fandom that’s been bubbling beneath the surface with no valid outlet. I mean, you’ve got all these social networks—YouTube, TikTok, Instagram—but no one place for the cream to really rise to the top, y’know? Until now. You’ve created this platform where music fans can come to discover, speculate on and start following semi-approved, brand new acts. It’s genius. You’ve really tapped into something here.”

“Thanks,” I said again. I was starting to feel a little embarrassed. Here was an industry guru, praising me and my idea as though it was the best inception since The Beatles.

“What I’d like to propose…” he said, pulling his seat forward so that his knees were touching mine, and we were out of earshot of the rest of the people sitting at our table, “…is a free concert at the Garden, featuring your acts and a handful of unsigned acts that we ask the public to vote for.”

I swallowed a dry lump in my throat.

“Are you serious? A concert? At Madison Square Gardens? For my acts?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “Shh. I’d like to keep this under our hats until we can hash out the details, ok?”

“Oh my God,” I breathed out, clutching my chest as though it were about to blow up.

“We would foot the entire bill in return for joint brand exposure.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, the idea of having all my acts play at the Garden still blowing my mind.

“I would want to create a brand for this event—Phoenix-X-Madison, something along those lines. Our brand is becoming a bit old hat; it would do us the world of good to be seen not only to be championing the same unsigned acts that you’ve unearthed, but to be seen at the heart of their exposure too. It would be obvious that Phoenix is the driving force behind the event, but I’d want the public to know Madison Square Garden shares the same passion.”

I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. The biggest venue any of my acts had played at was the Bowery. The Gardens were fifty times the size. I wondered for a brief moment whether our acts would be able to do it, or whether they’d freak out at the sheer size of the place. And the unsigned acts… that represented a giant risk, not even knowing them while asking them to play to an audience of tens of thousands…

“I’ve got MTV interested in showing it, too.”

“What?” My good old British manners had left the building. I could hear my mother correcting me: “It’s ‘pardon’, dear. Not ‘what’.”

“I’m good friends with Kober…”

“The…” I almost choked. “Robbie Kober, the president of the network?”

“The very same. He’s already put in an informal bid. We could both be paid handsomely for this. You wouldn’t need to worry if the worst happened and the label is scrapped.”

“Any profits would go into our campaign fund,” I said. I couldn’t take that money for myself. I didn’t need to be rich; I just needed to keep my job.

“Well, what do you think? You interested?”

I couldn’t believe the answer wasn’t scrawled obviously across my face.

“Yes!” I gasped. “Yes, absolutely!”

“That’s settled then,” he grinned. “I’ll have some papers sent over first thing and I’ll set up another meeting so we can hash out the details.”

“Fantastic,” I replied, fighting the urge to jump up and down and squeal at the top of my lungs. I bit down on my lip as I watched him amble casually back to his table, as though he made people’s dreams come true every day. Then again, running a place like Madison Square Gardens, he probably did.

Carlos sat back down heavily and stared at me with expression that conveyed how deeply unimpressed he was at having been dismissed.

“Carlos,” I whispered, grabbing both his hands. “Have you ever been backstage at Madison Square Gardens?”

“Are you kidding?” He eyed me with sarcasm. “I fucking wish.”

“Well, your wish is my command,” I grinned. “We’ve just got ourselves a gig.”

I watched as his face fell in disbelief and then gasped as he flung his arms around me, almost crushing every bone.

“Diana Delaney,” he said, squeezing me tightly. “What have you done?”