Dirty Diana by January James

Chapter Eighteen

“Thirty minutes ‘til showtime!”

The voice of a runner boomed through the backstage corridor.

I was fighting hard to get a grip and keep a million plates spinning in the air. Thankfully, every single one of my acts were feeling good about the show. They were calm—or as calm as they could be knowing they about to play live in front of twenty-thousand people in the crowd and a further eight million people via MTV.

“Can someone please check on Ayda for me?” I shouted to one of our talent managers. “She needed a change of shoes and she’s on after Jilted and Alana Malone.”

The manager nodded before sprinting down the corridor towards Ayda’s dressing room.

The sounds backstage alone were electric. Guitars, drums, keyboards, all going through testing on stage, the vibrations throbbing through the walls; the sound of singers practicing their ranges inside dressing rooms and along corridors; the low hum of the fans vying for position in the audience; the efficient barking of orders from the MTV producers running around with cameras, boom mics and trailing wires.

Amidst all this, I heard the pounding of feet coming towards me. “Where’s your radio, woman? I’ve been looking for you for an entire freaking decade,” Carlos panted. “Bring back CBGB’s; this place is like the Grand Canyon. I think I’ve done enough exercise to last me the year.”

My phone rang. “Can you hold a sec?” I said as I answered, then muted it. “What do you need?”

“Sheridan says Jim Rutter from Rolling Stone wants a word before the show starts,” Carlos panted. “Seriously, where’s your radio?”

“Marla took it when I went to the bathroom. Jim Rutter? The editor? Jeez.” I had no time to get nervous. And really, I should have expected this. The whole music industry wanted a piece of this event. “Where is he?”

“Suite Sixteen.”

“I can’t leave the guys down here, Carlos…”

“You’ll be done before the boys from Jilted go on. You can walk down with them,” Carlos reasoned. “And besides, the whole talent team will be right there with them. We’ve got managers, therapists, puke bucket carriers, professional musicians ready to jump in if they get stage fright. Everything is completely covered, ok?”

I could see the veins popping out the side of his temples.

“Go talk to Jim, will you? You’re giving me a hernia here.”

“Fine, ok, I’m going. Tell the band I’ll be right back.”

I ran down the corridor in my sneakers—the only appropriate footwear for a night like this—and remembered the person holding on the other end of the phone.

“Diana Delaney here,” I panted, taking the steps two at a time. “Thank you for holding.”

“I’m outside,” came his voice.

I stopped at the top of the stairs to catch my breath. How did I not look at my cell and see his name?

“You’re here,” I replied, my voice unintentionally breathy.

“You did invite me, remember?” I heard his smile.

“Yeah, um…” I could barely think. Hearing his voice had completely thrown me.

“I won’t keep you. Jim Rutter is expecting you.”

“What? How do you…?” Then I realized. “I didn’t mute you.”

“It’s ok, you’re busy. Go see him. I’ll come find you backstage.”

His kindness sent my gut reeling back to the first night we spent together and I felt momentarily swamped with grief. Since our lapse in control and our subsequent agreement to let each other do what we had to do, I hadn’t seen or heard from him. Several weeks had passed and I’d been completely consumed by preparations for this night. I’d heard from colleagues across the business he was alive and well, continuing a thorough root and branch review of the entire operation. But he’d left me alone. He knew I needed to do this. Whether it would change his mind about closing my label or not, he was letting me do this for my own sake.

“Ok,” I said, clearing my throat. “Just ask security to send you up to Suite Sixteen.”

“Sure. See you soon.”

He hung up and I took a couple of breaths to steady myself, then I jogged along the corridor to the famous hospitality lounge.

I spotted Jim chatting to Randy Nolan and Robbie Kober. I was starting to understand that all the top dogs in showbusiness were best buddies. It was as though as soon as you reached a certain level, you were in the club.

“Speak of the devil,” I heard Randy say as I approached them.

“I wondered why my ears were burning,” I smiled. “Jim. Diana Delaney. It’s an absolute pleasure.”

I recognized the signature glasses as he enthusiastically shook my hand. “Likewise,” he replied. “Shall we sit?”

He led me to the front row of seats overlooking the venue, where we could see the tens of thousands gathered below, waiting for their favorite fledgling acts to come on stage. I’d only been in this room once before when we did an initial recce a few weeks earlier, but Jim obviously knew his way around.

“A regular here, are you?”

“A perk of the job, Miss Delaney.”

He smiled again as we sat down on the big, legendary leather chairs. “Well, Diana,” he began. “I rarely interview non-artists, but it seems you are the true star of this event.”

“I’m sorry?” I gasped. I wasn’t expecting a full-on interview. Maybe just a couple of quotes or pointers, but not an actual interview.

My blood ran cold as my mind raced through the implications. So far, my name hadn’t been connected in any significant public way to this campaign. It had all been focused on Phoenix and the names of the artists. If anyone’s name had become well-known through this campaign, it was Jude’s, and not in a positive way.

I wasn’t naïve enough to think the campaign had been contained within the shores of the US either; I knew our acts had fans in Europe and Asia too. But Rolling Stone…

Rolling Stonewas sold on newsstands across the UK. If I, personally, was featured in its pages, I would be taken right back to the place I never wanted my face to be shown again. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk anyone putting two and two together. I couldn’t risk anyone suspecting the Diana Delaney they may have heard of in relation to some quirky alternative rock campaign in the States might be the same Diana Delaney who fled her small town in England four years ago, never to be heard of again. Until now. The thought frightened me. In fact, scratch that. The thought terrified me.

“Wouldn’t you rather interview some of the acts, Mr. Rutter? I’m sure your readers would be far more interested in them.”

“Believe it or not, no,” he replied. “We’ve already been inundated with requests for coverage of you, specifically, Ms. Delaney. You should be flattered. This kind of exposure, for someone in your position, could be a lifeline. A very lucrative one.”

“You mean that if my label is closed down, other labels might want to snap me up?”

“Exactly.”

I weighed the risk as quickly as I could. Having certain people discover where I lived, potentially putting my life in danger, or being so exposed I could secure myself a career for life. Think, Diana, think!

I didn’t have time to. I knew he was standing behind me. I could smell his musky odor and knew it was him without having to look round.

“Good evening,” Jude said, bending down to kiss me on the cheek.

Jim looked at us both in surprise. Clearly, he’d been of the same opinion as the rest of the industry—that Jude and I were at war, loggerheads, barely speaking. Our heated arguments were heard and relayed from our own offices all the way across town to Sony’s. Our heated mistakes, thankfully, weren’t.

“You must be Jim Rutter. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Jude Peyton-Harris,” Jim said, slowly. His expression betrayed his curiosity about a man who’d been hired to tear down a portion of Rutter’s beloved music industry. But Jude was charming. I knew that better than anyone. And Jim was already putty in his hands. “I was about to interview your arch nemesis. Would you like to hear what she has to say?”

“I… er,” I began, flustered. “I really don’t think I can do an interview now. I wouldn’t do it justice. My mind is all over the place and I really need to focus on my acts. I’m so sorry.”

Jude glanced at me with a look of confusion. He was probably wondering why I was passing up an opportunity to screw him even further into the ground by not giving an interview and airing all his dirty laundry out to the biggest music readership in the world.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, getting to my feet.

“It’s ok,” Jude said, putting a hand on my arm, sending sparks coursing through my veins.

Jim looked from Jude to me and back to Jude, not disguising his frustration at missing out on an interview.

“Maybe after the show,” I said to Jim, making a mental note to disappear completely so it would never happen. The more I thought about it, the worse an idea it sounded. I wanted a future in this industry so badly it hurt, but I couldn’t risk my life for it.

“Jilted are on their way to the stage door,” Jude said, softly. “Why don’t you head down there? I’ll speak to Mr. Rutter for a few minutes, then I’ll come and join you.”

I nodded, mutely. What the hell was I doing? This whole concert had come about because I’d wanted to protect my job and my label, but now I was turning down the opportunity to secure myself a place in the halls of fame. I didn’t think Jim Rutter would treat me too kindly after this.

Jude leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“Let me deal with it, Diana. Go.”

“Enjoy the show, Jim,” I said to him, then turned and made my way quickly out of the suite and down to the stage door.

The bandmembers were shitting themselves. I could see Dree, one of the talent managers coaxing the lead singer down from a giant speaker. He was shaking from head to toe.

“How long now?” I asked one of the runners.

“Five minutes,” he replied.

“Dree,” I said, calmly. “Can I?”

“Please, Di,” she said, her eyes wide and anxious.

I stepped forward and took hold of the singer’s hands.

“Jimmy, it’s me, Diana. Remember, we met at your show at Wild Birds?”

He looked up and nodded briefly, the whites of his eyes stark against the chalky black backdrop.

“Listen,” I said, in my most soothing voice. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. We’re all scared. Every artist that goes on this stage is scared.”

My fingers vibrated with his trembling.

“But we have to be,” I continued. “If we’re not scared, it doesn’t mean anything. You know that, don’t you? You’re scared because this is everything you ever dreamed of. You’re scared because you don’t want to make an ass of yourself. Well, let me ask you this.”

I reached up on my tiptoes to draw his eyes down to look into my own.

“How many artists do you know have made an ass of themselves on this stage?”

He shrugged.

“That would be none,” I answered for him. “And do you know why? It’s because the high you’re gonna get as you walk up those steps, the fucking euphoria you’re gonna feel when you’re up on that stage facing all those people who are here for you, is going to overtake everything you are feeling right now. Do you hear me?”

I had his attention. The trembling had slowed.

“How old were you when you first dreamed of playing on this stage?”

“Six,” he croaked.

“Ok, imagine I’m your six-year-old self, right now. What are you going to tell him, huh? What are you going to do?”

He looked at me as though I was some crazy person.

“I… I don’t know…”

“Three minutes…”

I turned to the runner and held up my hand. “No more counting. We’re going on when we’re ready, you got that?”

He nodded, nervously, then spoke quietly into his radio.

“Take your time, buddy,” I said to the singer, who was staring at me, wide-eyed. “What have you got to say to me?”

“I’m going to… um… I’m—”

“Good,” I coaxed. “Come on. Zone everything out. I mean, everything. Your only focus is you at six years old. What are you telling me? You’re outside the stage door to Madison Square Garden. You’ve wanted to play on this stage for twelve years. What are you telling me, right now?”

“I’m going to play on that stage,” he rushed out.

“What stage?”

“Madison Square Garden.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m going to play at Madison Square Garden.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in a band.”

“What, just any band?”

“I’m in a great band.”

“Just great?” I pushed him, dared him.

“Fucking great.”

“Just fucking great?”

“Fucking awesome,” he replied, his conviction growing.

“So, hang on, tell me again what you’re about to do.”

“I’m about to play on stage at Madison Square Gardens, man,” he replied, raising his voice. “Because I’m in a fucking awesome band.”

“And you’re part of something huge,” I urged.

“I’m part of something fucking huge.”

“And you’re going to love every minute of it.”

“I’m going to love EVERY FUCKING MINUTE,” he said, turning the heads of the rest of the band towards him. The relief on their faces was palpable.

“Now tell me again,” I said, quietly.” I’m your six-year-old self, ok? Seriously. What have you got to say to him?”

He jumped down from the speaker, grabbed my face with both his hands and stared deep into my eyes. I felt someone tense beside me but I was as embedded in this personal experience as was the lead singer of the first band to hit the stage.

“You did it,” he said, his eighteen-year-old irises swimming. “You fucking did it. I’m about to make our dream come true. I’m going to get on that stage and play at Madison Square fucking Gardens, dude.” He choked back a laugh. “And I’m going to fucking love every minute.”

Then he lunged towards me, planting a giant kiss square on my lips, before releasing my face and turning back to his band.

“Let’s go,” he instructed, and they followed him up the steps.