Dirty Diana by January James
Chapter Twenty
Carlos and Sheridan sat opposite me, staring with wide eyes, jaws on the table.
I’d taken them to Buvette as a treat for their immense work in helping organize the concert at the Garden, and I’d just announced the next stage of my plan. Phoenix was the only proper indie label left on the east coast. We’d already proved that the public still wanted indie music. I wanted to carve space for it in the mainstream and take some of the airwaves usually reserved for the likes of Maroon freaking 5, and give it over to bands and artists that were doing something different, more creative, more inclusive. I wanted my own show. Not for me personally, but for the music scene. A show that celebrated alternative music.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” Carlos said eventually, projecting his own exhaustion onto me. We’d all worked incredibly hard and the concert had wrung every last drop of energy from all of us. The difference with me was, I had no other life. This was it. It was the only reason I got out of bed.
“Do you think that’s what winners say when they reach the last hurdle? No. They keep going. Because only the winners stick it out to the end. The losers give up way before.”
“Is that your motivational speech?” He whined, cocking an eyebrow.
“He’s right,” Sheridan added. “You need to take a breath, honey. You’ll have a nervous breakdown.”
I paused to consider that for a moment. Perhaps a nervous breakdown would be the answer to my problems. Everyone had told me I was going to lose Phoenix anyway. But no, I couldn’t just roll over and let it happen, and there was still a small niggling feeling in the back of my head that something, just something, might expose itself and give me a way in. I couldn’t look away; I couldn’t take a break. If I wasn’t in the thick of it, every hour of every day, I might miss whatever weakness existed in my opposition, whoever and whatever it was.
I hadn’t told Carlos and Sheridan what Jude had told me and they had no idea we were still, intermittently, sleeping together. As always, despite everything that had happened between us, Jude and I had reverted to not speaking, not meeting, and simply letting each other get on with doing what we had to do.
We were still opposed but there was an understanding between us. A level of respect. Love. We both knew nothing could come of that love, which made it feel reckless and heightened. I no longer hated him; I craved him. If ever my thoughts strayed from Phoenix, from the risk of it all being taken away, they landed squarely on him. I’d replayed every moment we’d spent together, every time we’d failed to keep our hands to ourselves, every word we’d spoken, every climax we’d shared. My mind might have been wholly and entirely my own, but my heart was his.
“Look, you guys don’t need to do anything just yet,” I assured them. “I’m going to start putting some calls into various networks and production companies. I’ll draw up a synopsis, maybe arrange some meetings. If anyone bites, I’ll bring you on board. I know you have enough on your plates with just managing the acts and everything else.”
“You’re right there,” Sheridan replied. “I’m no longer the marketing woman. I seem to have doubled up as a therapist, a lawyer, a tour promoter, a manager, a talent booker. It’s crazy. Things were booming before the Garden, but now they’re insane.”
I smiled, sympathetically. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing, Shez. And you too,” I nodded to Carlos. “It means so much to me. But I’m almost insignificant here. It’s about the music industry now. It’s about keeping that niche alive for indie bands to thrive. You know that, right?”
They both nodded. “Yeah, we get it, Di,” Carlos sighed. “And I love it, I really do.”
“Why don’t you take a couple of days off,” I suggested. “No-one will die. Just direct any queries to me; I’ll handle it.”
His faced lifted briefly. “Are you sure? I’d hate to leave you in the middle of all this.”
“I’m positive. I’ll be fine here. Just brief your teams before you go, and take a few days to just switch off, ok?”
They both nodded, gratefully, while I tried not to think too much about how the hell I was going to manage without them. Then the sound of thudding feet grew louder, to be quickly joined by the sound of someone panting heavily.
“Marla!” Sheridan gasped. “Are you ok?”
My assistant appeared, completely red-faced and panic-stricken.
“Thank… God… you’re… here,” she stammered between breaths. “I couldn’t get hold of you…”
“No signal,” Carlos said.
“What’s up?” I asked her, scooting to the side to let her sit.
She answered my question by slapping a newspaper down on the table for us all to see.
Battle of the Brits, the headline screeched. Beneath it was a photograph of me storming down the corridor at Madison Square Garden, while Jude stood in the doorway of the storeroom, his black t-shirt sticking to his chest, his hands planted firmly into his pockets, a frown etched clearly across his face. Only I knew what that frown had really meant. But panic filled me. What else had the photographer seen? What had they heard?
I snatched up the paper and started scanning through the article quickly.
The musicians weren’t the only people venting their emotions at Madison Square Garden on Thursday night. Infamous business fixer and the man tasked with restructuring the legendary Empirical Records, Jude Peyton-Harris, and subsidiary label boss Diana Delaney were in clear disagreement about something, most probably the future of the label behind the show: Phoenix Music.
I scanned further down.
Diana Delaney joined Empirical as a talent scout in 2018. She was the very scout behind the spotting of multi-platinum-winning Empirical-signed Kirian, and indie star Cherry Tatum, who became the first act to be signed by Phoenix. Empirical bosses took a huge gamble appointing Delaney as VP of a brand new label with no prior experience of running a business, but Alex Jefferson, then CEO, said at the time: “[Delaney] has a rare talent for knowing what lands well with today’s music consumers. We want to nurture that talent and amplify it through the growth of a new, highly targeted subsidiary.”
I swallowed a hard lump, remembering how Alex had supported me, unwaveringly.
Unfortunately, sales in the first three years reflected Delaney’s inexperience and it wasn’t until the board hired Peyton-Harris to conduct a root and branch review that Delaney stepped up to the plate and launched campaigns that have dragged Phoenix Music out of the red. Only time will tell if the phoenix will rise from the ashes of this fire. In the meantime, the industry is left speculating over the relationship between Peyton-Harris and Delaney, both Brits on a conquest to achieve polar opposite goals. Peyton-Harris, who studied at Harrow before quitting Loughborough University in 2014, is said to be “livid” about Delaney’s “antagonistic pursuit” of column inches, too late in the day, according to a source. Meanwhile, Delaney, who graduated from Cambridge University in 2018 and arrived in New York only days later, is thought to be “defiant and determined” to save her label from supposedly inevitable collapse.
I felt a white heat envelope me and my senses numbed. They had my picture, they’d linked me to Cambridge. All the dates lined up. My eyes flicked to the masthead. It was the New York Times. Available in every decent newsagent in the UK. And I was on the front fucking page.
“Di, are you ok?” Marla put an arm around me but I hardly felt it; the room was spinning.
“I… um,” I stuttered. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Shall I come with you?” Sheridan asked, her face betraying the fact she was taken aback by my reaction to the article. Shouldn’t I have been pleased? It was coverage. It was an astute observation about the dynamics between the man who was threatening to tear down a perfectly good music label, and the woman who was trying to save it. That’s how they would see it. That’s how everyone would see it. Except me.
“Sure, honey,” Marla said, as she moved to let me pass.
“I’m ok,” I said to Sheridan, my smile weak and unconvincing. Still, I waved her away when she attempted to insist. Then I walked—God knows how—to the bathroom and collapsed to the floor in the nearest cubicle. Everything was shaking. My hands, my knees, my teeth, even the ass I was sitting on. The white heat still engulfed me and I couldn’t think straight. I knew what this was. It was PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. The idea that my new life was going to be discovered had sent me spiraling. I needed to get over it, and quickly, before anyone suspected anything more than mere shame in being associated with Jude in an article which was essentially about two business people bitching at each other.
I took some deep breaths and tried to clear my mind. I was scared but, so far, I had no reason to be. He was in England. He wouldn’t have even seen the paper yet, and he may never see it. I could well be worrying for nothing. The level of risk was the same as always. In a couple of days maybe it could be higher, but right now I was as safe as I had been for the last few years. The shaking slowed down and I wiped the cold sweat from my brow with a tissue. After a few more minutes had passed, I clambered to my feet and walked out to the vanity unit. I placed my hands either side of the wash basin and stared at my reflection.
“You’re going to be ok,” I said to myself. “You have to believe that, otherwise, what’s the point? You may as well give up now. You may as well keep running.”
I watched as my expression changed from one of a frightened rabbit in the headlights to one of reluctant determination. I had to go back out there and pretend everything was ok. I had no other choice. I couldn’t tell anyone the truth; I would sooner die. I took one last deep breath and walked back out to the restaurant.
Three faces looked up at me as I returned to the table.
“Are you ok?” Sheridan mouthed, and I nodded.
“The article’s not that bad,” Carlos surmised. “It’s more embarrassing for him, I’d say.”
“I know,” I said. “I think it was just the shock of seeing us both in the same article. I didn’t think we would be that newsworthy. Surely this whole campaign is about the bands and the music, not the suits who are fighting it out behind the scenes.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Carlos frowned, turning the picture towards me. “Papers love beautiful people. And look at you both. He might be an asshole, but he’s one hot, brooding asshole. I mean, check out those abs for God’s sake. It’s a good thing he doesn’t wear black every day; I might have defected to his side by now.”
I couldn’t help but snort out a laugh.
“And you…” he continued. “I know you were wearing your ‘comfy’ clothes but you are gorgeous. Look at your long, flowing hair and your, frankly, ridiculously beautiful eyebrows. You make a real hot mean girl in that picture. I’m sure every man who walks past that paper is going to want a piece of you.”
I shuddered at the thought.
“They had to print that picture, Di. The story is neither here nor there. But you two are the most beautiful people in Manhattan right now. And they’ve caught you mid-fight, post-fight, whatever. It’s human interest at its best.”
I sighed, heavily.
“Can we put it away?” I pleaded. “I don’t want to see it anymore. I’ve got better things to think about.”
Carlos, Sheridan and Marla exchanged glances before Marla tucked the paper under her arm and rose to leave.
“Marl,” I said, stopping her. “Take my seat.” I looked back at them all. “I’m really sorry; I’ve lost my appetite.”
I threw my company credit card down onto the table. “Have whatever you like. You’ve earned it. I’m going to head home and get an early night.”
Marla looked stricken. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have interrupted your evening…”
“It’s not your fault,” I smiled, patting her arm. “I would have seen it at some point. And the article, as you say, isn’t so bad. But it’s just come as a bit of shock. Maybe I am pretty exhausted. You guys enjoy yourselves, take a couple of days off. I’ll see you back in the office Monday.”
I smiled again, hoping it looked genuine. I just needed to get out of there, out into the fresh air, back home to my apartment where I wasn’t out in broad daylight; where I could bolt the door with the fifteen locks I’d attached to it.