Dirty Diana by January James
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ihanded Sheridan her triple shot, super skinny latte.
“You don’t have to get me one of these every morning, you know,” she smiled.
“Come on, it’s the least I can do. You’ve given up your spare room for me. I promise it won’t be for long; I’m going to find another place.”
“You’re going to report the guy is what you’re gonna do,” she frowned. She’d taken the exact same stance as Jude. But neither of them understood. I couldn’t report Aaron; it would break my mum’s heart if she ever found out what he’d been doing, the letters he’d been writing. But I also knew I had to do something; I just wasn’t ready to decide what. I was pretty sure it would involve confronting him and trying to put an end to it once and for all, but I needed to gain the strength to do that. Just a couple more weeks, while I focused on securing a TV show for the label, that was all I needed. Then I could take a step back and focus on my stepfather. Until that time, I needed to hide out, and Sheridan had come to my rescue.
I pushed open the main doors and followed Sheridan through the lobby. As the elevator doors opened, Jude stepped out. He nodded at Sheridan who returned a thin smile, then he burrowed his eyes into me as he passed. He was hiding his feelings around other people less and less. Sheridan wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
“You sure you guys haven’t got it together?” She asked me once Jude was well out of earshot.
“I’m absolutely sure,” I lied. Too many uncomfortable truths about me were surfacing; I didn’t think I’d be able to cope if Sheridan knew Jude and I had said the L word while still snapping at each other’s jugular like rabid animals.
“He’s got it bad,” she added, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself.
“The announcement is coming up in two weeks.” I said, changing the subject. “That’s how long I’ve got to secure one of the networks or production companies.”
I could sense her eyeroll and chose to ignore it.
“If you can bag a TV show in the middle of all this, I will let you have my job, girl. I’ve worked in this business for thirty years and I’ve never known anyone take such ballsy publicity steps. All I can say is, I hope I never have to go up against you for a job interview. You would wipe the floor with me.”
“Nonsense,” I waved my hand, heading for my office. “See you at lunch?”
“Absolutely!”
* * *
Marla was standingin my office when I reached it, hopping from foot to foot.
“I have HPI on the phone for you,” she practically squealed.
“HPI? The TV network?” I dropped my bag and walked quickly to my desk.
“The very one. It’s one of the planning execs, Myra Barclay?”
I shook my head, not placing the name.
“Thanks Marla.”
I waited until she’d left my office then I picked up the phone.
“Diana Delaney.”
“Diana. Myra Barclay here, I’m VP Planning for Reality and Talent Programming at HPI. Have I caught you at a good time?”
I swallowed back nerves and walked to the window, looking out over Madison Avenue. This could be it. This could be the final nail in the coffin for whomever was trying to end Phoenix. It would make zero sense to close down a label that had secured some sort of partnership with a major national TV network.
“You have. Now is perfect.”
“Great! I understand you’ve been in touch with my team, with a view to discussing some ideas for a new talent show?”
“That’s right,” I said, half-holding my breath. “With all the attention Phoenix and the indie music scene is receiving at the moment, I suspect now is a good a time as any to capitalize on the public’s appetite for this kind of music.”
“I read the synopses you provided, and really liked them,” Myra continued. “I’d love to talk to you in person. When can you come in?”
My heart thumped against my ribcage. “Um, any time,” I replied. “I can come in today if you’re free?”
“I can certainly move a few things around. How does eleven am sound?”
“That sounds fantastic. I’ll bring my two right-hand…”
“No need,” she said, quickly. “Just bring yourself at this stage. As and if talks progress, we can start bringing in other members of both our teams.”
“Absolutely.”
Thankfully, I wrote down all the instructions she gave me for where to go, as my brain would never have digested them; I was in shock. This was exactly what I wanted, and I’d forced myself to believe it could happen. But deep down, I felt as though I was still running on a fluke. The Madison Square Gardens show had been the peak—we were never going to be able to top that. That was the one persistent thought stuck in the back of my mind. But perhaps I was wrong; perhaps this train really had developed tracks of its own. I wasn’t really steering the wheel anymore; I was simply being taken along for the ride.
I hung up the call and stared out at the streets below. I couldn’t believe what we’d already achieved, let alone what we might be about to achieve. We’d engaged the entire nation in a campaign to halt the closure of a tiny, previously insignificant record label; we’d set up a fund to support the marketing campaign behind the cause; we’d pulled off the biggest free concert indie fans had ever seen; and now we might be about to secure a show on a major TV network celebrating independent talent from across the States. I needed to tell someone. I couldn’t tell Sheridan yet—she’d berate me for being more focused on this than on my psychopathic stepfather. I couldn’t tell Carlos yet—he was still recovering from exhaustion after the concert. There was only one person I could tell who would truly understand what this meant to me, who would share this moment of almost-insane achievement with me, despite it going against everything he was standing for.
“Jude,” I said, as he answered the phone.
I heard him walk to the door of his office and close it.
“You ok?” His voice was anxious, as it had been since he’d discovered the letters.
“I’m great,” I smiled. “I needed to tell you something.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m meeting with HPI. In a couple of hours.”
“Are you kidding? HPI, the network?”
“Yeah. They like the synopses. They want to talk in person.”
“Oh my God, Diana,” he sighed, and I heard the smile in his voice. “You are unstoppable. That is amazing; I’m really happy for you.”
“I know it might make things… complicated,” I began.
“A little, but fuck it. I like a challenge.”
“I apologize now if you get any backlash.”
“It won’t be any worse than the backlash I’m already getting. You’re not the only one who doesn’t want this label to be shut down.”
“Thank you,” I said, quietly. I caressed the phone with my fingers, wishing he was standing with me. He’d become more than my boss, my ex, and my enemy. He was a friend, a confidante, a lover. I was grateful that even after he’d learned about my past—specifically the one element of it that had come back to haunt me—he was still there for me. Probably not in a sexual way, like before, but he was still kind-of on my side. I knew it would end, that as soon as this restructure was resolved and the verdict had been announced, he would disappear, like he always seemed to after these jobs, and he would have no reason to ever see me again. But I cherished this moment—him listening to me and being pleased with what I’d achieved, being there with me as I fought against whomever was paying his salary.
“For what?”
“For not hating me for doing this.”
“I could never hate you, Diana. You know exactly how I feel.”
I nodded to myself; I did know exactly how he felt. Sorry. He felt sorry for me and sorry for himself for having fallen into this mess with a woman whose past was infiltrating her future. He would be feeling regret at ever having met me at the Decadence Club in the first place. It would have been a lot easier to fight someone he hadn’t slept with several times over. Still, we were where we were, and I was grateful. I needed to hear his voice, and he gave it to me when I needed it. I couldn’t ask for more.
“I’d better go and prepare,” I sighed, not wanting to end the call.
“Sure. Will you let me know how it goes?”
“I will.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles were white. “Jude…”
“You’ll be amazing, Diana,” he whispered. “You always are.”
I stared at the phone long after he’d hung up.
Where the hell had I gone so wrong?
I had everything I’d ever wanted in my life: a gorgeous, intelligent man I’d fallen head-over-heels in love with—even if it was no longer reciprocated and he’d be gone in a few weeks—, friends who would do anything for me, and a job I was finally really bloody good at. But none of it fit together; it was all fighting against me. Obviously, having a psychotic stepfather stalker didn’t help matters, but even without that, I had every piece of the jigsaw but I couldn’t make any one of the damn things fit. The outcome was hovering in front of my eyes like a mirage but I couldn’t allow my eyes to focus; I couldn’t entertain the thought that it was all going to fall away and I’d been left with nothing: nowhere to live, nowhere to work, no Jude. Only a man who’d devoted the last eight years trying to make me his. Maybe that was all I deserved. Maybe everything he’d told me in his letters was true. Maybe I was unlovable by anyone but him. Maybe I was ugly. Maybe Jude had simply taken pity on me and now felt obliged to see it through to the end.
I placed my phone on the desk, and packed the relevant papers and my computer into my bag, robotically. The doubts were making their way under my skin, like serum, and despite having had the most encouraging call of my career, I had a horrible feeling it was all about to blow up in my face, exactly as I deserved.
* * *
I followedMyra’s assistant along the slick corridors of HPI’s seventh floor where, according to the glistening floor map in the lobby, was were all the senior exec offices were located. She tapped on a door, then opened it, signaling for me to enter. There was no woman in the room, no Myra that I could see. Instead, there were two men I recognized immediately: Ralph Zeiner, the CEO of HPI, and Donnie Hoffman, the face of the three most successful mainstream talent shows on air. The real deal. This was no meeting with someone who might include my ideas in a Monday morning planning meeting; this was a meeting with the most influential people in talent TV. And way above my station.
I felt a hand push me into the room and realized I’d been standing like a lemon with my jaw on the floor. I was stunned. No, I was starstruck. And petrified.
“Miss Delaney,” Zeiner said, with a well-practiced smile. “Take a seat.”
I did as I was asked but I hardly dared breathe. This would be it. I would find out here and now if my idea was likely to go ahead or not. Usually these things were proposed, discussed, refined, discussed again, then sent up a floor for approval, then another floor, then another, until it reached these people who would make the final decision. Not this time. I was bypassing all those other stages and going straight to the top. Whatever decision was going to be made about my idea for a show, would be made right here and right now. I reached into my bag and pulled out the original synopses.
“No need for those,” Hoffman said, then he turned, unsmiling, back to the assistant. “Send in Marty.”
Marty? The only Marty I knew at this level was Marty Weissenberg, the CEO of Blue Hill, the most successful record label in the world and Empirical’s biggest rival. My throat constricted from the sudden absence of fluid. What the hell was going on?
Sure enough, the man whose face had graced Rolling Stone, Time magazine and the Wall Street Journal several times over walked into the room and came to sit opposite me, his expression impassive. My stomach was liquid. If this meeting didn’t start and end quickly, I was going to have to excuse myself and run to the bathroom. These were the most powerful men in music and they were sitting right in front of me, and me alone.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve asked you here, to meet with all of us,” Zeiner began. “Well, let me get straight to the point.”
I held my breath.
“Your campaign to save Phoenix is nothing short of incredible. You started from a place of, frankly, utter insignificance, and you’ve created a zeitgeist movement that we haven’t seen in this industry since Britpop in the nineties.”
I could feel my head getting lighter as the breath stuck in my lungs.
“You’ve not only put your small subsidiary on the map; you’ve put it in the halls of fame. It’s going to go down in history, your little record label. You should be extremely proud of what you’ve achieved.”
Finally, I breathed out. “Thank you,” I gasped. I had no idea what else to say.
“As you can see,” Zeiner continued, “You’ve got the attention of the biggest minds in showbusiness, collectively, right here in this room.” He followed the statement with a huge smile, but I could see it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s more than anyone else has managed to achieve—at your level, anyway.”
I hid my surprise at his patronizing comment and looked at each one of them in turn. Zeiner was the only one smiling. Hoffman and Weissenberg were sitting back in their chairs, casually, and eyeing me as though I was some inconvenient insect that had landed on their food. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“So, now that we’ve got the due praise out of the way,” Zeiner leaned his forearms across the table and the smile left his face completely. “All that’s left for me to say is, stop everything you are doing. Now.”
My blood ran cold. Had I just heard him right?
“You’ve had your fun. You’ve made your point. Now stop.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” Weissenberg stepped in. “You’re a talent scout, looking for the next pretty song. Well, let me tell you the name of it: Stairway to Oblivion. If you continue with this charade, you’ll never work in this industry again.”
The room spun slightly as I tried to get my head around his words. “I’m sorry?”
“Diana,” Hoffman said, his voice as sickly sweet and thick as treacle. “I know you think the world has been deprived of decent music and shows like ours have been churning out, what did you call them, over-engineered cardboard cut-outs…”
I swallowed. “I didn’t mean that… I had to make a controversial point to get the cut-through…”
“But the fact is,” he continued as though I hadn’t said a word. “The talent that I find, the talent that Blue Hill produces, and the talent that HPI delivers to the masses who want it, makes some very important people a lot of money. And your little project has put quite a dent in that. So, it has to stop.”
I almost choked on his words. “You’re saying that my little record label is losing you money?”
“Not just your label, Miss Delaney,” Zeiner replied. “This pathetic little movement you’ve created. This ridiculous demand for music that has been hashed together in some ugly teenager’s fucking bedroom. It’s an insult to the music industry.”
I scrambled to make sense of what they were all saying, but that was the problem; it was nonsensical.
“I still don’t get it. You’re saying that the #savephoenix campaign, the fact that we’re giving airtime to unsigned acts that deserve a break, is eating into your share of the market?”
“That’s a small part of what we’re saying,” Zeiner replied, his fake, bleached white smile resurfacing, making me feel a sudden need to hurl into a bucket. “It’s actually doing more than that. It’s turning the tide of trend away from commercial music, which is basically our livelihood, and towards a more fragmented marketplace where, frankly, we don’t control the income. And that doesn’t benefit anyone.”
“And by anyone, you mean the three of you,” I said, my brain finally catching up.
“Precisely,” Zeiner smiled.
“Well, not exactly,” Weissenberg said. “Our shareholders too.”
“And politicians who don’t need the American voting public to be listening to music that incites objection and rebellion,” Hoffman added. “They work very hard to create peace in this country, and the kind of music you are promoting threatens that peace.”
“You mean that by giving people music that inspires them to question the world and the societies they live in, I’m ruining all the hard work the politicians in this country have done?”
“You’re a smart girl,” Hoffman replied.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “But if the politicians had done such a great job in the first place, no-one would need to write that kind of music.”
All three men stared at me as though I was stupid.
“We didn’t bring you in here for a discussion about the merits of our current political landscape, Miss Delaney,” Zeiner said. “We brought you here to inform you that this campaign stops now. No negotiation.”
“What if I don’t agree?”
“Then we will buy up all advertising space and airtime, pricing you out of the market. We will launch a counter-campaign imploring the US public to support the mainstream acts, putting a thousand times more budget behind it than you can ever afford. We will shut down any social media site continuing to support you, and we will ensure you won’t get a job working in this industry ever again. We’ll even have you wiped of your Cambridge degree. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we don’t have fingers in every pie in every corner of the world.”
My breath had shallowed. It was official and unmistakable. It was there in black and white. They were going to end me. Not just me but Phoenix—all my staff, my acts, all the bands we’d supported through our campaign.
“But this all began before the campaign,” I thought aloud. “You wanted to shut down Phoenix before all of this. Why?”
Hoffman finally broke a smile. A sadistic one. “Because,” he sneered, “as long as there is airtime given to indie music, there will always be a risk people want more. If it isn’t there to begin with, the public don’t know to ask for it. They’re stupid like that.”
I couldn’t believe this was the same man so many teenagers looked up to. He was the face of every major talent show on TV, accompanying so many young musicians on their journeys, celebrating with them when they got the votes and consoling them when they didn’t, having the final say on which ones got the record contracts. It suddenly occurred to me, he was masterminding the whole music industry. He and these other rich, powerful men in suits were operating these young kids with dreams like puppet masters. They were molding these kids into shape, regardless of who they really were. They were publicly humiliating the ones who brought even an ounce of individuality to the stage, and championing only those who were pliable, and so desperate they would do or be anything in order to have a glimpse of fame.
“So, you don’t want any indie music, anywhere?” I felt sick to the stomach.
“That’s right,” Hoffman nodded. “And our plans were running along quite smoothly until you kicked your toys out of the pram. We hadn’t expected the news of your label being under review to trigger such an extreme—and remarkably successful—reaction.”
“But Sony has indie acts…” I said, thinking through it as I spoke.
“Not for long,” Zeiner replied, rubbing his hands together. “This is what we mean about a plan. We can’t ask every record label Chairman to restructure their organizations at the same time. That would seem too obvious. No, when Sony sees how successful Empirical is after the restructure, when we reward Garrett Green with new contracts, more airtime on HPI’s shows, they will follow suit. It has already been arranged. As Marty said, our plans were running quite smoothly until you came along.”
I couldn’t believe it. They were slowly wiping out all indie music, and the entire music industry was in on it.
“So, all the Chairmen are on board with your plans? The CEOs too?”
“Chairmen, yes. Some CEOs. Not all,” Hoffman replied. “Not yours, for example. His predecessor was opposed to the plan, as we’d expected. We helped Green source somebody completely impartial. Someone we knew wouldn’t give a shit about the industry. Someone who doesn’t give a shit generally. Jude Peyton-Harris fit the bill perfectly. I must say though, I would have expected a fixer of his caliber to have shut you down a lot faster than he has done. Maybe he’s losing his touch.”
My heart shivered. It hadn’t been completely crucified by this giant bombshell, and the news that Jude had nothing to do with these men filled me with relief. I know he’d told me he didn’t know who was behind the plans, but I couldn’t have been sure.
“I can’t just stop everything now,” I said. “I’ve spent money on promos; it would look weird if I pulled everything and just gave up…”
“Which is why Garrett Green is on the phone to Peyton-Harris right now. The restructure announcement has been brought forward to tomorrow morning…”
“That’s two weeks early!” I gasped. My dream was over.
“Thanks to you,” Zeiner smiled.
One by one, each brick from the wall I’d built around me, came crashing down around my ears, blocking out any other sound. All I could see were the expressions of the three men who no one knew ran not only this industry, but half the political landscape too. They were smirking, eerily, like the villains in some seventies James Bond movie. I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe in the same air any longer. I stood abruptly.
“I trust we’ll have no further need to speak with you,” Zeiner attempted to confirm. I didn’t give him the luxury of a reply. Instead I turned and walked straight out of the room, through the corridors, down the staircases and out of the building, everything I’d ever dreamed of dragging along in tatters behind me.