Chapter 45
Sorcha watched the dawn rise on Monday morning, thankful that the weekend was finally over. At nine o’clock, she could ring the chemist.
‘Up early?’
Sorcha was forcing down a piece of plain toast when Helen arrived downstairs.
‘Yes. I didn’t sleep too well last night.’
‘I can imagine. Look, I have a meeting this morning but I should be back in the office by lunchtime. Give me a call and let me know the news.’
‘I will.’
Helen glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go.’ She placed a hand on Sorcha’s shoulder. ‘Try not to worry. It’ll sort itself out. See you later.’
At seven minutes past nine, Sorcha put down the receiver. Her whole body was trembling. Even though the news was no surprise, there had still been a chance that she’d been wrong.
‘Miss McCarthy, come in.’
Helen followed Jeremy Swain into his large office overlooking Old Street.
‘Coffee?’ he asked as she settled herself in the leather chair in front of his desk.
‘Thank you.’
Jeremy sat down, rang through to his secretary and asked her to bring a pot of coffee and two cups. He opened the file lying in front of him.
‘Well, things are looking good for the share issue. There’s a buzz about it in the City.’
‘Good.’
‘The valuation is looking healthy. My analysts have predicted a thirty-per-cent growth in the next two years.’ Jeremy looked up as his secretary brought in a tray. ‘Thanks. Leave it there and we’ll pour.’
Helen watched Jeremy fill two cups with strong coffee before offering milk and sugar.
‘I was thinking of setting the flotation for around the middle of November. What do you think?’
‘I’m happy to go with you on dates.’
‘Okay, fine.’
Helen took a sip of her coffee. ‘Jeremy, can I just check the projection figures for The Fishermen?’
‘Sure. They’re your largest asset at present, responsible for about twenty-five per cent of Metropolitan’s turnover.’
‘What would happen if the band announced that they were splitting up?’
Jeremy stared at her across the table. ‘It would be extremely bad news for the flotation. Is it likely?’
‘Put it this way, they’re having a few personal problems. I’m hoping they’ll be sorted out, but I can’t guarantee it.’
‘I see. Well now, this does rather throw the cat amongst the pigeons. I had read something about one of them in the papers last week but I don’t take much notice of the scandal rags.
Unfortunately, other people do. Apart from anything else, when you’re going public, any media coverage you receive needs to be positive.
And of course, without The Fishermen, there’d be approximately twenty-five per cent wiped off your turnover and probably more off the profit forecast.’
Helen drained her coffee cup. ‘Everything you’re telling me I already knew,’ she sighed.
‘Could the band delay their split for, say, six months? That would allow the flotation to take place at the company’s present value.
Your investors will realise that the world of popular music is unstable, and if The Fishermen are to split, so be it.
Of course, there is every chance that in six months’ time, Metropolitan may have discovered a new group that will make it big.
And you’ll still retain the rights to The Fishermen’s songs. ’
‘So the timing of the split is crucial.’ Helen drummed her fingers on the desk.
‘The trouble is that you’re dealing with people here, rather than an inanimate commodity.
I can put pressure on them to stay together for another six months or so.
They are still under contract to us. They have an album to record, plus a single.
If they don’t produce, I could threaten to sue them. ’
‘Another step you obviously don’t want to take at present. There’s nothing like a court case for putting investors off. Metropolitan needs to be whiter than white for the next few weeks, Helen.’
‘Of course.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m seeing their manager in forty-five minutes. I’ll have a clearer indication of the position after that.’
‘The only other thing you could do is delay the flotation. It would be a shame, what with the company riding so high at present. And any sudden change of plans makes the City jittery and therefore harder next time round.’
Helen stood up. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. If you have any other thoughts, please do let me know.’
‘Other than one of The Fishermen being shot dead, becoming a legend and massively boosting sales of their former albums, I don’t think I have much to offer you,’ smiled Jeremy. ‘Keep me informed, Helen.’
‘I will.’ Helen held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Jeremy.’
Helen arrived back at the office and slid the flotation details into her locked drawer. As she did so, she realised something was missing. She felt around at the back. She was sure the gun had been there last time she’d looked.
Her intercom beeped. ‘Freddy Martin for you.’
‘Send him in.’
Helen closed the drawer, making a mental note to have a thorough search of her office for the gun. If she couldn’t find it, she’d need to inform the police as soon as possible.
Freddy strolled through the door.
‘So, Freddy, what news?’
‘Do you want the bad news or the bad news?’
‘Go on.’
‘I managed, after several attempts, to gain an audience with Todd. God, he looks rough. He has all the curtains drawn in his house and he’s playing the Grateful Dead over and over. It turns out Lulu’s gone and left him.’
‘Okay, get to the point, will you?’
‘He’s talking about The Fishermen in the past tense. As far as he’s concerned, it’s over, for good. He told me he was considering moving abroad, that he couldn’t stand being on the same land mass with that “wanker”, as he affectionately calls Con.’
‘Okay, what about Con?’
‘Same story. Doesn’t want to know.’
‘Derek?’
‘Naffed off abroad. Don’t know where. Can’t get hold of him. Sorry, Helen.’
‘Ian?’
‘Oh, I saw him all right, for the difference it made. He’s happy to do whatever anybody wants, man,’ mimicked Freddy.
‘It’s no laughing matter, Freddy. Metropolitan’s flotation is coming up in a couple of months’ time. If The Fishermen split, their in-fighting could wipe millions off the value of the company.’
Freddy sighed. ‘What can I do?’
Helen’s eyes were hard and cold. ‘I’ve no idea, Freddy, but you’d better come up with something, otherwise I’ll sue the band to high heaven.’
Freddy stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just as pissed off about this as you, you know. They’re my livelihood too. Maybe you’d have more influence. I still believe in time this will blow over.’
‘We don’t have time, Freddy. See yourself out, will you?’ she said abruptly, before picking up the receiver on the desk and beginning to dial.
Freddy shrugged and left the room.
‘Yeah?’
‘Con, it’s Helen McCarthy.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you. Urgently. Shall I come to you or do you want to meet somewhere for lunch?’
‘I’m busy today, sorry.’
‘Make yourself un-busy. I’ll be with you in an hour.’
Helen slammed the telephone down, wondering why she had invested so much effort in arrogant, childish pop stars when she could have had a nice easy life dealing with bloodstock or raw sewage. She dialled her home number, let it ring three times then put the receiver down and rang again.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me. Have you rung?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘It was positive.’
Helen attempted to strike the right tone between compassion and practicality. ‘Well, it wasn’t a surprise.’
‘No, but I’m pretty shaken up.’
‘I can imagine, Sorcha. Keep your chin up, I’m here for you. Try not to brood.’
‘It’s a bit difficult when I’m a prisoner in your house with nothing to do but think.’
‘I know, I know. There are many options we can talk about. Just keep going until tonight. We can discuss everything over a glass of wine. Well, perhaps an orange juice!’ She forced a chuckle, but Sorcha did not respond in kind. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll do my best.’
‘Good girl. See you later.’
‘Thanks for ringing, Helen.’
‘That’s okay. Courage, Sorcha. Bye for now.’
Helen made a couple more telephone calls, then picked up her briefcase and left her office.
‘I’ll be out until after lunch,’ she said to Mags.
‘Okay. Have a nice time.’
Helen raised her eyebrows and took the lift downstairs.
‘Come in, why don’t you?’ Con looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Helen followed him across the hall and into his study. ‘I don’t want to see you, you know.’
‘Tough shit.’ Helen watched as Con slumped onto his sofa and picked up his guitar. She slung her briefcase into a chair.
‘What do you want, Helen?’ he asked, strumming aimlessly.
‘To talk.’
He turned to look at her. There was a week’s growth of beard on his chin and purple bruises under his eyes from his broken nose.
‘You look dreadful.’
‘Thanks.’ Con looked away again. ‘I don’t want you in my house for any longer than necessary, so get on with it.’
‘I will. You’re intent on leaving The Fishermen, I presume?’
‘I’ve an idea there’s no band left to leave, but yes, I’m out.’
‘You haven’t announced this yet to the media?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t. If you’re prepared to hang on for six months without breathing a word of the split, I’m prepared not to sue you for the uncompleted album.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Helen, but don’t you think the media might have guessed something is up already?’
‘Yes, but all the gossip can be nipped in the bud by a press release. All you’d have to do is to lie low for a while.’
‘And what about Todd? Do you think he’ll be keeping his mouth shut too? Will he be prepared to pretend everything’s okay?’
‘We’ll see. If he’s sensible and doesn’t want a lengthy court battle which Metropolitan are sure to win, then he’ll play ball.’
‘Helen, can I ask why it’s so important to you that we wait to announce our split?’
‘Metropolitan’s going public in November. The value of the company will plummet if The Fishermen announce a split now.’
Con smiled. ‘It always comes down to money with you, doesn’t it, Helen McCarthy?’
‘Yes, I suppose it does. I’ve worked very hard to build my company—’
‘Brad’s company.’
‘Our company – and I don’t want to see my work go to waste.’
Con nodded. ‘I understand that. The trouble is, I really couldn’t give a bugger about money. So you suing doesn’t bother me. You can have it, have the lot. I was thinking I was better off without it anyway.’
‘It’s so easy to say that when you have got it. Just remember those days when you were first in London, struggling to keep a roof over your head.’
‘At least I was happy. Sorcha and I were happy.’ Con’s eyes hardened. ‘I don’t feel I owe you any favours any more. You go ahead and sue if you like. I’ll do whatever I wish. And I want out. Now.’
‘All right, Con. And this is the last time I’ll offer. If you keep your mouth shut for the next few months, in the spring Metropolitan will offer you a solo contract with the kind of money you could not refuse.’
‘Did you not hear what I was just saying, Helen?’ He stared at her in amazement. ‘I’ve just told you that I’m not interested in money. And if you were the last record company on earth, I wouldn’t sign a new deal with you. Do you hear?’
‘Perfectly.’
Helen picked up her briefcase. She had one last trick up her sleeve.
‘But there is the question of the single. We must release a new track before Christmas. If I can’t persuade you and Todd to write and record a song, then I shall release the song that Derek’s written.
“Peggy” will go out under The Fishermen’s name.
’ She looked at him for a while. ‘You’d better let me know what you want to do about that. ’
Con gazed at her in horror as she walked to the door.
‘You wouldn’t do it, Helen.’
She turned and shrugged. ‘It seems you’ve left me with no alternative. Goodbye, Con.’
He sat still and silent as he heard the front door shut behind her, then the sound of her car starting.
Con strode across the heath, his head down. His throat felt constricted, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He realised he wanted to cry, something he’d rarely felt since he was a small boy.
Con sat on a bench, leant forward and put his head in his hands. After a few minutes, he began to feel calmer. The peace and space of the heath was soothing.
He looked up. The sky was blue with small powder-puff clouds drifting across the horizon.
‘Jesus, it’s all such a mess,’ he sighed.
He loved Sorcha, but he’d screwed up his marriage well and truly. His glittering career was running off the rails. To top it all off, some lunatic was sending him death threats and he felt as though he didn’t have a friend in the world.
Not that he deserved friends. He’d behaved like a complete arsehole these past few months, alienating almost everyone around him.
Con stared into space. He didn’t know what the answers were. Maybe he should meet with Sorcha, apologise, and see if she would forgive him and come home.
As for the band – he couldn’t see a way back from where they were. He didn’t give a damn that Helen might sue him, but he did care that The Fishermen’s last single would go down in history as an insipid, badly written love song.
Helen McCarthy was clever, he’d give her that. The one thing that would get him into the studio for the last time was his artistic pride.
Con thought of the tune that had been buzzing in the back of his mind for the past few days. ‘Losing you, after all these years of loving you . . .’ he sang. It was a long time since he’d felt the need to write a romantic ballad.
Con stood up. He wanted to write it for Sorcha. He’d go home and work on the song while he had the urge. If it turned out to be as strong as he felt, then he might call Helen and suggest he record it as their Christmas single.
After that . . . he didn’t know. Maybe he should get the hell out of England, go away for a while.
Con stood up and walked towards his house.
He didn’t know who the hell he was any more.