Career Girls (8 page)

The place erupted, with everybody shouting questions at once.

‘I thought you were friends,’ Phil Green said. Topaz shrugged. ‘A story’s a story.’ ‘What are you going to say?’

‘That I’ve discovered that Rowena plans to cheat on her own slater she’s not going to pull any votes for anyone but herself. That the whole thing with her dress in the debate was a deliberate publicity stunt. That she made up the story

about the knife inJoanne’s door just to slander Gilbert.’ ‘Is it true?’ Roger asked, shocked.

Topaz looked him straight in the eye. ‘Every word.’

‘What a bitch,’ said Jane. ‘But we come out on Friday morning. The morning of the election.’

There was another burst of noise as the room realized what that meant. ‘She’ll be destroyed!’ someone yelled.

Topaz waited for them to quieten down, then looked at them calmly. Every eye was fixed on her.

‘That’s the idea,’ she said.

Rowena Gordon felt good about herself for the first time in weeks. She’d actually done it, she’d told Peter Kennedy to go screw himself and she’d meant every word. He’d sent flowers at lunch, she refused delivery. She put the phone down on him three times. When he turned dp at her door, she threatened to call the porters if he didn’t leave.

It was madness, she told herself, but it passed.

Of course, it nearly hadn’t done. After that kiss this morning, she must have been seconds away from falling back into bed with him. She had no idea what gave her the strength to pull back. To push him away. To insist that he leave, and actually make him do it.

Rowena brushed her long fair hair, standing in front of the wall mirror in her chilly bedroom. The silky fall of the fine strands against her back was a sensual feeling. She moved and pirouetted, admiring her own slender, leggy reflection, the pale pink nipples on her small, tight breasts. She’d always envied Topaz her magnificent figure, but tonight she decided she was happy with her body. It would

look graceful, sitting in the President’s chair.

There was a hard knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ Rowena demanded, reaching for a silk bathrobe. If her rooms weren’t quite the picture of luxury. that Peter’s were, Charles Gordon, with his customary disregard for money, had seen to it that they were handsomely equipped.

‘It’s Topaz,’ came the reply.

Rowena felt little spiders of fear crawl up and down her sline. She’d nearly said, ‘Get lost, Peter.’

‘Just coming,’ she shouted, tying back her hair. She found herself blushing. Should she confess to Topaz? she wondered, and in a split second decided against it. That would only salve her own conscience at the expense of her friend’s happiness.

She took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Topaz walked into the familiar room quite calmly. She’d rehearsed this meeting over and Over in her mind, so she’d get to take it slow, say everything she needed to. She didn’t want to lose anything in the heat of passion.

Rowena, that cold, betraying English bitch, was looking her normal immaculate self. Topaz checked .out the robe, noticing the expensive designer-green silk. A lot of things in this room were expensive, she guessed. The feather duvet. The bottle of port on the sideboard. Rowena’s brushed leather overcoat, hanging on the back of the door.

Things that were way too good for a hick from New Jersey, right?

Topaz sauntered past Rowena, looking at her with the deepest contempt.

Rowena felt her heart leap into the roof of her mouth. She had seen Topaz act like this only a couple of times before. When one of the Cherwell old guard had called her a Yank wop and tried to kill some of her early stories. It had been one of the reasons she’d liked Topaz so much in the first place.

‘You should know something about ItalianAmericans,’ Topaz had told him, right in front of Rowena. ‘We always avenge an insult.’

Two months later, the guy had resigned from the paper. Topaz never offered to tell her what had happened and

Rowena never asked. It was just there for all to see.

I am who I am. Don’tfuck with me.

She had that same look on her face now.

‘You know,’ Rowena said.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Topaz said. ‘And please don’t insult me with an excuse.’

Rowena couldn’t look at her. Shame overcame her. “I left him, today,’ she said, eventually.

‘Did you?’ Topaz asked. She suddenly wanted to cry. The double rejection came back at her again, with the force of a kick in the stomach. Her friend. Her lover. Had they laughed about her together? she wondered. ‘It didn’t look like that when I saw you in his arms this morning.’

Rowena sat down heavily on the bed. ‘I can explain-‘ she said.

Topaz shook her head. ‘It’s owe, Rowena,’ she said. Her eyes were hard. ‘I brought you a copy of Cherwell’s front cover story for tomorrow. I thought you might like a preview.’

Her hands trembling, Charles Gordon’s daughter picked up the story that would wipe out three years of dedicated work. That would deny her the last prize she wanted before she dropped out of society. That would brand her as a’

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traitor and a liar in front of her whole university.

She finished the story in silence. When she turned to Topaz, her face was drained of blood.

‘If you print this,’ she said, Tll call my father and I’ll have him speak to Geoffrey Stevens. Your article will never see the light of day.’ She drew herself up, rigid and haughty. ‘I promise you.’

‘I thought of that,’ replied Gino Rossi’s daughter. Her face was murderously angry. ‘It’s worth it, to see you crash and burn.’

She paused, looking for.the right words. ‘You see, Peter doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘He was nothing. He was good in bed, he was charming, I’d have found out what he really was soon enough. It’s you that matter, Rowena. Because I was your friend. Because we trusted each other.’

Topaz leant closer. ‘I promise you something,’ she said. ‘I promise you this is just the beginning. When you find what you really want to do - records or whatever-I’ll be waiting for you. Wherever you go. And I’ll have my revenge. I swear it.’

‘A nice speech,’ Rowena answered coldly.

Topaz turned at the door, the two beautiful girls staring at each other with candid hatred.

‘You never had to fight for a thing, did you? Life’s just a fucking tennis match for you, right?’

Topaz nodded at the Cherwell article spread out over the bed. The headline, in black type three inches high, read FOR SHAME, ROWENA.

‘Fifteen-all,’ she said, and slammed the door.

6o

Sophistication was the first thing to go.

‘ Yott wanna rent this place? You must be joking,’ the third landlord said when Rowcna turned up to view his bedsit. He examined her camel-coloured wool coat, her Armani pantsuit, her delicate shoes. His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re lnucking me about. What do you wanna live in Soho for?’

‘It’s the only thing I can afford,’ Rowcna answered. She wished the guy would step back; his breath reeked of garlic and curry: She tried to smile, to make him want to rent to her. The first two places she’d seen, the landlords had taken one look at her and slammed the door in her face.

Rowena was getting desperate. The money she had from her own account was running very low, she couldn’t find a .job in the record business anywhere, and her parents had cut her off without a penny until she agreed to come home and give up any idea about working in music. Rowena had refused point-blank. When she graduated, she’d decided to conquer the world. There was no way she was crawling back to Scotland to apologize and behave, like a beaten puppy.

‘Sure,’ the landlord Said. He leered at her. ‘On the game, are we, darlin?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Rowena, stunned.

He winked. ‘Oh, don’t look like that. I won’t tell if you won’t. It’s fifty-five down and cash at the start of each month, in advance.’

For a second she didn’t understand. ‘You’re renting it to me?’

‘I ain’t giving it to you,’ he said, extending a sweaty hand.’

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Rowena hurriedly opened her purse and gave him the notes. She’d already learnt not to offer a cheque.

‘Any problems, please don’t bother me with them,’ the guy said, leering at her again and waddling out of the room.

Rowena took a long, hard look at herself in the grimy mirror. A high-class prostitute? Her?

Then she took another look. The figure-hugging clothes. The impeccable make-up. The precision-cut hair shimmering down her back.

He was right. It wasn’t Soho.

The next day, Rowena took all her designer clothes down to an exchange store and sold every one of them. She hawked her brooches, her Patek Phillipe steel watch and her gold pendant, and forced herself to haggle over the price. The

‘ woman upped her offer by 3o per cent. Rowena knew she was probably still being ripped off, but it felt like a victory. She was learning.

She invested in a good pair of Levi’s, some ankleboots, sneakers and a black leather jacket. Tshirts were cheap and she picked up Indian-print scarves at the markets. By day she traipsed round London, looking for a job. By night, she practised her cooking - not being able to afford Marks & Spencers was a revelation - and went to every cheap rock gig she could scare her way into.

Looking back on that first month, Rowena wondered how she’d ever got through it. All her romantic notions about rebelling against her parents and living in poverty until she found the job of her dreams! How come she’d never stopped to wonder what ‘poverty’ actually meant? To be cold, hungry, watching every penny all the time - Rowena Gordon, who’d never so much as compared the price of two lipsticks the whole time she was at college! How come the image of bravely tramping the pavement, banging on every door in sight, had never included the sick feeling of failure that consumed her whenever she lost out on another entry-level position?

Two or three times she nearly gave up. She didn’t have to

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do this, after all. She had a good degree and a useful set of A-levels. She could have become a lawyer, joined a management consultancy - all sorts of high-pay, high respect jobs where doing well at Oxford would count for something. She was only getting rejection after rejection because she wanted to go into the record business, where a degree was a negative, not a positive, and nobody gave a monkey’s if your hobbies were riding and skiing.

But in the sweaty little clubs, packed out with bikers and rock fans, filled with acrid smoke from the dry ice and Guns n’ Roses pumping loudly on the stereo, Rowena Gordon had her first taste of freedom. She became accepted on the scene. She got to know the bartenders, some of the regular kids, and they accepted her for what she was. Without questions. Without judgments. Another 2I-year-old kid that liked music.

And there was the music.

Rowengot to know all the coming bands. Most of them were tired, derivative rubbish - pale imitations of the LA glitter boys, or the New York metalheads. But sometimes, just sometimes, she’d hear a band that excited her. And that made it all worth it.

Arrogant, cool Rowena Gordon was surprising herself. She couldn’t bear to give up on the dream.

One night she walked into the Arcadia, in Camden Town, to find the place almost deserted.

‘What’s up?’ Rowena asked, walking up to Richard, the barman and a friend of hers, who was chatting to an old man

in a trenchcoat. ‘Did Blue Planet cancel?’

He nodded.

‘That’s OK, they’re overrated anyway,’ she shrugged, perching on a barstool. ‘Can I get a Jack Daniels and Diet Pepsi, please?’

Richard pushed across her drink, glancing slyly at the guy he’d been talking to. ‘l hear Musica Records just signed them for two hundred grand.’

Rowena chuckled. ‘They would. Musica can’t tell a rock’

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band from a rubber band.’

The old man coughed. ‘Why do you say that, missy?’ he demanded, in a brittle American accent.

Rowena blushed. ‘Are you their manager? I’m sorry.’ ‘No, I’m not their manager,’ he said. ‘But I’ll buy you that drink if you tell me what you think’s wrong with them.’

‘You should listen to Rowena,’ Richard told him. ‘She

goes to every gig in town. Every club, too.’

‘Rich girl?’ the old man asked.

Rowena laughed. ‘Hardly. I don’t pay for any of it. Friends let me in. You know how it is.’

‘Yeah, I know how it is,’ he said wryly, trying to remember what it was like hanging out at New York Jazz dives in the thirties.

Rowena took a swallow of her drink. Her friends from Oxford wouldn’t have recognized her; sitting without make-up, comfortable and relaxed in a scruffy pair ofjeans, she looked even younger than she actually was. She’d lost weight, developed muscle tonc, and pulled her long hair back in a casual pigtail. She looked terrific.

“You want to know why it was a bad deal for Musica Records?’ she asked cockily. ‘Fine. I’ll tell you.’

Ten minutes later, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, she was still talking about dime-a-dozcn unsigned bands.

‘Enough, enough,’ Richard laughed, putting a hand on her arm. ‘He gets the message.’

‘No, that’s OK,’ the old guy said. ‘What do you do when you’re not fighting for a place in the front row, missy?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I Want to work in a record company, but I can’t get a job. I’m still trying, though. Who’s asking?’

As Richard grinned, the American pulled out a gold cdged business card from his battered wallet. ‘My name’s Joshua Obcrman,’ he said shortly. ‘You know who I am?’

Rowena felt herself spread crimson from head to toe.Josh Oberman was an industry lcgcnd. He was also President of Musica Records UK.

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‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

‘I said nay name wasJoslma. Don’t act cute. Just report in to nay Personnel division at ten tomorrow morning. You’re

hired,’ he added as an afterthought, and got up to leave. ‘What as?’ asked Rowena, stupefied.