The Devil You Know (27 page)

hostile. He shrugged in that particularly Gallic way.

‘Voila, Nancy,’ he said.

‘I know it’s Nancy, goddammit.’ Poppy was exhausted. The flight had been eleven hours, and even in business class, that sucked. She

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had practically memorised her tour schedule, watched three bad movies, and got cramp. Now all she wanted was to get to her hotel and go to sleep. What time was it here? She was utterly disorientated.

The bastard cab driver was pretending he didn’t understand English. Poppy had forgotten how much the French hated the Americans. He’d taken her to Nancy, but not to her hotel; the guy wanted to drop her in the town square.

‘L’kdtel Reine Catkerine,’ Poppy insisted.

He shrugged again.

Poppy pulled out her wallet and produced three hundred-franc notes.

‘Ah oui, La Reine Catherine, je le connais,’ said the driver, his face creasing into a fake smile.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Poppy said.

Fuck him. He wasn’t getting a tip. She hoped her day was about to start getting better.

The 1Keine Catherine was a soulless block of concrete. It reminded Poppy of a Novotel. Despite the blazing French sun, there”was nothing exotic about the place. Coaches were parked in the forecourt, tourists were dragging their wheeled cases inside. The davy was very hot. She felt sweaty and disgusting. She wanted to get th her room.

Poppy walked in through the revolving door and up to reception. ‘Wait a minute, please,’ said the snotty receptionist. He was on a phone call, and it sounded like it was personal. The guy laughed and chatted while Poppy just stood there.

She looked around the lobby. Green and purple industrial carpeting, a plastic ficus tree in a pot, and a little row of leaflets in plastic containers advertising local sights. But there were also lobby chairs and a bar in one corner. A group of loud American guys were sitting on the chairs. They had crew cuts, sun-beaten faces, keys jangling, tell-tale little red strings around-their necks that were

tucked into their T-shirts.

Road crew.

Two of the guys looked over at Poppy appreciatively. One whistled, the other one said, ‘Ooh la la.’ Then they all laughed.

The hotel porters and the receptionist said nothing. They had clearly seen it all before. Nobody reproved the men or asked them to stop ogling Poppy.

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‘Hey, she’s in the wrong hotel,’ one said.

‘No need to tell her that. Maybe they sent her over here on

purpose. Added bonus.’

It was clear none of them thought she could speak English. They all laughed again. The receptionist was still chatting away. Poppy snapped. She leaned over the counter and put her finger on the phone.

He looked up, shocked.

Poppy pulled the laminate out of her shirt.

‘Monsieur,’ she snarled, ‘I’m with Green Dragon. Actually, I’m

with Dream Management. I’m a tour accountant and I’m going to be settling the bill at this hotel. So unless you want to make an appointment for me to speak to the manager, I strongly suggest you give me my fucking key fight now.’

‘Oooh,’ said the crew guys, chuckling.

Poppy ignored them. The receptionist flushed and hurriedly

fished out a little paper wallet with a plastic rectangle tucked inside.

‘Mademoiselle, ah oui, I see you ‘ere, you are on ze third floor,

room 346. Do you want some ‘elp with your bag?’

‘From this hotel? No,’ Poppy snapped. She grabbed the key and

stormed off towards the elevators. She had to stand right next to the

crew guys.

‘What’s up, sugar?’ one of them cooed.

‘Hey, baby, you showed those Frenchies,’ said another.

Poppy saw nothing but annoyance and hostility in their faces. She

was too tired to think about that now.

‘See you guys later,’ she muttered.

Mercifully, the doors hissed open. Poppy rode up to her room,

slipped the electronic key in the door. The tiny light switched to green. She threw her bag on the floor, tempted to just collapse on to the bed. No, it was more important to get the sweat off her. She staggered into the bathroom, so tired she felt drunk. It had one of those tiny tubs you couldn’t stretch out in. Never mind, she’d just take a shower. Poppy thought wryly that if she could stretch out, she might just fall asleep and drown.

She peeled off her clothes and dropped them on the tiled floor.

Then she ran the water. The instructions were in French and her shower was only lukewarm. Poppy couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. Mechanically she sluiced her body down, lathering it with the cheap soap. Then she reached for a towel; this wasn’t America,

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obviously; the hotel towels were scratchy little white handkerchiefs. Her parents had a bigger towel than this for the dog.

Poppy stumbled into her room. The windows had thick curtains with white chiffon panels floating across them. She didn’t even have the energy to pull the curtains closed. Poppy set her alarm for two hours and flopped on to the bed. She was asleep in minutes.

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The taxi dropped her off at the end of the street which led to the arena. It was an open-air gig; kids were parking in a lot, in fields, in streets, and walking down.

‘You get out ‘ere,’ the cabbie said. ‘I cannot ‘

He gestured at the mass of humanity streaming towards the gates. It was more crowded than rush hour in Tokyo: leather, studs, teased hair everywhere; T-shirts ranging from Slayer to Cinderella, Megadeth to Bon Jovi; naturally, a ton of Green Dragon jackets and shirts. The rock ‘n’ roll uniform.

Poppy was wearing a black T-shirt, leather jacket and leans. She figured that was the professignal way to go. She had selected her ankle boots, wore no make-up except a slick of concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and had tied her hair back in a severe pony-tail. No time to wash it; thank God for baseball caps. Her laminate was tucked safely inside her bra. Last thing she needed was some deranged fan to snatch it from her.

Her sleep had only taken the slightest edge offher tiredness. Jet lag and the time difference made her feel spaced-out; when she’d woken, for a few seconds she’d had no idea where she was or how she’d got there.

She paid the cab and stepped out. No time for weakness fight now. Anyway, the procession of teenagers and twenty-somethings was better than any cup of coffee; it jolted her senses and made her feel alive.

The excitement started to build up as she trudged towards the stadium. Already she could hear the sound of one of the support bands, the cheering of the crowd already inside. She felt slightly dizzy. She had an insane impulse to lump up and down and clap her hands wildly. She was a part of this. She was actually a part of Dream Management.

The box-office loomed in front of her. Gates A-E, F-K …

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Poppy found a security guard. ‘Where’s the backstage entrance?’ He looked at her blankly.

She fished the laminate out. Access All Areas. Her photo beamed out from under the coiled Green Dragon logo. He examined it with a grunt, then reluctantly pointed to a small iron turnstile to her left. It had four security guards and a posse of groupies, all in high heels, wearing fishnet tights and low-cut tops, standing outside pleading with them.

Poppy marched up to it and flashed her laminate. The surly looks of the guards disappeared; they opened the gate and let Poppy through, forcing back the chicks that tried to slip in after her.

She was standing backstage. Laminate-wearing crew were everywhere. There were tents and signs in English. Catering. Press. Production Office.

Poppy breathed in deeply. She stood still for a second.

She felt absolutely overwhelmed with pure joy.

‘Hi,’ Poppy said

She had stuck her head in at the production office. People w/ire sitting around wooden tables, on the phone or shouting into walkie talkies. Nobody paid her any attention …..

She said loudly, ‘I’m looking for Mike Rich.’

‘I’m Mike,’ said a man. He wore chinos and a white shirt, a gold Rolex, and a string with several laminates, the Green Dragon one on the top. ‘You with Special?’

That was the name of the promoter.

‘Nope, I’m here from Dream.’ Poppy held out her hand. He didn’t take it.

‘Fucking Joel. Like I need a fucking kid.’ Rich looked her over, unimpressed. ‘You’re a girl.’

‘You’re perceptive,’ Poppy said.

‘Idon’t like women on the road.’

‘Too bad,’ Poppy said. ‘What do you want me to do? I’m supposed to be your assistant tour accountant.’

1Rich handed her some envelopes. ‘Go give the band their per diems. And then bring us all coffee.’

Poppy told herself the hostility was to be expected. They always hazed you on the road, right? That was part of rock folklore. She got the coffee first.

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‘That’s great,’ one of the men said. ‘We could use our own waitress.’

She ignored this. Pick your battles. The vital thing, Poppy told herself, was that she was about to meet the band. Excited, she grabbed the envelopes full of hundred-franc notes and headed offfor the tented area signed ‘Band Only’. It was set up like an enclosure at some mad garden party. A security guy was outside; even people with laminates couldn’t get in here, she knew.

Poppy had Green Dragon posters on her closet door. Blaze, the singer, with his fountain of dirty blond hair, had been one of her first crashes. She also fancied Drake, the bassist. Blaze, Drake, Tony and Mark; four names well known to Jack Daniel’s-swilling frat boys and horny teenage girls across America. They had tunes as well as looks; they rocked. And now, now she worked for them.

Poppy forced herself not to grin. She had to make these men take her seriously. It was a man’s world. She had to be the ultimate pro.

‘You can’t come in here,’ the guard said. An American; band security.

Poppy showed him her laminate. He just shook his head.

‘Mike Rich sent me over. I’ve got something for the band,’ Poppy said.

He grinned. ‘Another one, huh? Go right in, honey.’

Poppy walked into the enclosure and froze.

Five or six goodlooking girls were sitting around with their tops off, leaning over the band. She recognised Blaze at once; he was the one standing up, pants around his ankles, being expertly serviced by a girl whose face she couldn’t see.

‘What are you waiting for, baby?’ Mark said. ‘Get ‘em out.’ Poppy screamed. Then she turned and fled, through the little corridor of fabric, out to the main backstage area. Her face was the colour of a tomato, her entire body hot with shame.

She stormed back into the production office. The men saw her and started to laugh.

‘You fucking asshole,’ she spat at Rich.

‘You’re gonna let her talk to you like that?’ said the man who had

made the waitress comment. He had a coarse English accent. ‘Who the luck are you?’ Poppy snarled. ‘Leo Ross. Tour manager,’ he said flatly.

‘Oh,’ Poppy said. That took some of the wind from her sails. The tour manager was God as far as a roadcrew was concerned. He ran

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the show. However, he was also hired and fired by management, Poppy reminded herself.

‘Sugar baby, you gonna cry?’ Rich asked. ‘I told you, the road is no place for a woman. Why don’t you just get on a plane and go home? Save us all a major headache.’

‘I’m here because Joel Stein sent me,’ Poppy said, forcing herself to be calm.

‘And are you gonna ring him and start crying about the big bad boys on the crew?’ 1Ross asked.

‘I can handle myself,’ Poppy said. ‘Of course, I won’t guarantee not to spit in Mike’s next coffee.’

The other men chuckled at that.

‘Why don’t you give me something to do? There’s got to be at least some grunt work you can’t be bothered with,’ Poppy said to Mike.

He was still hostile, but she had raised a grin from 1Ross. He shrugged.

‘Might as well let her stay till she fucks up,’ 1Ross said.

‘That won’t take long,’ 1Rich told him. He looked at Poppy..OK, toots. Go find Jacques Remy, he’s the promoter. Ask him to ive you the latest expenses. Bring them back here. Don’t drop anything. Then call the band’s hotel. Get the bill for last night. They were complaining. Tony doesn’t want to pay an extra five thousand. Take care of it.’

‘OK,’ Poppy said. That was something to do, at least. She took a breath. ‘OK.’

She got out of there before they could screw with her some more.

She tried to go over the primer that Joel had given her.

‘Bands are on a percentage of the net. Tour accountancy is all about verifying gross ticket sales, subtracting promoter costs, then

take a percentage of the net. Our percentage is ninety.’

‘That’s a lot.’

He ignored her. ‘You also settle the hotel bills, give out per diems,

check band and crew in and out of the hotels …’

‘Plural?’

Stein smiled faintly at her naivety. ‘You think the rock stars sleep with the catering crew? Not exactly. And then you take care of certain expenses. Be creative.’

‘Like what?’ Poppy asked, mystified.

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In answer, Stein bent close to his desk, pressed a finger against one

nostril, and snorted up an imaginary line of blow. ‘I see,’ Poppy said faintly. His eyes narrowed.

‘Can you handle this, kid? I don’t have time to play nursemaid.’

‘No problem,’ Poppy had said brightly. Tll take care of everything.’

She made herself useful. The promoter handed her a sheaf of papers without comment. Poppy delivered them, then got herselfa fold-out wooden chair in the production once. Her stapled tour book told

her the band were staying at the Hotel Charlemagne. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ Poppy tried.

‘Certainly, we speak English, madam,’ said the woman on the front desk soothingly. Poppy could hear the sound of running water faintly in the background. A fountain. She could tell instantly that this hotel was a classy joint.